tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77450793654105692592024-03-05T17:47:58.335+02:00Hello TypewriterNicole Rimensbergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01921144424599438690noreply@blogger.comBlogger123125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745079365410569259.post-35930157450534623892021-04-15T22:16:00.001+02:002021-04-15T22:28:51.952+02:00The Caravan of Clowns - one of the little things<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6IwYjhOq9U6Gr5kTHq6ocr7YsKlrgMx3W9xmQlBY20l0Z8nZfYpPvnh0VJuIC6x-ZSwUzMCYkGWKR1E937lde8BAcCW5QTL4hPfw88vc3OuIJ-aKDGRPhBOjFt1c2_IBqUPYsQfhGj00/s2048/TCOC_InstagramAD+%25281%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6IwYjhOq9U6Gr5kTHq6ocr7YsKlrgMx3W9xmQlBY20l0Z8nZfYpPvnh0VJuIC6x-ZSwUzMCYkGWKR1E937lde8BAcCW5QTL4hPfw88vc3OuIJ-aKDGRPhBOjFt1c2_IBqUPYsQfhGj00/w400-h400/TCOC_InstagramAD+%25281%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p>Life can be tough. We get grumpy and sad. We forget to notice the little things around us - moments of joy and beauty, the things that give us breath to keep going. This is my attempt to provide healing to myself by reminding myself to take the time to do the things I love, and hopefully to bring joy to others along the way.</p><p>This is my latest book and I've decided to release it for free because I want it to be one of those "little things" that make your day better. Not just the story, but the moment of pausing, sitting down with a cup of tea or coffee to read, maybe with a little one on your lap. </p><p>It's a quirky story about a girl trapped between fate and her dreams. It's filled with whimsical circus life, some sad clowns, a birthday cake flop, finding funniness in the mundane, following dreams, getting lost and coming home. And it's full of wonderful illustrations!</p><p>You can sign up to download it <a href="https://mailchi.mp/074775e46d18/download-my-free-book" target="_blank">HERE</a>. I hope you enjoy!</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Nicole Rimensbergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01921144424599438690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745079365410569259.post-79844138420613624802020-09-22T11:51:00.003+02:002020-09-22T11:51:42.262+02:00Marginalia<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJNFe91pTnamMsSCeyrWDYRDmxsCLfc3B_16R13F1X29wxMP_5Q192bvht5QiHo-sq-WeSRasI6sU-bv8zZfIyqZyuo8GBdrqqpjCmTQJwa0-QSadmZ0s7l7nL5wUp3w8QOMNSudEfz6o/s1920/InShot_20200922_104021136.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1920" data-original-width="1920" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJNFe91pTnamMsSCeyrWDYRDmxsCLfc3B_16R13F1X29wxMP_5Q192bvht5QiHo-sq-WeSRasI6sU-bv8zZfIyqZyuo8GBdrqqpjCmTQJwa0-QSadmZ0s7l7nL5wUp3w8QOMNSudEfz6o/w640-h640/InShot_20200922_104021136.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />The other day I picked up an old book of mine and found a whole range of notes I'd written in the margins. Thoughts wound up in little scribbles and scratches across the pages. Collections of penciled-in question marks and lines. Marginalia. The printed text the sturdy frame around which were wound tendrils of thoughts and reflections. <p></p><p>My rediscovery of this marginalia got me thinking about recording my thoughts and reflections in life's margins, underlining the day's significant phrases, the key points that carry meaning. My writing has always happened in the margins of the day; the early mornings that belong to just me because the rest of the house is still sleeping or in between tasks where a gap opens up like the space between paragraphs. </p><p>From this formed the idea of a newsletter; a kind of intersection between my own accountability to keep writing, a desire to grow and nurture a community and to (hopefully) provide a little spontaneous inspiration or joy to others in the same way that discovering marginalia in a library book might suddenly provide a new perspective or insight. </p><p>So, please sign up if you would like to join my exploration of life's marginalia, writing, books and general updates (there are a few exciting things coming in the hopefully not too distant future). Let's see where this goes!</p><p><br /></p>Nicole Rimensbergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01921144424599438690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745079365410569259.post-24928215311762319092020-05-05T12:36:00.002+02:002020-05-05T15:04:04.270+02:00On not reading<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I've felt strangely paralysed over the last couple of weeks - unable to pick up a book, sit down and just read. All over the world people have been (and continue to be) locked down in their homes, cut off and isolated from their normally busy lives. I kept reading about "the big pause", of finding stillness, of learning new skills, baking, meditating, following-through on projects and of course, reading that pile of books one doesn't usually get to. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">During pretty much every other crisis in my life, I've read. I've managed to find even just a few stolen moments to get lost in a book. So, I had to ask myself, what was wrong with me? Why was I not getting it together? I've tried to tell myself how privileged I am - I have a nice home to be stuck inside, I have an income, while many, many had it so much worse. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And yet, still nothing. Still this paralysis on reading and creativity.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Going into lockdown I expected (rather unrealistically) to be able to make a big dent in my TBR pile. I guess the reality was a bit more jarring and unexpected. Firstly, just the practicalities of being thrown into multiple roles so suddenly - full-time mom to two young girls, homeschooler, housekeeper, carer for unwell parents (my mom's cancer returned and my dad needed a triple bypass in the middle of it all), while still working full time - eroded the hours of my day. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I was (am) exhausted.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Secondly, I underestimated the psychological strain of lockdown and the impact that has on my mental space (and my ability to read as usual, or even write and create). Anxiety and worries (from the personal to the national to the global) sit like big rocks in my mind, displacing everything else. Coupled with compulsive scrolling through coronoavirus-related news feeds on my phone, this has all had a negative impact on my reading. Sadly, reluctantly, I have to admit failure as a reader (Coronavirus - 1; me - 0).</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Of late I have been reading poetry, which has somewhat filled that need for words a little. I've particularly enjoyed William Sieghart's anthology, "The Poetry Pharmacy" and "The Poetry Pharmacy Returns", which Stephen Fry so aptly described as "a balm for the soul, fire for the belly, an arm around the lonely shoulder... matchless compound of hug, tonic and kiss." </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It has done that for me. While I don't have any answers and I can't say it's all going to be okay, here's to reading just a little bit of poetry.</span></div>
