8/100 (letter to my great-grandmother)

Dear Evelyn,

I've been spending so much time with you lately that it feels strange to have stopped.

For several weeks in a row there, you consumed most of my thought space. I had expectations when I set out to write about you. I expected that there would be little to say, for we know so little of you. I expected to be comfortable with gaps in our lack of knowledge. And I expected to be emotional.

That last part, of course, turned out to be true. But I did not expect to be so emotional. I did not expect to feel a shaking to my fingertips as I found out more things about you. I did not expect the writer part of me to thrill at the story aspect of your life while the woman, daughter, and sister part of me grieved for your loss, for your lonely hours confused and misunderstood (and possibly mistreated) in a mental asylum now abandoned and left to the ghosthunters. I did not expect to relate so deeply to you, to find kinship with you even in the ways we both -- you and I -- attempt to make sense of the quirks and deviations in our expected picture of a happy, mature, adult life.

The other expectations were, of course, proven wrong. For a woman of whom we know so little, you offered us so much. I could not get to you, immediately, so I had to get to the space around you -- like when one can't see the shape of something, only the negative space that surrounds it. If you can fill in enough of the negative space, then eventually there's an entire outline, a portrait in reverse. And that's what I was able to make of you, Evelyn. There is no record of your words, no list of the people you met, or reports of how you filled your days. But we have this negative space, and with that, it's possible to paint a picture of where you were, of how you lived. We can speculate about what you experienced. We can empathise with you. It does not matter if we do not know what you did. We can consider what you felt. As one memoir theorist puts it, we can move away from thinking of you as an achieving subject and instead look at you as an experiencing subject. And you certainly experienced a lot.

One last thing I did not expect, Evelyn. I did not expect that writing about you would open doors full of stories and memories with my grandmother, your firstborn daughter. I knew she would share and that I would cherish it, but I did not think that it would be something I would recognise as rare and precious even while I was experiencing it. She is almost eighty now, and times for sharing cannot go on forever. I'm thankful that you gave us the opportunity for this one.

We would not be here now if you were not there, then, and it still saddens me that I could not have known you; that my mother, your granddaughter, could not have known you; that my grandmother, your firstborn, did not know you.

But we are doing our best to know you now, and what we know, we love.

Danielle

PS. The day after I finished writing about you, I came across this passage in a book by Jandy Nelson. I can relate, and I think you would, too:

"Whatever makes a woman leave two little kids, her brother, and her mother, and not come back for sixteen years... I mean, we call it wanderlust, other families might not be so kind."
"What would other families call it?" I ask. He's never intimated anything like this before about Mom. Is it all a cover story for crazy? ...
"Doesn't matter what anyone else would call it, Len," he says, "This is our story to tell."
This is our story to tell.

Life, lately:

I'm pressing pause for a moment on the backlog of posts I have lined up, in order to spend a second focussed on the now rather than the then.

This handful of pictures is a fair representation of the happy spots in my days lately. School is out for the summer (yes! I have a ridiculously long summer break, which is amazing) and even work has slowed down a little, too. In unoccupied moments, I've been doing lots of spring cleaning, which makes me feel old because I actually feel kind of satisfied and accomplished about it. If that doesn't make me old I don't know what does. I've also been revelling in the freedom to sit up late reading in bed -- reading fun things that I really want to read (though I've paid for it with too many nights of minimum sleep). Relatedly, I have a bunch of little book reviews to share when I can get them removed from brain and transcribed onto page.

I've been relishing getting to know my shiny new nephew, and watching his big sister become suddenly precisely that: a big sister, full of toddler quirks and hilariousness and one-and-a-half-year-old dorkiness. She's super entertaining. I've also enjoyed the laidback vibe of my dad's recent work leave visit, which meant things like going out for coffee or spontaneously eating dinner down by the water on windy dark evenings. And I'm loving getting better acquainted with a bunch of young people from my church at a new Bible study group. Don't worry, Thursday night guys: you are my longtime group and my best (just don't tell anyone else, okay?).

And tomorrow -- tomorrow I get to pick up one of my very best friends from the airport, for what has become a vaguely yearly tradition: a Meaghan weekend!* I realised this week that I have known Meaghan and her sister Carla for fifteen years now, which is basically amazing. The fact that Meaghan still wants to hang out with me after all this time is even amazinger. She is a true friend, full of grace and fun, plus she is hilarious. Our mutual hatred of phone calls means that we have lengthy text conversations and... I think that's a pretty cool way to conduct a long-distance friendship.

