Striving Writer's Diary cont...

December 3, 1951

The famous Parisian café society, the literati, lends itself accurately to the many descriptions writers have made over the last century. Everyday for three to five hours I would sit outside surrounded by an array of humanity: French, German, Swiss, Russian et al. putting pen to paper, drawing and painting. I’d attempt to express the tales that continually ran through my little mind…but something was missing…heart or deep passion?

Something or someone was missing…

I was tired of the French communists believing that it was “the” answer to the world’s problems.

I refuse to join their meetings but they’re relentless…

Stalin and Hitler were always neck and neck in the evil stakes, but history focuses on the German’s…Stalin makes Hitler look like a school ground bully. But the French intellectuals were either socialist or died in the wool Marxists’… what fools they are. It seems that good intentions (in ignorance) are paved to Hell.

The new year was approaching and I was determined to finish my book..

My beautiful partner and son had plenty of money, as she came from Austrian aristocratic stock, and her family managed to maintain their wealth. She loved me and our son and she continued to support me in my writing pursuits.

So I would return to our little flat and she would be reading to Karl in French, English, German or Russian, depending on the night, and I would arrive with my M.S, half drunk, self absorbed, selfish and grumpy.

Margi would always insist on reading my day’s work.

On that night she was not happy, as I had written not a single word because of self pity and alcohol, and because on that particular day, artistic neurosis took precedence.

My excuse, as always, was “writer’s block.

Magi kissed me tenderly and said, “Tomorrow you’ll write pages of beautiful prose, right? Now love, Karl.

Karl was Magi’s son from an unfortunate encounter during the war, but I loved him like he was my own.

My little boy was not only special, but a miracle. At four years of age he’d ask, “Dada, French or English?”

Thus we would read a book in the language of my choice, usually English or French.

The little man would fall asleep…and I would too.

Then everything changed.

Writer's Diary continued...

November 10, 1951


Scribbling page after page of rubbish at the “Dome” this afternoon. So immersed in my work, I lose track of time and come to realise the restaurants dinner patrons have begun to arrive. The owner of the establishment, Henri, has always been unusually patient with my lack of purchasing power: two cups of tea and a little glass of port the entire day. In the end, finally, after a few disturbing looks, he approaches my table.

“How is my little Australian poet today?”

“Disappointed, Henri.”

“Why, monsieur?”

“The words are flowing but lack meaning and heart.”

“Ah. Possibly a glass of wine to start your artistic blood boiling!”

“Possibly, Henri.”

Henri’s expression turns suddenly curious and he asks:

“Was any of your family in the Great War, monsieur?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. My grandmother’s brother, Jack Reeves, fought on the battlefields of France against the German’s in the Great War.”

Henri sits down in the chair opposite me and rests his chin on his hand looking even more curious and sentimental.

“I do not mean to pry, monsieur, but did he survive?”

“He lasted until the end. But because of excessive exposure to Mustard Gas, he died within three months of arriving back in Australia.”

“I’m very sorry, monsieur.”

“That’s alright, Henri, war is war and is always a terrible thing.”

The noise level had risen as more guests arrived and filled the tables around us. Henri remained seated in front of me gazing above my head as if remembering some important and sad chapter in his life. After a moment, his eye’s cleared and stood up from the table and disappeared behind the counter and soon reappeared with two waiters, a bottle of wine and a handful of glasses. He passed the glasses all round and poured the wine then slowly raised his hand in the air as if to make a toast.

“Ladies and Gentlemen”, his voiced boomed across the restaurant in English. “I want to toast my little Australian writer but, more so, his Grandmother’s brother, Jack. Who fought bravely on the battlefields of France against the German’s in the Great War!”

Henri raised his glass higher in the air: “TO JACK!”

Reminiscent of the glory war films of the 30’s and 40’s, everyone in the “Dome” stood and raised their glasses and in unison toasted my grandmother’s brother, Jack.

“TO JACK!”

“Viva la France!”

