Gone fishin'

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Love you more!*x

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oh, ambiguity alert. Kindly delete as appropriate

 Love you more*...​(than you love me) 
                             (than I did before)
                        (than life itself)
                  (than ever)
                                          (than he/she/they does/do)
                               (than her/him/them)
- in no particular order and I can't get rid of the italics in last sentences for some technological reason, which is, quite frankly, beyond me; so, don't let this influence your choice in any way.

 I don’t mean to be a bore by relating the trivialities of my life, such as doing the gardening, getting my car fixed, and doing my laundry (I appreciate that at least I'm not slaving over a hot tub with a washboard and a bar of soap for half the day, to get me smalls clean).

I think I'm trying to say something. Perhaps it's this:

'A novel demands time, both physical and emotional. The imaginative space has to open sufficiently wide, and stay open, to let the work form. The majority of working-class women could lay no claims to these conditions.'

hmmm... 

Let's see what the w/c women writers have to say?

Tillie Olsen?
‘The years I should have been writing, my hands and being were at other (inescapable) tasks…what should take weeks takes me sometimes months to write; what should take months, takes years’
 and 
FloraThompson?
‘to be born in poverty is a terrible handicap to a writer. I often say to myself that it has taken one lifetime for me to prepare to make a start’
 
Me?
'The MA Creative Writing course starts shortly, so according to sources I had better pull me finger out.
​But I have virtually done it already - my autoblography hahahha (and I'm not that poor, just making a comparison. Jesus!)'

RE: Recent previous blog about writing and social class.

I have already looked at the relationship between writing and social class; according to my previous research traditional narrative form and content are embroiled in bourgeois ideology. The working-class writer should attack it with a revolutionary wrecking-ball, chew it up and spit it out.

Swings and roundabouts, Comrade.  

Now, I have to go pick up my washing from the laundrette. (yeh, I do have a washing machine but it's easier like this.) 

​The chances of anything coming from Mars are a million to one, he said.
The chances of anything coming from Mars are a million to one.
But still they come.
 
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The chances of anything coming from Mars are a million to one.
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The chances of anything coming from Mars are a million to one, he said.
The chances of anything coming from Mars are a million to one.
But still they come.

​etc...

• Only cost me a tenner to get my car fixed – bit of welding to get the exhaust back in place! (I put this damage down to speed bumps. They just shake things up)

         ‘Just charge you for labour,’ he said.
         ‘I’ll come again,’ I said.
         Actually, I was expecting it to cost a lot more than that. They (the garages) usually try to rip me (women in general) off (and I do have evidence).
         Plus, I found a fiver the other day, just lying on the pavement! Although, I feel uneasily suspicious about this, and will probably end up giving it to one            of the homeless people I trip over on the way to the library.

• Yeh, I’m not really ‘into’ writing long descriptive passages. And I’ve been thinking about this – like most things, it’s probably something of a class issue, and not merely a matter of personal style. Speech is a class issue, then writing obviously is, even more so I should think.* (I think I've already done this somewhere. I better re-read my own research. Gawd) 

• And, cannot do War Of The Worlds without this next track.

         Seasonally sad/ sadly seasonal

Another great episode of The Waltons this morning. John  Boy has finally finished his autobiography, and has managed to find a publisher! He likes to write long descriptive passages, usually about nature. I'm not really into that, but I think I should give it a go. This programme invariably manages to syphon a tear from my heart, which is not too difficult to be fair.
No time to write a proper blog this morning (in the great w/c tradition, of having time to do note but work). I have to take my car to the garage - one of the connectors has come off the exhaust and it's bobbing about.

Time for a tune, however.
Heard this on the car radio this morning. Totally awesome. Love it.​

For future reference - I'm rarely late.