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Nicole Rimensbergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01921144424599438690noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745079365410569259.post-81040852291300185182020-04-23T16:38:00.000+02:002020-04-23T16:38:25.348+02:00Download for free<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The world has changed so much in such a short space of time.<br />
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Lockdown has been tough - everything has paused, plans have dissipated, the everyday rhythms have been disrupted, and above it all hangs a sense of disaster - the toll this virus is taking on health and people and economies and basic survival.<br />
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I'm sure many of you are in the same position that I find myself in: balancing work with entertaining and schooling children. Libraries have closed, books are not considered essential items and therefore cannot be purchased during lockdown, resulting in a dwindling reading supply for story-hungry kids.<br />
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So, in light of that, I would like to make my first book, <i>Witchfield </i>(an adventure story with a magical twist aimed at 8-12 year-olds) available for free. I hope it brings a few carefree hours of being lost in a book.<br />
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You can download it in ebook format from <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07KDW794T" target="_blank">Amazon</a> for free from 27 April - 1 May. If you have a moment, a review on Amazon would be much appreciated! And if you'd like to know a little more about it, you can watch me read an excerpt <a href="https://youtu.be/6hkO_Zz9nU0" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
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Stay safe, stay home, read!<br />
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<br />Nicole Rimensbergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01921144424599438690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745079365410569259.post-89770132266555795342019-09-15T20:25:00.001+02:002019-09-15T20:30:15.461+02:00"Tilly & Thandeka" is here<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Sometimes it really feels like I'm just winging it, running on caffeine (and a glass or two of wine) trying to hold on to dreams and reality at the same time, desperately trying to not let anything else drop. It's been exhausting, it's been exhilarating, and yet finally, here it is: Tilly & Thandeka: The Crown of Ancient Ghana.<br />
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This is the first in a series of adventure stories about these two brave girls, set in South Africa and is aimed at 7-9 year-olds. There's a lot more I want to say about them, so I think I will reserve that for another post. At the moment it's only available in South Africa. You can buy it <a href="https://publisher.co.za/product/tilly-thandeka-the-crown-of-ancient-ghana/" target="_blank">here</a>.Nicole Rimensbergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01921144424599438690noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745079365410569259.post-18007778274331511022019-09-03T19:24:00.000+02:002019-09-03T19:24:49.019+02:00The apparent simplicity of language: the text and its shadow<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I am a reader.<br />
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An avid reader of children's books and an avid reader of books about children's books. This means I often get myself bogged down with particular details about writing that is aimed at children and what exactly makes it "literature for children" and not "literature for adults" or just "literature".<br />
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One of the things I like to do in order to find some answers, is explore the boundary around what we call "children's literature". At first this seems obvious (and a waste of time), but once one begins looking more carefully, varied and less-firm territory appears.(For example, if "children's literature" is a body of literature read by children, then what about <i>Harry Potter</i>, who has a large adult fan base too? Or <i>Winnie The Pooh</i> with its sophisticated double address that amuses children and elicits knowing smiles from adults?)<br />
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Perry Nodelman is a widely respected critic and academic in the field of children's literature and in his book <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Hidden-Adult-Defining-Childrens-Literature/dp/0801889804" target="_blank">The Hidden Adult: Defining Children's Literature</a> he traces these boundaries. One of the points he discusses is children's books and their apparent simplicity of language. On the whole it is accepted that children's books should be written with a slightly less sophisticated reader in mind, a reader who does not yet possess the skills and the vocabulary to fight their way through long, complex, Proustian sentences. Let alone have the attention span. (This may be true, but it doesn't have to mean "talking down" to the reader.) Anyway, this rule is not set in stone (no one told Charles Dickens this when he was writing <i>Oliver Twist</i>) and sometimes is deliberately broken (think of Lemony Snicket's informative, context-specific asides to the reader about what difficult words mean in <i>A Series of Unfortunate Events</i>).<br />
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However, I would have to agree with Nodelman, that children's books imbue words with a kind of magic that makes them communicate far beyond their immediate meaning. This is what Nodelman refers to as the "shadow text". The writing is simple, yet the shadow text is not. Nodelman states, "The simple text implies an unspoken and much more complex repertoire that amounts to a second, hidden text." Here lies the magic of children's literature.<br />
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Of course one can argue that adult texts also have this shadow text, but the disjunction is clearer in children's books because we accept and expect their simplicity of language. The existence of this shadow therefore means that the simplicity of the story actually requires the reader to have more knowledge than the story actually contains. We, the reader (adult and child), must tap into our repertoire of past experiences, knowledge and understandings of the world in order to read the shadow text.<br />
