Elly Varrenti

writer | broadcaster | actor | narrator | teacher | arts reviewer

Published in ‘The Big Issue’ Sept 26

Still Waters…

 

Walking with her mother, Elly Varrenti reflects upon family and loss.

 

I wait for my mother in our usual place at the Botanical Gardens. There’s a lake and ducks, a kids’ playground, oaks and elms.

 

My 82-year-old mother and I meet most mornings for a half-hour walk. She usually sets the pace, although sometimes we do get out of sync. Once I was so excited telling her about my latest relationship disaster our walking got faster and faster.

 

“Can you believe he actually said that, Mum? I mean can you believe it?”

“Slow down! I’ll have a heart attack if we keep up this pace. He’s not worth losing your mother over, is he?”

 

And there was that time we had to stop walking altogether because we were laughing about those pictures of Treasurer Joe Hockey sucking on a fat cigar shortly before he announced the budget cuts.

 

“Come on,” she said. “Hurry up before it rains.”

 

This morning I watch as Mum manoeuvres her small silver car up to the curb, and when she gets out I notice she is wearing a new brown felt hat.

 

“Very becoming, Mum.”

“Got it from Vinnies. You should go there. Stop wasting your money.”

“They got any nice jumpers?” My 12-year-old son is as tall as I am now.

“They’ve got everything. Good quality, too.

“Okay. I’ll go today.”

“The leaves are all wet on this path,” Mum says. “I can’t afford to fall over again.”

“You can hold on to my arm if that helps,” I suggest.

“No, thanks. I’m not a complete geriatric yet.”

 

My mother doesn’t like me writing about her because she always comes across as tough and pragmatic.

 

“I feel things, too, you know. Just because I don’t talk about everything.”

 

I routinely defend my right to tell the truth as I see it, and she remains suspicious of my need to share.

 

“It’s indecent the way your generation just lets it all hang out,” she says.

 

I’m just fiercely grateful she’s still around to talk books and politics, cooking and kids, and to argue about all the rest of it.

 

These days I watch her rearing her late-daughter’s five-year-old son, and I can sense in my mother’s small body the quiet agony of grief. It’s not toughness I see, but long-learned self-protectiveness. For people like Mum, exposing one’s vulnerability, asking for help, is not so easily done.

***

My sister took her own life four years ago.

Took her own life. Somehow it doesn’t sound as shocking as ‘suicide’.

There were those who suggested Mum have my sister’s baby fostered. “Never!” Mum said. “I’ll look after him. It’s not a choice.”

 

Mine is a political family legacy. Single-minded commitment goes way back. Both my parents were ‘Persons of Interest’ to ASIO during the 1950s, and Mum’s Italian migrant parents were dogged if not disorganised anti-fascists.

My sister, fired with the same Bolshie gene, was an activist from her early teens. Later on, during her medical training, she pursued life with the sharp and scary focus of a revolutionary, travelling and volunteering in Chile, Nicaragua and, later, East Timor.

 

Her son has his father’s eyes, his grandmother’s empathy and his mother’s mischievous intellect. And her mouth. He definitely has my sister’s mouth.

 

On weekends my nephew stays with his dad, an Iraqi Kurd who spent five years in detention before my sister managed to help get him out. He is now an Australian citizen and has little to do with his countrymen. The post-traumatic stress disorder has made sure he is not very sociable. He is politely suspicious of the world and has never missed a weekend with his son. Not once in four years.

 

Mental illness is not like in the movies. It’s not like in The United States of Tara or Girl, Interrupted or Silver Linings Playbook. In real life, severe mental illness is not fun or zany or interesting or sexy.

 

In real life, my mother cared for her deteriorating daughter without conditions or limitations. I did what I could, responded to the calls at all hours and was at her hospital bed after her first two attempts. But, mostly, I watched on helplessly as Mum did battle for her gifted, troubled daughter.

 

I hated how much our lives had become all about my sister’s illness. I hated her illness. I did not fulfil my role of the unconditionally supportive big sister. I tried, but often I failed. I missed her. I wanted her back the way she used to be.