“Viva la France!” the crowd resounded.

After a delicious meal and several bottles of wine later, Henri and I closed the “Dome” for the evening. He escorted me back to my little apartment, our arms around each other, stumbling and singing through the foggy streets. At my doorstep, he drunkenly planted two sloppy kisses, one on each cheek – sentimental kisses – and bade me adieu!

Walking up my stairs, I could hear him singing, (out of tune) “Waltzing Matilda” in his thickly accented, baritone voice. I waited on the landing, propped up against the banister, until that wonderful song faded into the soft light of the Parisian dawn.

Excerpts from the Diary of a Striving Writer

November 1, 1951


The dream is always the same: I’m sitting on a boat train floating into Paris, gazing at the little red rooftops and the old men along the shore, dinking wine, laughing and arguing, and dancing together with expressions of pure joy. Sometimes I’m flying from Marseilles, free without a plane, wishing only to be with my lover and my cat beside a blazing fire and a book.

Then I wake from this dream looking up at the ceiling in utter excitement: “I’m finally here…I’ve finally made it!”

I roll out of bed and start a small fire to warm our tiny bungalow. She is asleep. After drinking my first cup of strong coffee, I sit down at my little desk and resume writing the tale already in progress. Looking out my small window, the winter light of the Paris morning is beautiful, despite the dark clouds and the patter of rain upon the sea of multi-shaded roof tops extending over the Latin Quarter and beyond. Below my window I hear the shop keepers opening their doors for the day’s trade. Along the gravel paths, too, young Parisian girls are riding to school on their bicycles, ringing their bells” “Bon jour, Bon jour” - Ting-Ting Ting-Ting.

After writing for some hours, the clouds dissipate and my friend is still asleep due to too much wine and conversation and love. Completing the day’s work, I walk down the winding staircase outside onto our narrow street. The air is crisp and pungent with the smells of fresh bread. Sitting at my usual table at the “Rue de Fleurus”, I order an old red wine and notice a beautiful woman at a table in the corner, writing frantically, like the fate of her soul depended on its completion. A strange looking little man joins her and her eye’s sparkle with joy. As my French is poor, they speak very quickly and I only here certain words, names of philosopher’s, I believe: Husserl, Kierkegaard, and Heidegger. Finishing my wine, I leave the beautiful writer and her little friend with the wandering eye to their soft debate.

‘Is she still sleeping, I wonder.’

Climbing the stairs to our little home, I open the door to find her sitting by the fire, wrapped in her red dressing gown and a woollen scarf around her shoulders. She is reading my morning’s writing.

“This very strange, and at the same time very beautiful.” she whispers.

“It isn’t finished.”

“You don’t have to finish it. It is beautiful just the way it is.”

Our old cat yawns, stretches and jumps on her lap. The three of us stare into the fire as day turns to night.

Oscar Wilde in the depths of Love Lost

In a letter to his Lover:

"You came to me to to learn the pleasure of life, and the pleasure of Art.

Perhaps I've chosen to teach you something much more wonderful - the meaning of sorrow and its beauty."

Your Affectionate Friend,

Oscar Wilde

"The wallpaper and I are fighting a dual to the death; one of us must go."

A diary entry while in Paris after leaving the Reading Gaol- alone, destitute and very poor.

"If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.”

My favourite Love quote from Mr. Wilde, because those that truly love someone ...will always wait.

"The heart was made to be broken”

This I believe to be true.

Oscar Wilde: a true romantic, a tragic poet and a man of LOVE.

Another Lost Love

To pine for a recent former lover, the sadness all prevailing, one’s desire to even live, one’s greatest goals and aspirations fall by the wayside because that Love that once seemingly existed has now ended – and without this love, one deeply feels life is not worth living.

It has been said that it is a dangerous act indeed to wallow in this lost love, and if you have read Goethe’s novel, ‘The Sorrows of Young Werther”, know that the young man merely wanted to fit in, stumbled into Love and lost, thus, in the end committing suicide. One can forgive young Werther as he was a boy, naïve and a true idealist.