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As a result, when we read David Walliams' first line from<i> The Boy in the Dress</i>: "Dennis was different", our repertoire of playground and classroom memories allows us to fully comprehend the story behind <i>that</i> experience. The prose is simple and straight-forward, but the story is not.<br />
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Similarly, Eva Ibbotson's first line from <i>Journey to the River Sea,</i> "It was a good school, one of the best in London" doesn't bog the reader down with long-winded and elaborate descriptions of the school and its standing. That introductory line tells us everything we need to know not because of the text, but the shadow behind it: Maia's privilege and also her limitations.<br />
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Good children's books maintain the simplicity of language, but have carefully selected words that have the ability to throw magical shadows.<br />
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<br />Nicole Rimensbergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01921144424599438690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745079365410569259.post-33399807036467791752019-05-19T09:01:00.000+02:002019-05-19T09:01:33.506+02:00"Children are made readers in the laps of their parents"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I always like to begin my classes on children's literature by asking students to reflect on their own experiences of being read to as a child, to look back at the books that built them. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But you know what? Every year I'm taken aback by how few have this experience, reminding me that it is not something to be taken for granted. And for those who did have the privilege of being read to, the experience pretty much ended sometime during Grade 1 or 2 when they had acquired the skill of reading. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And every year that makes me kind of sad, because that early reading process is so incredibly important. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">And special. And magical.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj00tlcHb_Rlpo5QxwX32ADq_OTPM-v9Vl1gs4AMJ8gJwg5G84mGx33snHGLb9IJBPDw_J7lG6FquOJq7557Aq9fzb50AgptKG5Tb95tjIl1bMP6GCHuDelr6Z9Aoum-rDU6eOiQ1GNlIM/s1600/IMG_20190519_085645.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1055" data-original-width="1600" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj00tlcHb_Rlpo5QxwX32ADq_OTPM-v9Vl1gs4AMJ8gJwg5G84mGx33snHGLb9IJBPDw_J7lG6FquOJq7557Aq9fzb50AgptKG5Tb95tjIl1bMP6GCHuDelr6Z9Aoum-rDU6eOiQ1GNlIM/s640/IMG_20190519_085645.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Recently I was asked to contribute to a short <a href="https://www.all4women.co.za/1746791/parenting/toddlers-1-2-years/5-ways-to-get-your-toddler-excited-about-reading" target="_blank">article</a> on encouraging young children to read and that got me thinking. Here are some of the things that came to mind and which, for me at least, make all the difference:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">As writer
Emilie Buchwald stated, “Children are made readers in the laps of their
parents”. This sums up the incredibly powerful role parents play in
establishing a love of reading in young children. Books represent quality time
with mom or dad, be it with cuddles before bed or to calm down and bond after a
tantrum, or to giggle and laugh about together during the day. It’s about so much
more than just a book or a story at this stage, so it’s important to foster the
relationship as well as a love of books.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Books should be
everywhere in the home (not just neatly stacked on bookshelves) – on coffee
tables, on beds, on the couch, on the kitchen counter, even on the floor. It
may seem contradictory, but when children see books everywhere, they become
part of their daily lives which is more likely to foster a love of books later
on. Bored, in need of distraction or just curious – just grab your nearest
book!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Young children,
in particular, relate to books as objects first before they fully understand
how they work or what they do. They are attracted to the bright, cheerful
covers, they want to explore them in a tactile way – what do they feel like?
Are they heavy or light? Perhaps even, what do they taste like? There is
nothing wrong when toddlers treat books like objects to play with. Learning how
to treat a book gently comes later, so for now, books are about fun,
exploration and learning. This is where tactile books, books with holes, pop-up
books or books with flaps become very popular and can provide endless
entertainment for curious fingers and curious minds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Reading to
toddlers and young children should be about interaction, so mom or dad should
get creative for story time! There’s no need to stick to the script – much
amusement can be had when a familiar story is told with a new twist. The
ensuing argument is a great opportunity for language development. Repetition,
rhyme, word play and prediction are all part of the parental tool box when it
comes to story-telling and language. The child can complete sentences, guess
what will happen next, think up reasons why something happened, repeat words or
phrases and, in a general sense, let story-time become more of a conversation
than about making it from beginning to end.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Probably the most important, yet often
forgotten, element of fostering a love of reading in children is for parents to
show an interest in books themselves. Little eyes are always watching and they
notice the objects that occupy the hands and minds of the adults around them –
is it a cellphone or is it a book? What fascinates mom or dad is more likely to
draw the attention of children too. Parents should remember, that buying lots
of books doesn’t automatically encourage reading, becoming a reading role model