***

“How long have we been walking?” I ask Mum.

“It hasn’t even been 20 minutes yet.”

“The lake looks beautiful, doesn’t it?” I say. “All misty.”

“It does. Like from a children’s fairytale.”

 

It’s my mother’s patience, her gentle guidance and a teacher’s attention to the minutiae of her grandson’s development that strikes me when I am with them. She can’t play ball with him, but she can read and talk to him and she can fret about his monkish diet of rice, cucumber and mandarins. She can painstakingly connect the lines from one generation to the next.

 

Since her daughter’s death, my mother has changed. Everything is different now. Mum hates getting old and is worried about what will happen to her grandson when she dies.

“I just want to hang in there until he’s seven. Like the Jesuits say, give me the child until he is seven et cetera.”

 

In that small child we see all that we have lost, but all that we have found, too. And it is beautiful. My late sister’s child is beautiful.

 

“We’ve walked for half an hour, Mum. You want to go have coffee or something?”

“Not yet,” she says. “Let’s go around the lake just one more time.”

 

 

FALL

My twelve-year-old son has just got a dog. It was his father’s idea and Lily lives with them. But last week I suggested Lily come for a sleepover because I thought it was time I met my son’s new best friend.

They say it’s good for a child to have a dog but dogs are a foreign country to me. Having a Labrador x Kelpie puppy in my house is outside my comfort zone.

I always had cats. My father who’s lived in the bush most of my life reckons dogs are for working although he cried when his Short Haired Pointer died. My mother and grandparents whom I lived with growing up didn’t like animals inside the house but I was allowed to have a cat. I snuck Ginger into my room once but Mum reckoned Ginger smelled and made me put her back outside. My grandmother used to give Ginger pasta and lentil soup and when I suggested tinned cat food she’d just scoffed. ‘She’s a cat. She’ll eat the scraps.’ We had chooks too but they were for eating and so were their eggs.

Italians aren’t great with treating animals as family members. Even though this theory is probably nonsense I think of it when I remember how my grandfather got rid of Ginger. I’d looked for her everywhere for days and it was only years later I discovered she’d been driven out to the boondocks of Melbourne and left there. They told me Ginger must have run away yet something never felt quite right about that explanation.

But when my son’s new dog Lily bounded into my life and into my kitchen last week I fell for her right away. I liked how my son was with her, affectionate and confident. Lily slept in my son’s bedroom on a special mat on the floor but when I went in there during the night to check up on them both, Lily was on the bed and I didn’t have the heart to move her. I’ll just wash all the linen and put it through an extra hot cycle. I’ll need to vacuum too.

The next morning we got set to take Lily for a walk. She needs two a day apparently because she’s so frisky and not content to lounge about on a couch or play computer games all day. She isn’t very interested in eating either. Clearly she is more Kelpie than Labrador.

‘I’ll take her’, I say to my son.

‘She has to be on the leash Mum. You can only take her off it when we’re in the bush.’

‘Okay’, I say, taking the leash in my right hand and patting Lily on the head with my left. Her ears are so soft.

‘She pulls pretty hard’, says my son. ‘You got to keep the leash short otherwise she’ll take off.’

‘I know, I know.’ I say, like I’ve had dogs all my life.

But my son is right Lily does take off. Like a rocket. I run to keep up with her and it’s fun at first, invigorating. Look at me with a dog! But Lily gets faster and faster.

And then I see it. Up ahead there is a man with a small white dog and Lily is heading straight for it.

‘Stop! Lily Stop!’ I shout uselessly into the wind, pulling on the leash like a drunken equestrian.

I watch myself flail, tumble, shriek and finally fall on the pavement with a thud like it’s all in slow motion.

 

*

Lily is licking the back of my neck and the other dog owner is saying, ‘Are you alright there?’ and my son is hissing under his breath, ‘Get up Mum. You’re soooo embarrassing.’

I lie there on the ground mentally checking through my body for injuries, my thoughts floating about madly…

To fall from grace: Done that. Didn’t we all originally.

