Memoir and My Fuzzy Memory

Year eleven, German Verse Speaking Competition … gaps, Swiss cheese recall. I sought ways to reconcile the short fall in my memory. Accepting my cultural heritage had become another pillar in my recovery from anorexia. I’d fragmented myself. But realised that I had choice and in an adolescent way, with my half-formed brain, began to glue the fragments together.

But the question remained, how did one stimulate the fuzzy memory?

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Concrete Grey Day

I’ve discovered prose poetry. It’s exciting a morphed from as the name suggests. Since last Monday night’s creative writing class words and images and sentence fragments have been flowing into my already congested brain.

Are they helping or hindering? Things are loosening and unravelling inside me. I’m gaining clarity about what I want to say but it’s hard to explain the choice when it’s skewed. It’s hard to own it.


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A Moment of Insight

My computer DiEd. I tried to breathe life into it,

asystole ________________________

‘Let’s get you a new computer. How long have you had that thing anyway?’ Inwardly groaning, I jumped into the car. A new challenge loomed, setting up a new computer… passwords… resetting passwords…moving files… Arghhh………………………………………..


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Discovering Plot Options

It’s been a great week. After sharing my inspiration with my fellow writers, I discovered more Swiss Cheese holes in my knowledge. Disappointment laid aside (‘d confused them), I began to investigate plot structure:

  • Linear A<B>C>D, predictable, can be suited to a memoir
    • Non-linear D>A>B>C or C>A>B>D, used in movies and TV
      • Collage, bits everywhere tied together with a common theme. That’s it:’What is it about?’
        • There are more, many more limited only by ones skill and imagination.


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Playing with Words

{Playing. Please note: this is an experiment. Worse still an experiement on a Monday morning.}

Back from holidays,






The book looms (the anorexic wog fumbling through adolescence), ideas still swirling around in the realm of possibility. I seek inspiration, answers, solutions for the stubborn glitches that thwart me. Me sharing me. How much to give?

The high school reunion…

Green, grey , white… the old war cry emanating from parched lips…yearning for youth…





                        of memories…

The past simmered like plum jam on the stove, rapid vaporous bubbles, rising from the scum, pushing their way through into the present, uninvited, pushy incomplete memories…

Best submerged.

I watched ‘Iris,’ on Netflix. Iris Apfel, a woman following her dreams, being authentic, finding the things she loved, sharing them with the world, colour, texture, patterns. Outrageous and brilliant. Authentic.

Create a collage of experiences with words:

  • powerful and passionate
  • varied and layered
  • intuitive and real
  • courageous and quirky


                                                                                       In bed

                                                                      alone                        a book


The inter-library loan arrived, SMS on the mobile, it’s here, the book I’d read about, non-linear plot, visual engagement beyond accepted formatting…





Loving ‘The Book of Leaves,’ written by Mark Z. Danielewski.

Acknowledgement (Mark Z. Danilewski): “This is not for you.”

Influenced by this fantastic book; I played.

α >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>ω


I haven’t posted a recipe in ages. The other day I saw a Feijoa tree remembering the first time that I came across them. My sister-in-law had a bucket of them from her mother’s tree. I loved the enchanting smell and couldn’t wait to try them.

My family didn’t like them much, more to do with the slightly gritty texture than taste. No one wanted them, so I took them home. not even consulting a recipe book I concocted my recipe for jam. It was a huge success.

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