does.</span>Nicole Rimensbergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01921144424599438690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745079365410569259.post-8966252044553233672019-04-22T16:55:00.000+02:002019-04-24T12:11:48.469+02:00What is more generous than a window? Some rainy afternoon reflections<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNW7xqSbIvM9N6RvMPR-qnu9BFwC5JeiUIJaXtVa6KxqZeCztq3OXR53iphvw_hyphenhyphenAFTkT1_RZEDxeoArOzSD8A_QwofYDoZJQK8l_Oqz5uEQ4Np_Qw3llds14a_xJ_I7Jm7wJQLAhCcG8/s1600/IMG_20190326_094602_478.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1322" data-original-width="1600" height="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNW7xqSbIvM9N6RvMPR-qnu9BFwC5JeiUIJaXtVa6KxqZeCztq3OXR53iphvw_hyphenhyphenAFTkT1_RZEDxeoArOzSD8A_QwofYDoZJQK8l_Oqz5uEQ4Np_Qw3llds14a_xJ_I7Jm7wJQLAhCcG8/s400/IMG_20190326_094602_478.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Sometimes it's the simplest things that matter the most:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>The aural pattern of rain against the paving, dripping through the leaves. </li>
<li>Two little girls keeping themselves busy, enveloped in imaginary worlds.</li>
<li>The folded-up comfort of a cat snoozing.</li>
<li>A drink, good company, conversation that digs up memories.</li>
<li>A stack of books found in an odd second-hand store with someone special.</li>
<li>Soup bubbling on the stove.</li>
<li>A good book turned over on the table, paused, but just for a moment.</li>
<li>The gleam of clean dishes on the sink, an ordinary task completed.</li>
<li>The unbreakable beams of support offered by friends.</li>
<li>The greeting of a pink hibiscus flower when I open my bedroom curtain in the morning.</li>
</ul>
<br />
These are the things that stand out against a busy world and which mean everything. I have a lot to be grateful for at the moment. Despite the difficult months. Despite everything.<br />
<br />
And in celebration of that sentiment, a poem that has always spoken to me:<br />
<br />
<div style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #6e562a; font-family: "Libre Baskerville", serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 1.7em;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="box-sizing: inherit; font-weight: 700;">The Patience of Ordinary Things</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em style="box-sizing: inherit;">Pat Schneider</em></div>
</div>
<div style="box-sizing: inherit; color: #6e562a; font-family: "Libre Baskerville", serif; font-size: 15px;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
It is a kind of love, is it not?</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
How the cup holds the tea,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Or toes. How soles of feet know</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Where they’re supposed to be.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
I’ve been thinking about the patience</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Of ordinary things, how clothes</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Wait respectfully in closets</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And soap dries quietly in the dish,</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And towels drink the wet</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
From the skin of the back.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And the lovely repetition of stairs.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And what is more generous than a window?</div>
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYXMlGZH-kzw6CdSYe6izrgHy4xJJLniWQTaGKDN7Yu0SbsyQjKwm-8kT98kn4Zd768sZ_pVsGxGymDq1xa3ZCjcWjbE8p6zdcczGvhOHdD-I75Ey4I1IXB37hkfEoMGPsC0v7snYezWU/s1600/IMG_20190422_164008.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="720" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYXMlGZH-kzw6CdSYe6izrgHy4xJJLniWQTaGKDN7Yu0SbsyQjKwm-8kT98kn4Zd768sZ_pVsGxGymDq1xa3ZCjcWjbE8p6zdcczGvhOHdD-I75Ey4I1IXB37hkfEoMGPsC0v7snYezWU/s640/IMG_20190422_164008.jpg" width="360" /></a></div>
<br />Nicole Rimensbergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01921144424599438690noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745079365410569259.post-37719461932451820012018-10-20T15:02:00.000+02:002018-10-20T15:02:34.116+02:00Witchfield<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigWeE2xs0b-ZdadUFAEc8AxYhRLJs2xeJm28UDSJMdfdJjtzpjcI80IAFK-nKbm2xBTniedutR_yG0xQR0sMS5uJ9bfQXIUltWBXucLRc9jzpTG3RdLtPOzK2WTS63DMY_jADHOsXgF4s/s1600/IMG_20181019_170234.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigWeE2xs0b-ZdadUFAEc8AxYhRLJs2xeJm28UDSJMdfdJjtzpjcI80IAFK-nKbm2xBTniedutR_yG0xQR0sMS5uJ9bfQXIUltWBXucLRc9jzpTG3RdLtPOzK2WTS63DMY_jADHOsXgF4s/s400/IMG_20181019_170234.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "century gothic", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Katie Peridot quite likes being ordinary. </span><span style="font-family: "century gothic", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">Unfortunately, some very out-of-the-ordinary
things have been happening. On top of that her best friend, Mayuri, isn’t her
best friend anymore, a sinister sponsorship programme is taking over her
school, her mother is acting more crazy than usual and the only person who
really seems to understand her is a peculiar cleaning lady. Then she teams up with
Themba, the cleverest (and most unpopular) boy at school, and together their
investigation takes them deep into the town’s abandoned mine.</span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "century gothic", sans-serif; font-size: 12pt;">What they find there is more terrible than they
could have imagined. Can they save Witchfield before it’s too late?</span></blockquote>
<br />
<br />
The title definitely formed first: a town that seemed ordinary and boring, but was not. Then the characters came, rushing, filling that space. A sensible girl who liked rationality and just wanted to fit in. A mother who stood out. The ups and downs of their relationship. The friends around the girl. A lonely boy with big glasses who had his sights set high above the limitations of the everyday. A mysterious mountain. Unwanted magic. A villain with a nefarious plot (of course). And a cat (there had to be a cat).<br />
<br />
And so the ideas swirled around me, finally settling into a coherent plot that I could then work on. Which I did. A lot. Deleting and cutting and rewriting. And giving-up and starting again. And giving-up and... Let's just summarise and say it took a long time.<br />
<br />