To fall in one’s own and others’ estimation: I’m not a perfectionist but I do have a diligent inner judge and jury, so if others are not disappointed in me I sure am.

To fall out with friends: It used to happen a lot as a teenager and seems to have started up again in middle age.

To fall in love with the wrong man: Been there done that all too often but still can’t figure out if I attract the wrong kind of man or the wrong man just sees me coming.

To fall into a pit of despair: The Black Dog and I have been in an on and off relationship for years.

To fall pregnant: Yes did that a few times and only one child to show for it. Enough said.

To fall upstairs: An American expression meaning to be elevated above one’s station. A version of the Imposter Syndrome that most people I like possess to some extent.

To fall upon something: I discover less by accident now. These days I search things out more and don’t expect anything to fall into my lap.

To fall through the cracks: Those people who live disenfranchised and outside-the square, the ones our government cares less about.

To fall asleep: What I do easily but then wake up 3 times during the night. Menopause? A bad pillow? Worrying about falling over for good?

My eighty two-year-old mum fell over recently and hasn’t been the same since. Her body is fine but her confidence is shot.

*

The man with the small white dog is trying to help me to my feet, and my son is standing there dumbstruck. I feel a little embarrassed but mostly I’m annoyed with my son for not being more sympathetic.

‘But Mum,’ my son says once we’re on the move again and he is now holding Lily’s leash. ‘You are sooo not used to dogs.’

‘No kidding,’ I say.’

‘And you gotta admit it was kind of funny the way you were running and shouting and then how you fell over. It looked really bad.’

To fall seven times and stand up eight: One of those neat Japanese proverbs about never giving up no matter how rubbish life gets. So while I can still look forward to the first coffee of the day, to my son’s face when he’s sleeping, to falling in love again, to the next Almodover movie, I won’t be giving up anytime soon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FALL (Radio National Life Matters)

http://www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/lifematters/elly-varrenti3a-fall/5641956

MOVING HOUSE (2006)

http://mpegmedia.abc.net.au/rn/podcast/2006/05/bdn_20060520.mp3

An audio piece I did for the late, the marvellous and much-missed ALAN SAUNDERS in 2006 for ‘By Design’, ABC radio – it starts at approx. 15mins into the podcast.

Writing Workshop: would love to see you there!

Forthcoming Creative Non Fiction writing workshop in Castlemaine

Forthcoming Creative Non Fiction writing workshop in Castlemaine

‘IN EXCESS’ as published on The Hoopla

 

HERE’S TO MY 4TH IDENTITY CRISIS

After an excruciatingly protracted death rattle, our 25-year-old-high-quality-professionally-monitored-vocationally-orientated-TAFE course has been closed down and all of its casuals and us permanent staff have lost our jobs.

So now it’s official: I am redundant and have accepted a moderate retrenchment package that should last my son and me about nine months if we are more mindful than usual. That’ll be one latte a day, not three. And no more pub dinners, except on Tightarse Tuesdays.

Before the Government pulled $300m from the TAFE system, those with a dream in their heart and a few bucks and a healthcare card in their pocket could do our Professional Writing course; now the fees have gone nuts. Staff morale is at an all time, all round low and there are more cuts than at your local butcher’s and more farewell brunches than you can throw a vol-au-vent at.

Before our TAFEs had the gizzards ripped out of them, a 40-year-old wanting to return to the workforce or to change jobs and who needed to up-skill or brush-up could. Now if this some person has already acquired a qualification higher than a Certificate 4 in anything from floristry to theosophy, she’ll be up for a few grand. Before the cuts, our TAFEs were a uniquely open door option for young people for whom university was neither a financial or educational fit.

People are losing their jobs all over the place. It’s in the news all the time; it’s the talk around the water-cooler and the talk back on your radio. If I hear the words ‘cuts’, ‘losses’, ‘casualised’ ‘bottom’ or ‘line’ in the same sentence once more time…

Compared to some, I’m lucky. Compared to some, I’ve a broad skill base, a strong professional network and a more than passing acquaintance with the vicissitudes of surviving as a freelancer. Compared to some who are also facing the reality of redundancy this year, I have only one child to support and a comparatively modest mortgage since moving to the country four years ago. I am over 50, that’s not so lucky. We are more expensive over 50, apparently. We are less energetic, flexible and switched on apparently.