But for one to really Love a new woman with such passion as an older man, reveals that at least the “capacity” to love, so intense and sublime, brings hope that it is even possible for someone who has experienced life on so many levels, can fall so totally in love with a woman.

Sadness, grief and sorrow are emotions connected with a great loss.

Reflecting, however, does not one’s experience, age and inevitable cynicism, (a better word would be jaded) excuse him from this terrible pain?

Well it seems that these passionate emotions are not only intended for the young because one can continue to feel the pain of a lost love whether 13 or 60 – there are no ‘statutes of limitations’ on romantic and passionate love. But it feels as though the older lover, because of their experience in life, will feel the pain in a more powerful way. Perhaps because they realize life is all too short and the experience may never come again.

What is so difficult is to rationalize in one’s head with the emotions of one’s heart. We “know” wallowing in, and feeling this sadness, are to some extent absurd, but the heart pays no attention, and continues pouring forth the sadness and love – the feelings of loss.

Love is a mystery without any clear-cut answers…


Rainer Maria Rilke
For one human being to love another; that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation.


Francois de la Rochefoucauld
When we are in love we often doubt that which we most believe.

When wanting to withdraw from life because of some pain or sadness, I often remember a line from a poem by Emily Bronte:

“No coward’s soul is mine.”

Memories of Childhood (The Challenge)

Ten year old boys have a way of spurring you to heights you would other wise not even imagine. Their cruelty as well would surpass the most evil of men.

Brent Phraser had charm, smarts and natural leadership skills. He had the looks of an elite German Arian: cropped blond hair, cold blue eyes and spoke with the authority of a SS officer. He was handsome, brave and intelligent, and we all looked up to him – he was also a Master bully.

Brent was the leader of the Belford Drive gang. A group of ten year old boys who thought they ruled the territory of our one block street. As most boys at that particular age will do, Brent would put up dares or dangerous challenges, usually directed at a single member of the gang. If you complied and succeeded, your membership and acceptance in the gang was assured. Non-compliance or failure, however, resulted in banishment – an unthinkable fate worse than death.

The days of summer that year, 1967, were hot and long. Our small gang roamed the outer fringes of suburbia known as the field, the ditch and the lake. We swam in the lake to escape the heat, played war games at dusk in the field using rocks and dirt clods as weapons in the field, and along the ditch, constructed secret fortresses made from pieces of wood and clay.

One sweltering afternoon the gang decided to head for the lake to catch a swim. Upon our arrival, we found Brent standing beneath the largest tree at the shore of the lake with a coiled rope lying at his feet.

We all knew instantly that a challenge was about to be proposed.

“What’s that for?” one of the gang asked.

Brent smiled. “It’s a swing you idiot!”

“Cool”, David exclaimed. “What a neat idea!”

“And one of you pansy asses gotta climb that tree to tie it: Any volunteers?”

No one uttered a word.

Brent smiled. “See that branch up there – that’s where it’s gotta be tied.”

Our gazes followed Brent’s pointing finger to the thickest, highest branch of the tree. From the lake’s surface to the branch, it had to be at least twenty meters. (Sixty feet).

“Well, Brent shouted, who’s it gonna be?”

“Why don’t you do it, Brent? You’re bigger than all of us.” I said.

To this day, Brent’s sardonic smile remains firmly in my memory.

“I don’t think so, bubble butt. You do it!” Brent shouted.

The gang burst into laughter of embarrassment.

“Craig the little wimp. Forget it. He’ll fall and break his neck.” Tim said in a cruel tone.

“Shut-up ass hole!” Brent shouted.

“C’mon, Craig. You’ve been putting up a lot of dares lately, but not taking any!” Danny exclaimed.

“Yea, man!”

C’mon, pussy!”

“Yea, faggot – let’s see you break your skinny neck.”

The exclamations and insults reached a crescendo as I peered upwards towards the intended branch as the late afternoon sun blinded my vision.