I've always been fascinated by unconventional parent-child relationships and Katie and her mother gave me the opportunity to play around with this idea through their delightful, frustrating, bohemian ways. What I also really longed for in the story were the familiar contours of the South African landscape; a setting that reaffirmed that South African children's lives existed in books too. Having said that though, this was not the point of the story. It was never created to fill a literary gap. I wrote it because these characters arrived insistently in my mind and had to be brave and go on an adventure. That's what drove the writing process, and if South African children smile because they recognise a little bit of themselves and their lives in Katie and Themba and Mayuri, I certainly will be delighted too.Nicole Rimensbergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01921144424599438690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745079365410569259.post-82919891567012110652018-08-29T08:47:00.002+02:002018-08-29T08:47:36.304+02:00I wrote a book<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioBgAHNrpo56Es40pS9pOdajQ8VevZvKSg3dEUDXr0hc-nVXxqMWta-A0dvJhVnnUV-KtdZD0uL9q2etarWXog1TxK8KSvLQ5rc6QovBIxiT2dKvKp49S44j1E93Yef5SotW47nBoPPdY/s1600/IMG_20180824_210528.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1297" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioBgAHNrpo56Es40pS9pOdajQ8VevZvKSg3dEUDXr0hc-nVXxqMWta-A0dvJhVnnUV-KtdZD0uL9q2etarWXog1TxK8KSvLQ5rc6QovBIxiT2dKvKp49S44j1E93Yef5SotW47nBoPPdY/s640/IMG_20180824_210528.jpg" width="518" /></a></div>
<br />
I wrote a book.<br />
<br />
(I may or may not have also written a whole heap of other things regardless of the fact that nothing is ever published. In this regard, writing is like a bad, slightly embarrassing habit that I can't seem to stop. I write quietly, perhaps a little secretively, in the extreme margins of my days. There's not much space, not much time, but somehow, it's been enough.)<br />
<br />
But this book.<br />
<br />
I knew there was something special about it when I started writing it ten years ago. The name. The characters that rushed at me so eagerly that I felt swamped. I haven't actually been writing it for ten whole years; for much of that time it was pushed aside, abandoned, banished, forgotten, rejected, hidden. Life happened. But it wouldn't go away; eventually, I pulled it out and faced it again. And again. And again.<br />
<br />
So, here it is.<br />
<br />
My book in my hands. It's been a long, long journey and the feel of its pages beneath my fingers is a kind of homecoming for me.<br />
<br />
That seems all I'm capable of for now. I shall write something more useful soon, like what it's about, how I did it, what happens next and what I plan to do with it.<br />
<br />
xx<br />
<br />
(And by the way, if anyone is wondering whose magic created this beautiful cover, I was very lucky to find the amazing, extraordinary Cristy Zinn. Find more of her work <a href="http://loomadesigns.co.za/" target="_blank">here</a>.)Nicole Rimensbergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01921144424599438690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745079365410569259.post-17054476812286411602017-07-21T14:59:00.000+02:002017-07-21T14:59:01.054+02:00Can we talk about Enid Blyton?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6z0QREb1EX7dqKnx-Fk2mLs0mujR5JloLEiBiM5rzcnsrCTI6XbzL4qeuqWUKyZC_ismB8lg4uY9V8jNgqgNJvcwAnxACFw4j_KIgT9m0oveI9ek1L3buNNgulLrPdpeXNgcaItVA_yU/s1600/IMG_20170721_104915.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6z0QREb1EX7dqKnx-Fk2mLs0mujR5JloLEiBiM5rzcnsrCTI6XbzL4qeuqWUKyZC_ismB8lg4uY9V8jNgqgNJvcwAnxACFw4j_KIgT9m0oveI9ek1L3buNNgulLrPdpeXNgcaItVA_yU/s640/IMG_20170721_104915.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
<br />
A picnic with my two lovely girls at the Botanical Gardens got me thinking about Enid Blyton. We packed some snacks, a blanket and some books, one of them an Enid Blyton classic, <i>The Secret Seven</i>. The kid (who is now seven) has become enchanted by the <i>Faraway Tree</i> and <i>The Secret Seven</i>. If I read her a chapter, she will soldier on determinedly on her own, eating up the story word by word, a finger marking the steady progress. I never thought that watching a fledgling reader could make me feel so happy, but it does.<br />
<br />
Which brings me to Enid Blyton.<br />
<br />
<i>The Wishing Chair, The Faraway Tree, The Famous Five, The Secret Seven</i> and all those page-turning adventure stories made up my reading childhood. I discovered the heady addiction of stories, the desperate <i>need </i>to find out what happens next even after lights out, through these books. I was eight when I started to read in English, having just moved to South Africa with my parents. Enid Blyton books quickly became part of my reading diet and continued to be favourites for years. Reading them felt a bit like making friends in a new place. A lot of it didn't make sense to me or reflect my new life in South Africa. I still have no idea what sort of meal "tea" is. Green meadows and lanes, and the cold, misty, rainy weather all took on mythical qualities in my mind. The humidity and heat, the lush, out-of-control coastal vegetation with its troupes of vervet monkeys, the street vendors at the intersections, the rickshaw drivers at the beachfront, the intoxicating multiculturalism were all absent in the stories I picked up. But it didn't matter. I loved reading them anyway.<br />
<br />
Much criticism has been leveled at Blyton for her culturally insensitive, gender-stereotypical stories, but for all that she did wrong, she certainly did something right. Children, pretty much everywhere, <i>love </i>her stories. And this raises a very important question, one I often engage with, namely, who determines what "good" children's literature is? Good according to whom? Who decides? Children or adults? Are adult critics even qualified to do this?<br />
<br />
The lack of working mothers, touches of racism and xenophobia, the obvious classism are sometimes hard to overlook as an adult now rereading some of my childhood favourites, but then I watch my fledgling reader's growing hunger for them and suddenly I don't feel so qualified to tell her what she can and can't read.<br />
<br />
I think Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's Ted Talk <a href="https://www.ted.com/talks/chimamanda_adichie_the_danger_of_a_single_story/transcript?language=en" target="_blank">The danger of the single story</a> is particularly relevant to children's literature. Perhaps the solution to the Enid Blyton problem is not to eliminate her from children's reading diets, because she certainly has earned her place there, but rather to feed them a rich variety of stories from different places and backgrounds. In other words, offer them a balanced diet with a healthy sprinkling of magic.<br />
<br />
So, what are your views on Enid Blyton?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Nicole Rimensbergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01921144424599438690noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745079365410569259.post-69934745736111755852017-03-13T21:56:00.000+02:002017-03-13T21:56:44.058+02:00Writing in snippets<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsrK0iF_1qWwdAAqidOpIXIjVl6lgSC6jSnD9q6egIxxlwJnJesdbQBnQpf1zPwJICPS6i9NT4waFaiSJeyXo3sRf7fdR8Gy20PwoJRVRQxyakC9agDJnRQWNtIFpPLNwBPkVwqOXte6Y/s1600/IMG_20170308_193041_099.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsrK0iF_1qWwdAAqidOpIXIjVl6lgSC6jSnD9q6egIxxlwJnJesdbQBnQpf1zPwJICPS6i9NT4waFaiSJeyXo3sRf7fdR8Gy20PwoJRVRQxyakC9agDJnRQWNtIFpPLNwBPkVwqOXte6Y/s320/IMG_20170308_193041_099.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span id="goog_1502573592"></span><span id="goog_1502573593"></span><br />