*You may visit events from previous Meaghan weekends (plus one Meaghan AND Carla weekend) here, here, here, and here.

"Sculpture is everything" at GoMA:

I have raved here before about how much I love public art spaces. While private galleries are important for a number of reasons, I'm particularly appreciative of state and national galleries. It says something about a government when it is willing to invest funding into the cultivation and accessibility of the arts. Even more, though, it gives something to the community of people who are then able to access and appreciate that art. Throughout many eras of history, art has been accessible only to an elite group of society. Sure, there are artists in every demographic of society, and in that way art is within reach of everyone. But the appreciation of art on a broader scale -- art from around the world, from people outside the close confines of connected communities -- has mostly been a privilege of the wealthy and the well-networked. How awesome, then, to live in an era when cities make active investments in the acquisition and exhibition of art from all around the world and then share it with art-ignorant laymen like me.

And perhaps it's just me, but public galleries give me this tiny sense of ownership, this idea that in some small way, this art belongs -- just a sliver of it, mind you -- to me, and to you. So when I visit a public gallery with someone I care about, I get the feeling -- wrong as it may be -- that I am sharing something of mine with them, and introducing them to something of theirs that they should have known about all along. It's pretty cool.

When my cousins were in town recently, we checked out GoMA's current exhibit, Sculpture is Everything. Our first stop was in the foyer to see Ai Weiwei's Painted Vases (2006). Painted Vases are part of GoMA's permanent collection, and always one of my favourites to look at when I visit. There's something super-daring about the fact that these vases are from the Han dynasty, and they've been almost recklessly painted over. History and art collide!

And the other thing about public art spaces? Some of it you can touch, interact with, and be a part of. This little contraption of wonderfulness by Yoshitomo Nara and graf is like something out of my eleven-year-old self's fantasies.

More Ai Weiwei being reckless.

I'm excited I got to be there for baby Andrew's first art gallery visit. He looks mesmerised by Lara Favaretto's Gummo IV. Yep, it's a car wash. And yes, it was moving.

Sculplture is Everything is on for ten more days at Brisbane's Gallery of Modern Art. Admission is free.

In praise of excellent cousins:

My mum's sister's kids -- my cousins -- have always been hugely important to me. Growing up, we saw each other (at most) a few times a year. But no matter how long it'd been between hangs, it was always easy to jump right back into intense fun mode when we were together. We got up to the coolest shenanigans: floating down rivers, climbing trees, making art, going on bushwalks, building shelters, eating marshmallows around bonfires, and playing endless games in which some aspect of a latest favourite book would actually come to vivid, reenactable life.

We all have very different personalities, but we share some crazy family similarities, too. Yet somehow, neither what we have in common nor what we don't has managed to get in the way of our friendship. As we grew older, the girl cousins (my sisters, Andrea and Lauren, me, and cousins Fran and Elizabeth) exchanged letters, emails, and delirious LiveJournal comment wars (RIP, oh frenzied days of LiveJournal). These days, our lives are fuller and our correspondence skills aren't a speck on what they once were. We get to catch up in person only rarely. But Fran and Bette recently came to stay, bearing with them husbands and babies, and their time here proved that the bond of awesome is just as real as ever -- maybe even better than before, because now there are extra cousins-in-law to join the fun.

I was a terrible documenter of the action, and only managed to start taking pictures (other than instagram snaps) halfway through Bette and Brent's visit -- which was, sadly, after Fran and Josh had to head home. But these shots are from an evening Bette, Brent, baby Andrew and I spent in the city.

Except for my lack of directional skills and my bordering-on-miraculous inability to find the Southbank markets (stuff was rearranged for the Brisbane festival; I promise I'm not a total fruit loop), the whole evening was kind of perfect, really: the lightest Spring breeze, finding the best possible parking space, and then wandering through Brisbane loveliness. We bought delicious booky things at the State Library bookstore, then caught the Sculpture is Everything exhibit at GoMA (more pictures to come) and made our own paper birds as part of Fiona Hall's Fly Away Home installation.

Afterwards, we shared a plate of turkish bread and dips at The Library Cafe, where we found ourselves seated just in time for a delicious hour of Spanish song, poetry, and drama. Live performances in public spaces are very cool.

