Cultivating a Beggar's Garden
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Cultivating A Beggar’s Garden: A Novel and Exegesis Author Stringer, Mary-Ellen Published 2015 Thesis Type Thesis (PhD Doctorate) School School of Humanities DOI https://doi.org/10.25904/1912/3251 Copyright Statement The author owns the copyright in this thesis, unless stated otherwise. Downloaded from http://hdl.handle.net/10072/366426 Griffith Research Online https://research-repository.griffith.edu.au Cultivating A Beggar’s Garden: A novel and exegesis Mary-Ellen Stringer B.A. Writing and Cultural Studies, Southern Cross University B.A. (Hons), Southern Cross University School of Humanities Arts, Law and Education Group Griffith University Submitted in fulfilment of the requirements of the degree of Doctor of Philosophy October 2014 SYNOPSIS My novel, A Beggar’s Garden, and its accompanying exegesis, ‘Reading in A Beggar’s Garden: being without shadow’ are offered as sites of confluence where the political, the personal, the poetic and the polemic meet, blend, separate, reform and reconfigure. I hope the work rings with the ‘sociological poetics’ described by Paul Dawson – a poetics which recognises the ‘aesthetic or craft-based decisions of a writer are always the result … of ideological or political choice: the choice to employ social languages and the ideologies they embody … the choice to position a literary work in these languages, as an active intervention in the ideological work they perform’ (Dawson 2005: 211, emphasis in original). Critically and creatively I am telling stories that resonate in a contemporary register and with the tone and timbre of the language of affect which has here been derived from what Mark Davis describes as ‘the logic of affect since … this is the logic of contemporary politics and the public sphere’ (Davis 2007: 26-27). I use language as critique and explore through creative, critical and political idioms the intersections where these languages collide to produce the vernacular that positions, forms and informs subjectivity. The images, ideas, historiography and politics embedded in everyday languages are too often violent and proscriptive. I appropriate the violent tendencies laced through everyday languages and use them towards their opposite effect, towards compassion, belonging and dignity for the outcasts, outsiders and outriders of the community. My creative work is driven by my cultural politics and my critical work by a wish to intervene creatively into political discourses and how these discourses construct and outlaw the other who, in the contemporary socio-cultural order, can be found among the most vulnerable and neglected in the community – the very young and very old, the ‘coloured’, poor, ill and the broken. My work with and through language is designed to trouble and disrupt the processes that help to produce the other and, as a result of the outlawed subjectivity designated to them, deny that other even the smallest comforts of belonging, of being at home. In both a creative and critical sense I am unapologetically driven by the conviction that social justice is more than an idea and that fighting for it matters. I hold fast to a belief in the possibility of beauty and politics being embedded in the heart of fiction. ii The novel in this submission is set in contemporary times in a city much like Brisbane; it focuses on the plight of a woman cast onto the streets with her two young children. The exegesis accompanying the novel provides an account of the research and thinking I undertook in writing the work. iii Statement of Originality This work has not previously been submitted for a degree or diploma in any university. To the best of my knowledge and belief, the thesis contains no material previously published or written by another person except where due reference is made in the thesis itself. …………………………………………. Mary-Ellen Stringer iv CONTENTS Synopsis i Statement of Originality ii Contents v Acknowledgements vi A Beggar’s Garden 1 Reading in A Beggar’s Garden: being without shadow 264 Bibliography 345 v ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Thanks to: My supervisor, Professor Nigel Krauth, who from the first meeting made the novel better. Thanks for the patience, lunches, laughs and all round uncommon good cheer. My family, immediate and extended, for everything from living space to work space and for helping to hold back the tide while I kept on writing. My friends, especially Claire Brindle and Jade da Silva, for staying with me on the ride no