Yep, it feels bloody awful being told your services are no longer required and it’s at times like this that one’s identity is in danger of taking a battering big time.

So that’ll be my fourth identity crisis and career change in 20-something years then. Career. That word still manages to suggest a planned and cumulative upward trajectory, doesn’t it?

It’s risky tying up too much of your self-worth, your sense of meaning or purpose to a job, or to anything or anyone for that matter. Given my job was part-time I’ve managed to cultivate other professional and personal relationships and identities outside the work place. But I already miss the structure, the colleagues, the students and the regular income. I already feel my former sense of self being discarded like a letter full of bad news.

Getting back out there and looking for a new job is as scary as dating again. No. Nothing is that scary.

The TAFE where I used to work sent me a letter form its PR department this week thanking me for my years of service, suggesting a career transition counselor, asking for my lap top and keys to be returned and mentioning something about good luck for my future.

And I got a nice paragraph in the Institute’s newsletter and a farewell envelope… for all of us redundancies in the Creative Arts Department, yesterday’s gold watch is today’s art gallery gift shop voucher.
 

*Elly Varrenti is a writer, teacher, broadcaster and theatre critic teacher.
 Her memoir, This is Not my Beautiful Life is published by Penguin.

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Running Away From Home (Mamamia)

http://www.mamamia.com.au/social/running-away-from-home-as-an-adult/#ejWdPgeSgrzsFQ9m.97

‘Hormone Hothouse’ The Age Good Weekend 10 May

http://www.smh.com.au/lifestyle/hormone-hothouse-20140505-37r6a.htmlImagePhoto: Mark Chew (2014)

‘In Excess: A story of Retrenchment’ ABC Radio latest column

http://www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/lifematters/elly-varrenti2c-retrenchment/5299618

Piece for The Age Daily Life

http://www.dailylife.com.au/life-and-love/real-life/when-christmas-is-unbearably-sad-20131219-2zmkg.html

now let me tell YOU a story

Now Let Me Tell You A Story

Unlike ‘real relationships’, ‘virtual relationships’ are easy to enter and to exit. They look smart and clean, feel easy to use, when compared with the heavy, slow-moving, messy real stuff. (Zygmunt Bauman)

 

Like some kind of 21st century relationship junket, you took me on a speed tour of the sights. You penetrated me virtual style, got under my skin from a distance, made love to me heart and soul and had me buying a ticket for two to the future. And I loved it.

Sure I was shit scared but we fell together into the abyss – more a madness of mutual transference, but when that magic is coursing through your body who wants psychoanalysis short circuiting the pleasure.

But when my parachute finally opened and I fell to earth, it was one tough landing.

We had only known each another a matter of weeks. We only met twice, had barely kissed let alone shared a bed. Yet, you had touched me, fingered my future and caressed my loneliness. Yet, for a brief moment we had known one other.

You said such things to me. Pitch perfect you were. How does he know that? Is this the man for me? Is he someone with whom I might share a home, our children, a cultural shorthand, some serious sex and intimacy. Someone whose neuroses I actually comprehend?

It was my dumb, relentless hope got me into strife again. I listened to your stories, your perfectly erotic, intellectually quixotic bedtime stories and was rendered putty.  I worried I was setting myself up for another little loss, another go at grief but I went there anyhow. Face the fear and do it anyway. Right?

You took me in for a sliver of time and it felt fucking fantastic.

When we first met we kissed a bit. Both shy. All that talking, texting and emailing, and now here we were for real, sitting together on a couch in a bar.

I must tell him I lied about my age before it goes any further.

That second time we met you brought me flowers and took my hand when we got outside. And as we walked along those familiar inner-city streets I could feel you slipping away. You didn’t let go of my hand but I knew you were already leaving me. My mouth went dry and I’d wanted to spit.

