Newnham, October

1965

The photograph above dates from 1964. I am the second boy from the left in the top row and my friend John Scannell is third from left and circled. In late 1965, a year after this photo of the 5th Oakleigh-Monash scout troop was taken, I had what could have been a life-ending (though it turned out to be a life-changing) experience. I collapsed at school with an aneurysm that caused a sub-arachnoid haemorrhage (that is, a haemorrhage just below the brain). I spent six weeks or so in the Alfred Hospital in Melbourne (completely unconscious for the first two of these) and was operated on by the institution’s honorary neurosurgeon. I knew later just how close I had come to death. The aneurysm itself could have been fatal but if its onset had been delayed for only a few minutes I would have been riding my bicycle home along a busy road.

Though I was never keen on sport I had been otherwise as physically active as any sixteen year old, but the upshot of this event meant that I spent several months of my life in a state of relative physical inactivity. Though I had been a successful student generally I nonetheless had to repeat my fifth year of high school because I had missed the end of year exams. Over the academic year of 1966 I had it easy, with mostly unchallenging schoolwork and no sport. I began then to write poems. Elsewhere I have noted how periods of enforced leisure have often turned young people’s minds to writing. William Carlos Williams spoke of a ‘heart strain’ diverting his attentions from track stardom to poetry, and many others have had similar experiences. To be deprived of activity in one area while you are in your youth tends to divert your energies elsewhere. And this is what happened in my case.

Another side effect of my collapse was that my long-term memory, or at least that of events before the incident, was adversely affected. I realised later that much of what I thought I could remember was either the product of information given to me by a third party or a false memory worked up from photographs. Over the years I have retrieved memories that I know there is no external evidence for. But I have no memory of the day of the aneurysm apart from what I’d been told since. I’ve given an account elsewhere based on the information I had at the time but it turns out that this information was wrong on a couple of points and lacking in detail. Thanks to the web (and as of the last week) I have a clearer picture of what happened. John Scannell, whom I’d only seen once briefly since leaving school at the end of 1967, found, through happenstance, this site, and as a result sent me a couple of wonderful emails that finally tell a story that rings true. Here, in edited form, are the details in his words:

The main reason for me getting in touch was to fill you in a bit on something you have on another site regarding your aneurysm. The sequence as I recall it starts with you crouching at your locker (bottom row, second from the left) after school, getting your books out to take home. I was standing beside you when you put your hand to your temple and said "I've got a headache". At which point you collapsed to the left onto the classroom floor. This naturally attracted some attention, particularly from Mrs Mee who wanted to take you to the sick room. I stopped her and told her to call an ambulance. Other teachers arrived and insisted on moving you. I put the lid of a desk under your head and shoulders to prevent movement and it was at this time that the ambulance arrived. After it left with you aboard, I telephoned your mother and told her what had happened. The rest you probably know.

and:

I recall that I would call in at your place each morning on the way to school for an update. I know that I visited you in hospital at least once. After reading your e-mail yesterday, I was surprised at how many memories came back to me. I was reminded of a passage from "The Shadow of the Wind", by Carlos Ruiz Zafon, where he said "As it unfolded, the structure of the story began to remind me of one of those Russian dolls that contain innumerable diminishing replicas of itself inside. Step by step the narrative split into a thousand stories, as if it had entered a gallery of mirrors. Its identity fragmented into endless reflections." It goes on a bit later; "Those first images, the echo of words we think we have left behind, accompany us throughout our lives and sculpt a palace in our memory to which, sooner or later- no matter how many books we read, how many worlds we discover, or how much we learn or forget- we will return."

Chatham, October

at the Swedenborg

A new season of Shearsman launches took off last night with readings by Angela Gardner for her new book Views of the Hudson, and by Gavin Selerie for his new and selected volume Music’s Duel. The turnout was more than respectable given that an Openned reading was on at the same time featuring some people who might otherwise have been at this one. The great man himself passively watched the rest of us as the poets read their work. Openned, by the way, has a newly designed and highly accessible website that’s always worth checking out.

Ospringe, October

rhymes with beer

So where else but the Leather Exchange to launch new titles from the Veer list? The readers were James Wilkes, James Harvey, Jon Clay, Antony John and 'Out to Lunch' (aka Ben Watson). The Exchange is now under new management and they had placed scented candles on the sills of the upstairs room and arranged the chairs as though we were going to have a 'real' poetry reading (photo at top taken before the crowd arrived). A mirror, removed from one of the walls revealed a bar. There was also a sound system operated by a dreadlocked DJ downstairs, but once the upstairs speakers were switched off it was quiet enough for a reading. I have to say it all worked pretty well and there was a substantial turnout. The highlights for me were James Wilkes' fake notices in Reviews, James Harvey's work from Temporary Structures and Out to Lunch's reading from Swift Blab Residue. OTL (above) read a further piece involving in part the aural translation of squiggles (a homage to Bob Cobbing). The energy of this performance put the baby on his shoulder to sleep. For further information about Veer titles email veerbooks@gmail.com