Once it was dark, we trundled through the Brisbane Festival's fairyland of paper lanterns. It was pretty magical; I felt about six years old. Then we discovered that we were just in time for the laser and light show on the river. Without realising it, we had stumbled into a pretty great spot for watching the show, and while we waited for the action, we took pictures. Bette and Brent make an adorable couple. I make... seemingly drunken air quotes.

After the light show, we quarterbacked our way through the hordes of people and trawled Little Stanley Street in search of the perfect dinner. We made it into a science and spent probably an hour perusing all the store-front menus for the most enticing meals. We finally settled on French cuisine only to discover that there was a forty-five minute wait for our table. So we moved to our second choice -- from glamorous provencal to hearty burgers -- and ate at Beastie Burgers instead. It was so good. The burgers were a fresh, gourmet take on the traditional, delicious and super-filling. Hand-cut wedges and creamy milkshakes (Bette had dark chocolate Lindt and I had -- get this -- tiramisu) were also amazing. I made a mental note to take my dad there, as he is definitely fond of a good burger.

It was the best no-fuss seven or eight hours I've spent in the city in a long while. Thank you, beautiful cousins, for enjoying this lovely place with me.

Candid family:

This week is a chapter in your autobiography; what's the title? This week is a band; what do you call your group? This week is a song; is it a ballad, a dirge, a love song, a scream?

Mine? It'd probably be called Lots of Little Pieces. My song would be a worship track, sung by a band called Watch The Blur. Whatever the words you find to describe your world this week, I hope you have a window in time to really live.

Just another manic Monday:

Sometimes it's fun to document a day in pictures and just see what happens. Last Monday I decided to do exactly that. I chose Monday because it's my standard 'normal' day each week. No music students, no English students; the goal is study and errands. I attempted to take a photo an hour, but sometimes I forgot or was late. This is the result! Above, about 8am, I think.

After breakfast, I duck next door into my Mum's kitchen to say hi.

Then I'm into homework -- a project analysing the print serial market in Australia, particularly special-interest publications focussed on writing, editing, and publishing. It was a big job, due the following Friday. And you did not really need to know all those boring details.

Final undergrad results are in which means I've officially completed my Bachelor degree. Wahoo!

Snaaaack time!

A phone call from my sister Andrea, who was reading The Hunger Games -- which we desperately needed to discuss with one another, of course.

An errand trip into town with the little bro. Tain took this photo and I think it's pretty cool. I've never really noticed how insistent that row of pedestrian crossing signs is. And look at that Queensland winter sun!

A library study date.

Here, have a photo of a fourteen-year-old eating a ham-and-cheese toastie with his mouth open. Relatedly, how cool is my local library?

Back home again (now sometime around 3 or 4) and back into the books.

I head into the family home to say hi to my sister Lauren, who has unexpectedly dropped by while James goes off fishing.

Abby's pretty excited about hunting down the cat.

At about 6pm, it's a dinner production line!

Spontaneous sister/mother/daughter time (plus Tain) means watching the season final of Downton Abbey together. Abby is amused.

I discover that I can't watch tv guilt-free when I have a hefty critical book review due in a week. I read some Dickens with one eye on the tv and one ear on the conversation.

James returns a little after 7.30.

More study!

And my wee kitchen needs some attention. I usually wash up about 11pm, which is kind of a dreadful habit.

Downtime -- with ugg boots.

Ablutions. I took a self-portrait brushing teeth, but I decided to protect Laura's anti-teeth-brushing sensitivities and post this shot instead.

Bible and bed at 12.40am. 'Night!

What's a Monday look like for you?

* * * * *

Conversations:

Andrea -- :D

Staish -- I'm not cut out to be a plumber, though. There was gagging involved.

Asea -- mesh covers sound super smart!

Carla and Alastair -- I suspect that the reason you've never thought to write a letter to your vanity drain is because you're normal.

Katie -- huzzah indeed!

Domesticwarriorgoddess -- your comment made my day! Thank you for enjoying my weirdness :).

Rebecca Simon -- haha, you're lovely!

Jess Axelby -- HARD TIMES foreverrrrr! I have to confess I'd forgotten how it ended though. I wasn't ready for the sadness :'(.

Meaghan -- I DID gag. *shudder*