“Well?” Brent asked. “Are you gonna do it or not?”

Brent’s eyes scanned over the whole gang. He picked the rope up and walked towards me, smiling like a professional executioner, whose pleasure in life resides in seeing someone else’s pain. He tied the rope around my waist and pushed me towards the tree.

“You got a choice, faggot. Either you climb the tree or we’ll kick your skinny ass. It’s up to you.”

Let’s face it, my honour was at stake. There was only one place to go, and that was straight up.

Small wooden boards acting as a makeshift ladder extended up the trunk of the tree, but only about two meters, the rest was an improvised guessing game between life and death.

Then something very strange happened.

Closing my eyes, Captain James T. Kirk from Star Trek began his preamble:

“Space, the final frontier. These are the voyages of the star ship Enterprise. Its five year mission, to explore strange new worlds, seek out new life and new civilizations – to boldly go where no man has gone before!”

Opening my eyes slowly, I found myself horizontally wrapped around the highest branch of the tree.

I could hear David below saying, “Hell, I’ve never seen anybody climb a tree that fast before.”

Either by the hand of an angel or the extraterrestrial help of Captain James T. Kirk, I found myself hanging for dear life around the highest branch of this 300 year old tree. In an instant the realization dawned on me: my angel or Kirk may have helped me up here, but they sure as hell were not going to help me down!

“Don’t just lay there, stupid. Tie the rope!” Brent ordered.

My body had frozen – I couldn’t move even my little finger.

“Are you gonna stay up there all day pansy ass?”

“He looks like he’s dead or something.”

Brent yelled, “Tie the rope you little shit!”

Tim yelled, “Should we call the fire department or something?”

The gang all laughed in unison.

As afternoon turned to evening and slowly into night, each member of the gang wandered off one by one, leaving me alone to deal with my own plight.

A cool wind skimmed across the lake and the rustling of the leaves around me soon was the only sound…

“Damn if I’m leaving my friend alone in some fricken tree.”

Looking down through the shadows, I could see Dave pacing around the trunk of the tree.

“You gotta do something, man! You gotta jump. The water looks deep enough. Jump, man. Friggen JUMP.”

A gust of wind thundered across the lake. I shut my eyes tightly and slowly loosened my grip around the branch. Letting go, my decent was fast and painless. I found myself submerged in the cold, murky water of the lake.

Coughing and spitting, my body finally surfaced. Dave had jumped in after me, and now was dragging me to the shore.

We now sat side by side on the shore of the lake in the dark. Both drenched to the bone, we began to shiver from the cold.

“You wimp! Why didn’t you jump four hours ago?”

“I don’t know. I was just, you know…stuck.”

We left the lake and walked home on that clear and warm summer’s night. We talked about important matters like Cathy, Jenny and Sharon – the three “fox’s” in our grade. We also talked about football and the last Star Trek episode on T.V., and for some reason, nothing about the day.

Later that night, after a hot shower and a beautiful dinner, I laid in bed thinking about Brent Phraser, Dave and the Belford Drive gang. Was it important to have a lot of friends? Or was it alright to just have one good one? I fell asleep that night without answering my thoughts.

As I grew older, the answer to these questions started to become clear.

Although now living continents apart, Dave and I are still close friends.

The Consequence of One Choice.

When one reads the multi-versions of the Arthurian legends, including the originals’, Malory’s and Tennyson’s poetry, there is a predominate theme that moves through all the interpretations: Only those that are pure of heart can discover the cup that Joseph filled with the blood of the dying Christ on the cross: The blood of Jesus Christ.

In this Edward Burne- Jones later painting, an angel appears to Sir Lancelot in a dream (one of the greatest of all the knights) and tells him he will not find the Grail because of his betrayal, his flesh-bound transgression, his affair with the beautiful Guinevere, the wife of King Arthur.

One can see that Lancelot has reached his end: he’s exhausted, and is finally told that because of his adulterous affair with the Queen, the wife of his King and best friend, his searching is all in vain, but it is an angel that informs him of this fact.