So sometimes I get a bit sad because I never seem to have time to write my blog these days. Gaping ravines appear between posts that remind me of how quickly time seems to wash away. Before I know it, the next month is already here and there is a long list of things I haven't managed to get to. Between working and life and two little ones, I guess I must make peace with that.<br />
<br />
But in the interim, the defiant part of me decided to set up an instagram account for this blog, sort of as a way of tiding me over in little snippets until I have time to write something more substantial here. So for now, this is where I can be found: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/hellotypewriter_/" target="_blank">here</a>.Nicole Rimensbergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01921144424599438690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745079365410569259.post-26324155604064971912017-01-08T21:22:00.000+02:002017-01-08T21:22:12.362+02:00Hello new year<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Well, here it is. 2017. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">I always become pensive in the space between the end of a year and the beginning of a new one. I feel the build-up of days and years more acutely then. I suppose in a way it's a natural place for a pause, to take a moment to wonder: have I done enough? What have I made with this length of time called a year? What will I make of the next?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br style="background-color: white;" /><span style="background-color: white;">I look at my two girls and at the growing that has taken place, the many things learned and done. The kid: beautiful, wispy and suddenly so big, but still fragile, standing bravely at the precipice of formal schooling, the preschool chapter closed and left behind in the last year. My baby, with her halo of curls, bursting into toddlerhood with a fierce determination and yet still so soft and small when her outstretched arms reach for me.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br style="background-color: white;" /><span style="background-color: white;">I look at these two girls and think about that year that trails away behind me, how my path has determined theirs, what the marks and prints are that I've left behind on them. How I shape them.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br style="background-color: white;" /><span style="background-color: white;">And sometimes it overwhelms me because a childhood is a very precious thing to hold in your hand.</span></span><br />
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<br />Nicole Rimensbergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01921144424599438690noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745079365410569259.post-59357120844868936182016-12-13T12:36:00.000+02:002016-12-13T12:36:44.298+02:00Christmas in summer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It's noticing the sweaty discomfort of Father Christmas in his woolly suit suffering through the humidity, the fake snow spray-painted on windows and the foreign irrelevance of sleighs and reindeer and holly, that makes me think just how Christmas in South Africa is a season of contradictions and incongruity. The holiday doesn't seem to fit right, like some hand-me-down item of clothing. The cracks show easily: in the heat that makes all the cosy Christmas cheer a bit unpleasant to carry out in real life, in the pictures of snowmen hastily coloured-in before children have another splash in the pool, in the wild greenness of a Durban summer paling the evergreen of the Christmas tree.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">But I also kind of love that no one cares about the details, that the incongruity doesn't matter. I love the enthusiasm in a Hindu colleague's talk about how she is so excited to celebrate Christmas with her new little son. I love the chaos and colour and contradiction of hybrid-Christmas narratives springing up around me. The point being that it doesn't have to make sense.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">While I did spend most of my formative years enjoying a cold Christmas, where the hot food and candles and Gl</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">ühwein and Christmas decor made sense, I've come to love what a subtropical holiday season feels like too, but it's largely underrepresented in all things Christmas. So in the interests of celebrating the holiday season in a local way, here's my list of things I like about this time of year:</span><br />
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<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">heat-soaked, lazy days after a busy year of work</span></li>
</ul>
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<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">the merciful whir of air-conditioners</span></li>
</ul>
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<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">the chaotic green everywhere and the carpet of Frangiapani blossoms on the patio</span></li>
</ul>
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<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">mangoes and paw-paws and litchis </span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">outside dinners when the day starts to cool down slightly</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">the feel of cold water on hot skin</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">being barefoot </span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">the clink of ice-cubes in white wine shared with friends</span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">having an excuse to bake something delicious despite the heat and having a cold shower afterwards</span></li>
</ul>
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<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">(literally) cool desserts </span></li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">cutting off a bunch of bananas from my little cluster of banana trees in the garden</span></li>
</ul>
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<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">the ingenuity of beaded wire Christmas decorations made by industrious street vendors</span></li>
</ul>
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<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">finding local substitutes for ridiculously priced nuts and berries</span></li>
</ul>
