Posted on November 1, 2014
‘What’s in a name?
What indeed? The name of this blog comes from a little snippet of poetry that I wrote years ago
like shifting sand,
which has no home.’
From that came Sand has no home, and it has followed me throughout the last 7 or 8 years, through various projects, most of them forgotten, neglected or tossed away. The line always evokes imagery of desert sand dunes for me; a scene from The English Patient; sand swirling and drifting, aimless, transient and gypsy-like.
Words can be like that, set free, posted out of a window in Tuscany like Liv Tyler’s character in Stealing Beauty, or lost, discarded or hidden. Words are restless, they refuse to stand still, taking flight on the imagination of their readers, sparking the fuses of ideas, as they do. Words evoke images, painting pictures, leaving indelible stamps.
If I say, as I did in my grandmother’s eulogy, that her spirit will be recalled in the colours of a rosella in flight, in the light of the bush after rain, then these things become so, at least for me. It is a gift. Words can breath life and colour into ‘the pallid and the cold’.
These are part of what is in the name of my blog, shifting words, tumbling words, like sand or seed cases in the wind. One big long segue….’
And that little block of writing, my friends, was my first blog post here on Sand Has No Home. It was the 8th of August 2012, I was the mother of a 2 month old baby boy, in a new place, a new life, and I blindly took the plunge, to throw words to the wind and see if anyone would read them.
Thank you,to you, for reading. Thank you for your comments and your personal messages and likes, they have meant such a great deal to me. It has indeed been one long segue, and this post is my 50th. I have posted sporadically, and I have doubted myself often, but I have loved writing here. I like to think of ‘the sands’ as my little cardboard suitcase of reflections. I wrote a postcard to my grandmother the year before she died, while I was in Sydney for a trade fair. I wrote about the clear mosiac of early morning dams seen from the air, outside of Melbourne, and how perfectly they mirrored the blue sky and clouds above. My writing is like this, for me.
Reading back,I think that two of my earliest posts, Blue, and Gently Green are some of my favourite pieces. I also got to post my little memoir piece, Wide Brown Land, parts 1, 2 and 3, so that it gained readers, which is all that it wanted. I wrote my Drowning Does Not Look Like Drowning, on my mothers couch late one night, in response to the Mario Vittone piece that I had read. There was recollection of lost love letters in Handwriting, and the birth stories of my babies, Perry and Suzie.
I got the chance to describe the often vision of ribbons of birds unfurling in the sky here in Geelong (it’s ibis birds that do it, and I think of the line all of the time when I see it)
My sister, Indigo, has been discovering and falling in love with Pablo Neruda poetry lately, and it made me think of this poem
From so much loving and journeying, books emerge.
And if they don’t contain kisses and landscapes,
if they don’t contain a man with his hands full,
if they don’t contain a woman in every drop,
hunger, desire, anger, roads,
they are no use as a shield or a bell:
they have no eyes, and won’t be able to open them,
they have the dead sound of precepts.
I loved the entangling of genitals,
and out of blood and love I carved my poems.
In hard earth I brought a rose to flower,
fought over by fire and dew.
That’s how I could keep on singing.
Swoon away,do, I don’t blame you at all. Books emerge. I think that the act of finally writing, here, is what revealed my newly commenced book to me. Not that it deserves the title of book yet, for now it is just an idea, and words that I have written, but the seed came from the simple act of taking the plunge into the sands.