matter what. My peers and friends, Sue Pearson and Sib Duff, for downing tools at sunset on writing retreats. David Field and Kelton Pell for including my girls and me in the party and for their generosity in agreeing to be included herein. Michelle Lyons, friend and editor, for so much more than just the grammar. To Griffith University, for the scholarships, the trip to Stradbroke Island and for living up to its reputation as the rock and roll uni. For workspaces: thanks especially to my sister, Tor Stringer, for the many weeks alone in her house on the hill in the country where I wrote while she cared for my children. To Tricia and David Kenny, Claire Brindle and Adam Tansell, Sean Stringer and Rosie Winters. To the John Oxley Library at the State Library of Queensland for bending the rules. And to Mervyn Langford and his son, Piers, for the enchanted corner that made all the difference. My daughters, Sianda and Tallulah, for among other things defending my decision to use their stories and for believing I should tell them my way. Brave girls both. And to my mother, Ella Stringer, one of the most well-read people I know, whose fascination with the writing process and belief in my ability to deliver the goods helped get them over the line. Thank you for the encouragement and support which, in all ways and always, was over and above. vi A Beggar’s Garden Page 1 l The trick to riding a bike in Angel’s gear is to pick your line and commit to it before you let go of the handlebars. Speed matters. Too much and the bike will skid on the gravel at the bottom of the hill just as you’re taking the right hand turn. Miss that corner and it’s game over, you’re sprawled on the footpath on the other side of the T-intersection. Too little speed and you won’t have the power to get across the road and clear the path of any car that may or may not be coming over the rise. A blind corner on the crest of a hill, perfect spot for a game of chicken. Page 2 Charlie watches Sean’s approach to the corner. The guy is so smooth he could be on a surfboard. Hands hanging loose at his sides Sean uses his knees to sway the bike out into the middle of the road then tilts it in towards the corner. Picking up speed he leans back, brings his hands together behind his head, clears the gravel patch, coasts across the road and on down the other side of the hill. Feet flat on the ground either side of his bike, Charlie contemplates his own line. He’s bigger and faster than his friend. He’ll go wide, come in to the corner low at a sharp angle and sail past Sean like he doesn’t know he’s there. But even as he’s imagining himself doing it he knows he’s not going to. Some days you’re too spooked for Angel’s gear. Hands firm on the brakes Charlie pushes off and lets the bike roll down the hill. He stops at the give way sign. If he turns right he’ll end up calling his mum from Sean’s place to tell her he’s staying the night. Well, he’ll ask her and both of them will pretend it’s a genuine question because she still thinks he needs to ask her permission about that kind of thing. Sean’s mum will ask after the family. ‘And how’s that gorgeous little monster Lucy?’ ‘Yeah, monstrous, thanks.’ When the questions move onto his mum and Carl, Charlie will duck under the cover of his adolescence. Other people’s mothers are more tolerant of the all-purpose grunt than his. ‘Apes grunt, Charlie, humans use words,’ she says, and gives him a play slap across the back of his head. ‘Yes ma’am.’ ‘Until such time as you can form whole sentences again, you remain a Halfling, neither man nor child. As such, you are entirely subject to my rules, me, your loving mother and a far superior human being.’ Slap. ‘Yessah, ma’am. Me Halfling, you boss.’ ‘Good boy. And do not play the dumb nigger with me.’ Slap. One time some hippy overheard them playing a version of the ‘yes ma’am’ game in the supermarket line and tried having a go at her. ‘You really think that’s a good way to speak to him, Lady?’ Page 3 Charlie kept his head down. His mum turned to face the poor old guy and gave him what Charlie calls her slice and dice look. It’s a quick, cold cut. ‘Oh please,’ she said, running her eyes from the guy’s socked and sandalled feet to his grey ponytail. Outside she frothed at the mouth about the nerve of the guy but it didn’t last long. By the time they got to the car, Charlie yes ma’aming and grovelling and trying to wrestle the trolley out of her hands, she was having trouble keeping a straight face. When she lifted the bags to put them in the boot Charlie snatched at them.