​So, the thing about my mum is she's a lay Carmelite. I said to her, 'Does this mean you're a voluntary nun?' ​It got momentarily confusing as I didn’t mean to imply that religious devotion was derived out of duress, in the  first place* After some clarification, I understood that lay Carmelites make some kind of pledge to the Order of the Carmelites - of goodness, and more practical virtues such as helping out with administrative tasks and arranging charitable events and fund raisers. Nothing wrong with that. ​Lay Carmelites do not partake in the solemn vows of profession, as do the regular nuns. I was relieved to hear this as I suspect she might struggle, having an unfortunate propensity to veer on the ligher side of life. - a predisposition which, despite my best intentions, I fear I may have inherited.
​The point is, I wanted to get some insight into religious belief - probably brought about by my chance encounter with the Jehovah Witness in the park last week. I lost my own religion years ago. I’d like to put it down to intellectual enlightenment, but that implies that I consciously thought about and wrestled with my faith, but it wasn’t like that – just too busy. ​I think religious faith can be a lot like love, despite your better judgement it can just strike you (down), like Paul* on the road to Damascus.
As I write about religion here, I have a strong sense of a connection with and a continuation of working-class women’s experience. Religion, if not a direct influence, has historically been a significant presence in the lives of many working-class women, as their autobiographies testify. When talking about religious belief - as when talking about the working-class – it is sensible to get it straight from the horse’s mouth. In other words, to get an authoritative and authentic account leave it to the people themselves. They know best.  
That’s why I talked to my mum.

(*thanks, it's been a quite a while since I read the Bible ha!)
 




​

• Think I may have said before that I often walk through the park to get to the library. On this small, but occasionally adventurous journey, I have encountered some amazing species: talking parrots (‘lemme go, lemme go’), big fish (partial to Greggs' sausage rolls), religious zealots ( 'armageddon is coming, not like in the movie, though'), and resident beggars ('here's a fiver, do what you like with it') - it’s a veritable safari!

       (The library, and the walk to it, feature in my autobiographical narrative. Although, the focus is predominantly on the homeless and the dispossessed,          who litter the pathways and shelter amidst the book leaves.) BTW. There is a book sale in the library today; it beats me why anyone would buy a             book when you can borrow it for free)

• Later on today, I will be talking to my mum about nuns (of the Carmelite variety). This will be interesting, and of course relevant to my story (RE: The section about my Catholic schooling). I will elaborate on this in my next post - ETA: Monday 26th September 2016. 11:00. 

         Mum - I’ll be round about 4. Get the kettle on.

• Now I’ve got an angle on it (see last but one blog), I’m rather excited about my autobiography (it’s going to be great!)   

Phew, busy few days working. Literally clocked off an hour ago.
Busy balancing earning a living with writing. Nothing new there then.
Writing within a tradition. The tradition of working-class women's writing, It's what we do.
Don't get me wrong, I quite like the job. And it's quite flexible. As and when. Apart from weekends, which I always work.
Suits me nicely. Good employers, too.  Look after their workers.  (say hi if you know me : ) )
Important to be in touch...

So, I thought.
​OF COURSE...
They (the aforementioned working-class writers) are coming with me. My autobiography will be a psychotic, intertextual narrative - a multi-vocal, multi-dimensional, (somewhat) shared experience that transcends time and place (sort of). NICE!

Ha! Just been accosted by a Jehova Witness in the park. I think I put him right on a few things. That'll learn him!

​Over the past few weeks I have highlighted and quoted from the writings of some totally awesome working-class women writers.

Perhaps, dear reader, you’re wondering how on earth I am going to follow that...Me too.

Don't go away - I'm thinking. Seriously.

Postscript to previous blog:

Ellen Johnston died aged 38, in a poorhouse in Glasgow. There is no record of what became of her child.

It is outrageous that Johnston’s life was plagued by, and was eventually cut short by, the very social ills of which she writes so eloquently and emotively.
 
I don’t know, but I’m guessing that she would be extremely happy and proud to know that 100 years on, her poem is being read and appreciated. 
I’m just going to take a moment to think about that…
​
(and, is it just a matter of time before they reopen the poorhouses and workhouses? I wonder.)

