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My Mother, Duras.

My Mother, Duras. Monday, February 24, 2014. Where the narrator adopts the third person in an attempt to get some longitude on the matter of melacholy). Is melancholy an imperative for the writer? Is it a neccessary place from which to plumb the depth of feeling? Isn't the act of writing itself always a nostalgic act, a looking back, a contemplation of moments past? Friday, February 21, 2014. It's not the Mekong River, but it could well be. When the ferry arrives from the other side the cars drive off an...

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My Mother, Duras. Monday, February 24, 2014. Where the narrator adopts the third person in an attempt to get some longitude on the matter of melacholy). Is melancholy an imperative for the writer? Is it a neccessary place from which to plumb the depth of feeling? Isn't the act of writing itself always a nostalgic act, a looking back, a contemplation of moments past? Friday, February 21, 2014. It's not the Mekong River, but it could well be. When the ferry arrives from the other side the cars drive off an...

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My Mother, Duras. | mymotherduras.blogspot.com Reviews

https://mymotherduras.blogspot.com

My Mother, Duras. Monday, February 24, 2014. Where the narrator adopts the third person in an attempt to get some longitude on the matter of melacholy). Is melancholy an imperative for the writer? Is it a neccessary place from which to plumb the depth of feeling? Isn't the act of writing itself always a nostalgic act, a looking back, a contemplation of moments past? Friday, February 21, 2014. It's not the Mekong River, but it could well be. When the ferry arrives from the other side the cars drive off an...

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mymotherduras.blogspot.com

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My Mother, Duras.: happy days

http://www.mymotherduras.blogspot.com/2013/12/happy-days.html

My Mother, Duras. Tuesday, December 17, 2013. In 1955 Chassa-boy, Marjorie, my brother (nine) and myself (five), were living in a weather-board house in Shepparton across the road from the high school where Chas was the geography teacher. The vacant lot on one side of the house doubled as a chook run, the same place we gathered around a tall bonfire on Guy Fawkes night to watch rockets shooting their pretty stars up into the sky. I knew then that he loved me, and I adored him, a fact I would forget in my...

2

My Mother, Duras.: September 2013

http://www.mymotherduras.blogspot.com/2013_09_01_archive.html

My Mother, Duras. Sunday, September 15, 2013. Trawool Rocks, pastel drawings by Linda Robinson. Friday, September 13, 2013. No, I am not writing a book. I am not writing a book. A book is too big, too overwhelming, too heavy. The tip of its iceberg perches on my shoulder, its cold underbelly scraping my back. Too much responsibility, too many expectations, too many opportunities for failure. Ok so let's recap. Draft called: Writing on Planes, Boats and Tuk Tuks. Which I didn't get) with. The same snappy ...

3

My Mother, Duras.: a strange kind of vertigo

http://www.mymotherduras.blogspot.com/2013/12/a-strange-kind-of-vertigo.html

My Mother, Duras. Friday, December 13, 2013. A strange kind of vertigo. Marj told me she knew something was not right in the early sixties when we lived in Rochester, a flat featureless town set among lush irrigated dairy allotments only eighteen miles from the Murray River. It was Chassa-boy's second posting as high school principal and it felt like we were catapulted from a quiet old fashioned way of life into the modernity of the swinging sixties. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom). My mother, poet.

4

My Mother, Duras.: lime-green halter neck

http://www.mymotherduras.blogspot.com/2013/12/lime-green-halter-neck.html

My Mother, Duras. Sunday, December 22, 2013. Marj was quiet as we posed for after-dinner family photos and Chassa-boy gave me one piece of advice for entering the adult world - 'when you go to a party, stick with beer — spirits are too strong for a girl your age.' I followed his instructions faithfully although there weren't so many parties in that first year away from home. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom). My mother, librarian. My mother, poet. A strange kind of vertigo. View my complete profile.

5

My Mother, Duras.: my mother, librarian

http://www.mymotherduras.blogspot.com/2013/12/my-mother-librarian.html

My Mother, Duras. Thursday, December 19, 2013. My mother, librarian. Trained as a primary school teacher, Marj didn't always work, although in the Shepparton years I remember her taking me with her to school on her bicycle and sitting me up the back of her class with paper and pencils. I think she was doing relief teaching, but she went full time after they started me in school a year early— I didn't mind, I already knew what school was all about. Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom). My mother, librarian.

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My Mother, Duras.

My Mother, Duras. Monday, February 24, 2014. Where the narrator adopts the third person in an attempt to get some longitude on the matter of melacholy). Is melancholy an imperative for the writer? Is it a neccessary place from which to plumb the depth of feeling? Isn't the act of writing itself always a nostalgic act, a looking back, a contemplation of moments past? Friday, February 21, 2014. It's not the Mekong River, but it could well be. When the ferry arrives from the other side the cars drive off an...

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