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<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">and like everywhere: time with my people ☺</span></li>
</ul>
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Nicole Rimensbergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01921144424599438690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745079365410569259.post-26549136991123514262016-12-04T23:07:00.000+02:002016-12-04T23:07:32.919+02:00Words<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Sometimes words leave you. They disappear somewhere and remain obstinately out of reach. I've been feeling a bit like that recently. Sitting there, self-consciously, waiting for them to come home. Maybe it's the effects of a busy and well-worn year coming to an end. It's difficult to not feel completely depleted. <div>
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At least I've been doing a lot of reading, absorbing a whole range of words, enjoying the pleasure of them and appreciating the effects of unusual arrangements. I found this list of strange and beautiful words (some English, some borrowed) via <a href="https://www.buzzfeed.com/danieldalton/bob-ombinate?utm_term=.ioOm4Y4z68#.eypqbwbJ1n" target="_blank">Buzzfeed</a> . These are some of my favourites! </div>
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Nicole Rimensbergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01921144424599438690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745079365410569259.post-28067133465266434382016-11-03T17:13:00.000+02:002016-11-03T17:13:36.779+02:00For the Mercy of Water<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Well, after the last post, I did finally find something to read. And it still hasn't let me go. Perhaps it’s the reality of recent water restrictions, of
taps running dry in the middle of the day in some places that I still feel faintly haunted by <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Mercy-Water-Karen-Jayes-ebook/dp/B009XNEZ5Q" target="_blank">For the Mercy of Water</a> </i>by Karen Jayes.<br />
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Set in a believable drought-ridden future, water has been
privatised and is controlled by “the company” and its violent militias. Society
is polarised into cities that are serviced by the company and the parched rural
areas that have been largely abandoned. This novel occupies a strange position
between the real and the allegorical. Although the country (and most of the
characters) remain unnamed, I recognised in the scarred landscape a shadow of the current
South Africa. As a <a href="http://sundayindybooks.blogspot.co.za/2013/03/sa-evoked-through-rural-battle-for.html" target="_blank">critic</a> stated, "A society that has lived through the <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marikana_killings" target="_blank">Marikana</a> massacre and the slaughter of <a href="http://ewn.co.za/2013/10/31/The-Anene-Booysen-Story" target="_blank">Anene Booysen</a> should recognise something in both Jayes's projection of rural districts subordinated to corporate imperatives, and in the repeated depictions of gender violence and rape, never lurid but clear eyed, or be ashamed."</div>
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The bleak yet startling quality of the writing reminded me of Andre Brink. It's the kind of writing that can flip from words that are spiky and cruel to starkly beautiful in a sentence.The right to water, gender and sexual violence, are themes that play out on the body and the landscape described through Jayes's visceral prose. The language of the body and the landscape are devastatingly, beautifully intertwined. Another <a href="http://www.litnet.co.za/review-for-the-mercy-of-water/" target="_blank">critic</a> points out, "<i>For the Mercy of Water</i> draws on enmeshed metaphorical relationships between the categories of female, the body and nature on the one hand, and the categories of male, the mind and culture on the other. In this sense, the war waged over water (nature) is also a war waged over the female body."</div>
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Nicole Rimensbergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01921144424599438690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745079365410569259.post-82984392108516675142016-10-06T21:36:00.000+02:002016-10-06T21:36:26.168+02:00Finding something to read<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Between the haze of end of term madness, a second birthday party to plan, an old dog put to sleep forever, relentless rain and unexpected cold finally breaking the dry season and months of storing bathwater in buckets, student protests and futures hanging tenuous and hesitant. I feel adrift. Just randomly moving. No real sense of purpose. No roots to my days. Too fragmented to pick up anything and read it.<br />
<br />
Rebecca Solnit on books (found via <a href="https://www.brainpickings.org/2014/10/13/rebecca-solnit-faraway-nearby-reading-writing/" target="_blank">brainpickings</a>):<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white; color: #1a1a1a;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"The object we call a book is not the real book, but its potential, like a musical score or seed. It exists fully only in the act of being read; and its real home is inside the head of the reader, where the symphony resounds, the seed germinates. A book is a heart that only beats in the chest of another. The child I once was read constantly and hardly spoke, because she was ambivalent about the merits of communication, about the risks of being mocked or punished or exposed. The idea of being understood and encouraged, of recognizing herself in another, of affirmation, had hardly occurred to her and neither had the idea that she had something to give others. So she read, taking in words in huge quantities, a children’s and then an adult’s novel a day for many years, seven books a week or so, gorging on books, fasting on speech, carrying piles of books home from the library."</span></span></blockquote>
Nicole Rimensbergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01921144424599438690noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745079365410569259.post-20264656738123489132016-09-17T21:03:00.000+02:002016-09-17T21:03:27.529+02:00Just one more word<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>The nightly bedtime story ritual at the moment goes something like this:</i><br />
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<i>Me: "Okay, that's the end of the chapter. We'll have to wait until tomorrow to find out what happens."</i><br />
<i>The kid: "Ohhhh, don't, don't, no, no!"</i><br />
<i>Me: "No really, it's the end. You agreed just one chapter, remember?"</i><br />
<i>The kid: "Noooo! PLEASE just one more story. PLEASE!" (Looks hurt, as if I'm an abusive parent.)</i><br />