Then when we sat opposite each other in that Vietnamese café, unopened menus on the little Laminex table between us, I looked at you and saw it happen. Just like that. I saw you shift – your eyes empty of their connection with me, with the possibility of us. You were like an actor dropping out of character.

‘I can’t do this’, you said. ‘Sorry. I just can’t do this.’

No! Please don’t give up so soon, I wanted to say. But instead I got up, kissed you on the cheek and ran outside.  I ran fast and lost, back through those same streets that now appeared so strange to me.

Yes it felt like we had known each other all of our lives didn’t it. But we hadn’t. It’s just that those 3 weeks had held within them the total of both of our lives and it was just too painful, too full-to-the-brim in the both of them.

You ran. I ran. Away.

(audio) Now Let Me Tell YOU a Story (3RRR)

http://ondemand.rrr.org.au/

Click on above link, then go to AURAL TEXT (Wed 27 Nov) and my reading is at about 7mins into the show.

latest column per mamamia and abc radio

http://www.mamamia.com.au/parenting/help-son/

Lonely People Are Other People (Mamamia column)

http://www.mamamia.com.au/social/dealing-with-being-lonely/

My latest ABC Life Matters column: Are you lonesome tonight?

http://www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/lifematters/loneliness/4915170

‘The Australian Women’s Weekly-Ultimate Guide to Divorce’

‘Learning to Share THE GOOD, THE BAD, THE UGLY’

This week a piece of mine was published in the above mag under the above title. You can now read it here. There’s plenty of advice, stories and  theories, for those of you who are divorced, who want one, or are bloody rapt you don’t need one. My piece is meant to be FOR share parenting and a chap-writer-single-parent called Jesse Fink is meant to be AGAINST. I know, I know…nothing is ever as easy as for or against when relationships are breaking up.

When I signed up for marriage and parenthood there was nothing in the contract about share parenting let alone another maternal-figure in the mix when my ex remarried a year after we separated.

50:50 shared parenting is on the increase and if the so-called traditional nuclear family is not a goer then shared parenting can be.  So forget the picket fence and embrace the swinging gate.

My ex left when our son was 5 months old and from the outset wanted equal, or near-equal time with his son. So by the time our child was 8-months old he was already spending 2 days a week at his father’s place. I had post-natal depression and somehow recognized amidst the fog, that my ex was as good, if not a better parent than I was back then. I grew up only seeing my father every second weekend; I didn’t want that for my son.

 

After the initial shock subsided I was consumed with fury – Where is my child and who is that other woman living my life?

 

Eventually things started to get better.  Eventually on the days I had to say goodbye to my child, I no longer cried. Eventually our share parenting became a routine and our son appeared to be doing well.

Ten years later our family still negotiates two homes and two languages  – his father is German and my son bi-lingual. There are clashes. They have always thought I dress our son like something out of Diary of a Wimpy Kid whereas I reckon they’d like him to audition for Benetton if they had the chance.

When he was seven he came home from his dad’s sporting a buzz cut. I like his hair longish and wooly, his father likes it clean and neat. I said nothing. Better to save it for the big stuff. Recently, he’s nearly 11 now; he came back and announced he was going to live in Germany when he was older because education is awesome over there!

It’s confronting when something goes down during your ex’s ‘time’ to which you have been neither consulted nor privy. His father is stricter then I am, so I’ve been seen as too easy or my boundaries toot inconsistent. But then I am my own and there have always been two of them to share the parenting their end as well.

Our son has two homes, not one home and another place to crash. But some days the guilt of having a ‘failed marriage’ and, by extension, of having ‘failed’ our son, nearly kills me. Other days I am grateful I have the child I always wanted and an ex who wants him just as much. It’s better for our son to see his parents living contentedly apart than miserably together.

Time with my son is my ‘time to shine’, even if it might include mind-numbing arguments about computer time and waking up next to a small person who sleeps sideways. Also, I get to give him a Feminist brainwash.  I taught him how to spell misogynist the other day and to put it into a sentence. Really.