If one observes the painting closely can see that the angel has empathy for Lancelot and of course wants him to succeed but, as a messenger, must tell him the truth: because of his betrayal and all the terrible consequences that this love affaire created, the destruction of Camelot itself, there is no forgiveness, at this point in time, thus he must rest, and do what he can as an essentially Good man, but the Grail, this lifetime at least, will not be found.

According to the legend, Lancelot fades out of the story and is not mentioned again.

The only Arthurian Knight in the legend that actually finds the Grail is the young Sir Galahad. Galahad’s motivations are pure: his love of God and to bring back Camelot back to its original glory.

This, of course, never happens.

Galahad never shows the new so-called regime the Grail or what it means. It is said that because of his love of God, the angels came to him when he was an old man, and carried him to Avalon.

The blood-line of Christ continued, and Galahad’s mission was to ensure it would…and according to legend the Grail continues.

I find this painting by Burne-Jones very sad.

Sir Lancelot was also a Good man but fell in love with his King’s and best friend’s wife, Guinevere.

He relented to temptation…I have compassion for Lancelot because like me, he’s human.

The point is Lancelot was always aware of what he was doing, and thought he might get away with it…he couldn’t help himself – love between humans is and continues to be a mystery.

Edward Burne-Jones was fascinated with myth but what makes his paintings so important, is that he focuses on specific aspects of the story which reveals the entire myths meaning.

I love most of his work though this painting, for me, hits hard.

Excerpts from the Diary of a Striving Writer

The Crying Girl

It was sometime yesterday or last week, (my time perceptions are meshing) while travelling into the city of Melbourne for no reason other than to feel the energy of its streets, a beautiful young girl, no more than 25 years of age, suddenly fell into a deep grief, sobbing, not the wailing type, though a quiet somewhat restrained release of pure sadness.

The woman’s sadness was palpable, contagious as I felt like weeping with her. No, I thought, do not interrupt, and let her sadness release naturally.

At first I felt compelled to ask her if there was anything I could do to ease her pain. I wanted to help her but did not have the courage to do so…

Our train reached Flinders Street Station and finally came to a grinding halt. The passengers began standing up, gathering their belongings…but I waited. I could not even bring myself to look at her out of fear of possibly embarrassing the woman.

After a few moments, when most of the passengers had left the train, she gathered her small back pack and headed towards the outside platform. I slowly stood up too, trying to be as nonchalant as possible, walked directly behind her with the only thought in my mind: is there anything I could do to help this woman experiencing so much grief and sadness.

As we walked along the crowded platform, I could not help looking in her direction. I noticed her long auburn hair caught under the strap of her carry bag; where, ever so gently and with such grace, pulled her hair out from under the strap. She lifted her head, her body pushed consciously straight up and true as she ascended the escalators with the rest of the crowd. Through observing her subtle body movements, I saw a raw courage in a fellow soul ; feeling so much sadness only moments before, deciding to carry on with life despite life’s pain.

There are moments that require us to ‘intervene’ in a strangers’ life, and the motivation to act is instinctive. In this case, a mere kind word might have helped this beautiful young woman, but out of a cowardess, chose to sit back and let the important moment slip by.

I regret this moment but must remember to act in the future when at least a simple kind word might ease someone’s pain…if only a little.

The Emotion of Sadness

The emotion of sadness throughout my life has never really manifested in its most all-consuming form. In my superficial thought-wanderings, I’ve always equated the emotion of sadness with grief. My conclusion was sadness and grief are in the same “genre”, so to speak, but to experience sadness alone without the grief is a new experience for me. Included in this emotional genre, if you will, is sorrow.

Most of us have experienced sorrow when a loved one passes on, this is only natural: however the emotion of sorrow and grieving are interlinked in a profound way.

The death of a loved one brings forth sorrow and a grieving process begins, and as the old cliché states, “Time Heals”; which is more than likely the last the thing a person in grief wants or needs to hear.