Another poem from Ellen Johnston (AKA: The Factory Girl). This is one of her most celebrated poems - in Scottish dialect
In it, she expresses her outrage over the suffering of the poor and the indifference of the rich.
Best appreciated when read out loud in a Scottish accent. Even if the meaning of some words is not immediately clear, you can catch the gist. I have put some translations in brackets.
(Back to ME - next week)

The Last Sark
(The last shirt)
 
Gude (God) guide me, are you hame again, an’ ha’e ye got nae wark?
We’ve naething noo tae put awa’ (pawn) unless yer auld blue sark;
My head is rinnin’ roon about far lichter than a flee –
What care some gentry if they’re weel though a’ the puir wad dee! (the poor would die)
 
Our merchants an’ mill masters they wad never want a meal,
Though a’ the banks in Scotland wad for a twelve month fail;
For some o’ them have far mair goud (gold) than ony ane can see –
What care some gentry if they’re weel though a’ the puir wad dee!
 
This is a funny warld, John, for it’s no divided fair,
And while I think some o’ the rich have got the puir folk’s share,
Tae see us starving here the nicht wi’ no ae bless’d bawbee (halfpenny)–
What care some gentry if they’re weel though  a’ the puir wad dee!
 
Oor hoose ance (once) bean an’ cosey, John; oor beds ance snug an warm
Feels unco cauld an’ dismal noo, an’ empty as a barn;
The weans sit greeting (weeping) in oor face, and we ha’e noucht to gie –
What care some gentry if they’re weel though a’ the puir wad dee!
 
It is the puir man’s hard-won toil that fills the rich man’s purse;
I’m sure his gouden coffers they are het wi’ mony a curse;
Were it no for the working men what wad the rich men be?
What care some gentry if they’re weel though a’ the puir wad dee!
 
My head is licht, my heart is weak, my een are growing blin’;
The bairn is faen’ aff my knee – oh! John, catch haud 0’ him,
You ken I hinna tasted meat for days far mair than three;
Were it no for my helpless bairns I wadna care to dee.
 
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​Another poem from Ethel Carnie.
Many, many working-class writers have extolled the virtues of reading. I like the way she does it here... 

The Bookworm
 
I own no grand baronial hall,
No pastures rich in wavering corn;
Leave unto me my love for books,
And wealth and rank I laugh to scorn.
 
I envy not the richest King
That ever steeped his lips in wine!
With Count of Monte Christo, I
Can truly say “The world is mine.”
 
The world of books – how broad, how grand!
Within its volumes, dark and old,
What priceless gems of living thought
Their beauties to the mind unfold.
 
What flowers of genius suffuse
Their sweetness o’er its yellow page!
Immortal words of truth and fire,
Echoing down from age to age.
 
On wintry nights, when howls the wind,
And earth lies  ‘neath a shroud of snow,
I draw the blind and light the lamp,
And in the world of books I go.
 
I read of glorious Italy –
Around her name what mem’ries throng;
The land of beauty and of art,
The home of laughter, love, and song;
 
Until methinks I hear the oars
Cleaving the bright Venetian tide,
Inhale the scent of southern flowers,
And see the gay gondolas glide!
 
Or through Verona’s ancient streets,
On Fancy’s silken wings I go –
The streets where, in the dim dark past,
Walked Juliet and Romeo.
 
I read of Greece, downfallen Greece,
Rev’rence and awe her scenes command;
Though she has fallen like a star,
Her light is shed in every land.
 
I read of old historic France,
Where raged the Revolution wild, -
The fountains, streets and boulevards
Of Paris, her vivacious child.
 
Then, drawing near to Englnd’s isle,
I read of Scotland’s purple glens,
And, ah! The pictures I behold
Through Fancy’s bright enchanted lens.
 
I see fair Melrose Abbey, ‘neath
The pale sad light of waning moon;
I stand upon the Brig of Ayr,
I wander by the Banks 0’ Doon.
 
I envy not the richest King
That ever steeped his lips in wine!
With Count of Monte Christ, I
Can truly say “The world is mine.”
 
For I am heir to an estate
That Fortune cannot take from me,
The treasure-rooms of Intellect,
With gates ajar eternally.
 
The world of books, where thirsty souls
Drink deep from Learning’s crystal rills;
Where glad perpetual Summer pipes
Upon the verdant wind-swept hills.
 

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