Today when my son goes off to his father’s I no longer wait in a state of suspended-grief until his return but focus on work, friends, dating (argh!), half-marathons or just staring idly out the window. I get to invite people over to a tidy house or to have a bloke sleepover.

I have not re-partnered, although my son suggests I find a man with kids his age. There have been boyfriends, just no one I’ve felt sufficiently sure about to include in my son’s life lock, stock and barrel.

Yes our son has had to witness some adversity and tension. But I no longer worry that this will irretrievably fracture his sense of self but that it may teach him resilience, adaptability and open-mindedness.

His stepmother believes in God and I don’t.  I believe in therapy and they don’t. But we all believe in our 11-year-old. Ours is not a ‘broken family’, just one trying to do the best it can. My ex and I have nothing in common these days other than a mutual interest in our son. That’s enough. It has to be. It is.

latest column: missing mozart

http://www.mamamia.com.au/health-wellbeing/how-long-is-it-too-long-to-grieve/

GIVE A GONSKI ON SAT 25 MAY

Bring your family down to Treasury Gardens , Melbourne, at 12.30 Sat 25 May to send a strong message of community support for Gonski. There will be plenty of activities for the kids – jumping castles, face-painting, balloons, and more, as well as food, music and a few speakers including  Daniel Andrews, Meredith Peace and Andy Griffiths! And I am MC on the day.

Andy Griffiths Gives A Gonski!

Andy Griffiths Gives A Gonski!

This community rally is a great opportunity to show the Premier just how much support for Gonski there is in the Victorian community.

Gonski would deliver an additional $4 billion to Victorian schools, and these extra funds would go where they are needed most. This could mean smaller class sizes, more literacy and numeracy teachers, and most importantly, greater individual attention for students.

You can find out more about Gonski at www.igiveagonski.com.au
Please help spread the word to friends, colleagues and family about this important community event.

BARASSI THE STAGE SHOW until 5 May at the Fairfax Studio, Arts Centre, Melbourne. 

I am one of those people who has never been into football but who has occasionally been  impressed and surprised by those of my friends and colleagues who are. Impressed because the commitment they exhibit is awesome. Surprised because I get to have my snobby prejudices well and truly challenged.

I once dated a nice bloke for a full month before a blathering Collingwood fan and friend of mine pointed out  my date was a former well-known VFL player.

But then terrific writers like Martin Flanagan and Gregory Day do manage to unearth the poetry and power of Aussi Rules so that even dire-hard anti-sport-tragics like myself may be moved.

Barassi The Stage Show by Tee O’Neill is less an exploration or investigation into the sport itself but rather an uncritical celebration of ‘Australian football legend’ and ‘Icon’ Ron Barassi.

In its return season – it did pretty well last year- Steve Bastoni as Barassi-the-elder has been replaced by Chris Connelly, and Jane Clifton replaced as the play’s (loud) mouthpiece/ narrator, Melba, by Odette Joannidis. Initially neither of these new cast members appears all that comfortable in their roles. Although Connelly, a fine actor but essentially miscast, does a great job finally of pitching the Barassi killer-instinct against the man who has never quite reconciled the early loss of his father to the killing fields of Tobruk. Joannidis, too, as the personification of the game’s ancient tribal loyalty eventually relaxes into the role having got off to a shaky start.

Barassi is a review-style mix of the cartoon and the corny and is at its best when the fast-paced bluster and backslapping are relieved with moments of delicious slow-mo-footy-style-choreography, the occasional barbershop crooning and the infectious energy and simpatico of Chris Asimos as the young Barassi and Matt Parkinson’s well-paced and credible rendition of Barassi’s surrogate father and coach Norm Smith.

It’s tough to write about someone who is still around – particularly someone as media savvy and switched on as Barassi – and O’Neill and co are nothing if not reverential of the great player, big personality, coach and failed furniture salesman.

Overall O’Neill does a solid job of this straight-up and engaging bio-show and the cast and direction all serve to keep the ball in the air for the most part.

This show is not my cup of tea. But who cares? The opening night audience appeared to enjoy it enormously.

Barassi the Stage Show

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