I’ve lost family members who’ve passed on and felt deeply sorrowful, angry and so on. Death is part of life, but we sometimes terribly miss those we love that pass on, and it sometimes can go on for many years. It is just the way it is on this planet, which, really, for the most part, we do exist on a “pain planet”.

My point is that sadness can almost be classified as an emotion without sorrow or grief – this emotion can be felt all alone.

This notion came to me this week while spending a delightful (in the end) evening with my only sister who really knows me, she said “When our sister died, you were grieving, when father died you were grieving, but looking at you at this moment, knowing you for so long, I’ve never seen such sadness in your eyes.”

To attempt to describe this emotion, sadness, as not part of sorrow or grieving is difficult.

One walks at a slower pace, like wading through water. Complete strangers on the street look at you and their expressions reveal concern. You are aware how you feel, and have been indoctrinated not to feel this emotion, but it continues despite all efforts to rid oneself of it. Then, of course the guilt sets in for feeling sad in the first place. Sadness brings on attitudes of meaninglessness, the world losses it colour, its purpose, its true Beauty.

Years ago I would have blocked this emotion of extreme sadness into the recesses of forgotten memory. ‘It’s not right to feel this way, banish it from your mind and pretend it doesn’t exist.’ This strategy has worked in the past, but in time it surfaces again, and usually at the most inopportune moments.

This BLOG was never meant to be a “confessional” or day-to-day diary of my life, which really I find adolescent – one never wears one’s emotions on one’s sleeve – though today the emotion of sadness prevailed and my only thought to combat it was to write about it.

I feel no grief, I feel no sorrow only a deep sadness – and this too will pass.

Romantic, Fairy Tale Love

A new file for my “musings” BLOG, because unfortunately the hardware in my laptop crashed to such an extent that, it had to be replaced by a new one, hence, everything that did not get backed up, including unfinished articles, BLOG’S and teaching plans, unfinished letters, short stories, power point lessons for the Senior levels – poof! – they are all now floating somewhere in cyberspace, and irretrievable.

What a fool!

The irony is I tell my students everyday to back their work, “Physician Heal thy self!”

Most my writing is on line, my novel had been backed up (luckily) and most reviews are all on Amazon. However those few short stories that needed to be completed, well, if they are worth it, they’ll come up again.

Alone in my apartment, sitting on couch, laptop comfortably in position – candles alight around the room with a little jazz playing in the background. Atmosphere is something that can take one down to the depths or raise one to creative ecstasy. I enjoy soft light, slow music and incense burning; a pleasant atmosphere –books surround the room as my old friend, George, my cat, lies his head on my lap…strangely, when one feels that one’s heart has been broken, almost nothing can take that terrible feeling of emptiness away. There are many distractions, but no matter what is going on, that indelible memory of pure Love and Separation is carved in your consciousness and, for me, in one’s dreams…

I cannot remember who said it, Oscar Wilde or perhaps Yeats, that the true poet or true Romantic is, “In love with Love”. Why? Out of all the emotions, virtues, morals, Love is the one thing that permeates all that is good, all that is Beautiful.

To have the chance to experience true Romantic Love with a fellow human being, for me, was miraculous, something that should not happen at my age…but it happened.

Romantic Love can be described as child-like, innocent and pure. All the feelings erupt – butterflies in the stomach, with hints of true hope that real happiness is possible, that it really exists; you’d be happy just to be next to them, and if push came to shove, you would certainly, without hesitation, die for them.

One day you’re in a scene at the focus of all that Love: a miracle, an unexplainable Wonder, you find yourself with Them. The focus of all that love, and it feels so unreal, but she smiles like a Beautiful unknown Being from Heaven.

Fairy Tale Romance can and does exist but it never lasts, because as always, the god’s get jealous and the “wonderment” disappears.

If ever, the opportunity presents itself, jump in, “boots and all”, may you feel Love, so pure, so innocent, Romantic and totally Beautiful?

You will never be the same.