<i>Me: "No, we agreed we would finish at the end of the chapter." (Feels like an abusive parent)</i><br />
<i>The kid (distraught, on the verge of tears): "PLEASE Mama, just one more WORD!"</i><br />
<i>Me: "A word is very short. It won't help."</i><br />
<i>The kid: "Please!"</i><br />
<i>Me: "Okay." (reads one more word)</i><br />
<i>The kid (wailing): "Noooo!"</i><br />
<i>Me: "That was one word."</i><br />
<i>The kid (looks greatly hurt and disappointed): "Fine! I just won't give you any more goodnight kisses then!"</i>Nicole Rimensbergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01921144424599438690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745079365410569259.post-47545222549773786552016-08-21T06:56:00.000+02:002016-08-21T06:56:02.701+02:00Time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #5d5d5d; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 21.56px;"><i>It's so scarce. It slips away too easily. Before I know it, it has disappeared. I feel drained of it when all the chores are done, the needs met. I watch the day's dust settle, wondering what impressions remain that I can hold on to. Wondering if the only measurement is in well-worn routines that dig their trenches into our days. What routes has time left on me?</i></span></div>
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<i>I wonder where it goes. What's happened to it. How we got to now, from then. How the little one suddenly turned into a running-about toddler, how the kid slipped into this wispy, wise girl with laughs and such earnest eyes. How I became a mother to them. And always, always how it is that I deserve their laughter, their outstretched arms and squeezes, their love. </i></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #5d5d5d; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px; line-height: 21.56px; text-align: center;">
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<i>I know that years from now that taut rope of time will slacken again. I'll feel it ease up. I'll catch my breath. And I'll look back at this time of chaos, of exhaustion, of work, of never-ending demands and I'll smile because there, etched into me, will be the sounds of two giggling half-undressed girls running around the house avoiding bath-time, their joy and exuberance infectious despite my desperation to make bed-time happen. I'll still feel chubby little arms and legs wrapped tightly around me when there are tears and sobs or feel the kid's hand slipping quietly into mine as we go about errands. I'll see them when they're sleeping as I go and check on them before bed, all soft cheeks and gentle breath, their smallness and vulnerability so present in the glow of bedside lamps.</i></div>
<br />Nicole Rimensbergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01921144424599438690noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745079365410569259.post-46588358642504930302016-07-09T21:44:00.000+02:002016-07-09T21:44:10.695+02:00Scenes of everyday ordinariness<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Weather that can't quite make up its mind. A chilly wind. Patches of sunlight. One kid crafting colourful paper garlands with buttons. A dusting of paper snippets and glitter under the table where she works. One basket of freshly-brought in laundry. One old dog lying on the mat, paws twitching. Some forgotten bits of stolen fruit left scattered on the back lawn after a visit from a troupe of <i>vervet </i>monkeys. A pot of soup prepared early, cooking on the stove. One little one asleep in her cot. Some half-forgotten games left scattered around the house. One laptop accusingly open and unattended. </div>
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This is how the hours of the day are tallied up. </div>
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How one more day slips by.</div>
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Nicole Rimensbergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01921144424599438690noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745079365410569259.post-58761438036949617322016-07-02T13:36:00.003+02:002016-07-02T13:36:48.125+02:00Devouring books<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's holiday time.<br />
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Days loosen up a bit. There's suddenly more space. There's time to read, not just in the usual bite-sized chunks of busy work days, but time to really devour books. That's how I've always viewed the holidays: a decadent, perhaps greedy, opportunity to consume as many books as I can.<br />
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In a very interesting article on the relationship between food metaphors and reading, Louise Adams explores the question of whether <a href="https://aeon.co/ideas/is-devouring-books-a-sign-of-superficiality-in-a-reader?utm_source=Aeon+Newsletter&utm_campaign=53796db0b7-Weekly_Newsletter_24_June_20166_24_2016&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_411a82e59d-53796db0b7-69067517" target="_blank">devouring books is a sign of superficiality in the reader</a>. She states:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"This metaphor, however, hasn't always seemed so benign. Two hundred years ago, describing someone as 'devouring' a book would have been an act of moral censure. The long, turbulent relationship between reading and eating is invisible to modern eyes, yet in our media-soaked culture, it is more pertinent than ever. The unexamined language of 'devouring' idealises one kind of reading at the expense of others, leaving readers impoverished."</blockquote>
History has shown how different types of texts and different ways of reading were not all seen as equal. From Renaissance scholars like Francis Bacon, who stated that "some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed" to 18th century writers who distinguished between appetite (connecting reading with the physicality of the body) and taste (which connected reading to the mind). Coming out of this background then, devouring a book would appear to be crude and vulgar. The speed associated with devouring a book would also have been seen to lessen the nourishment gained from the text.<br />
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These ideas have not been completely sustained in the modern world, where speed is an essential quality of survival. 'Devouring' has come to denote enjoyment and fast-paced, popular consumption. However, many of these ideas are relevant today, particularly because our need to 'devour' literature quickly means we often sacrifice time for slower reflection. (As I've argued <a href="http://hellotypewriter.blogspot.co.za/2014/08/slow-reading-in-information-ecology.html" target="_blank">here</a>).<br />
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When I think of the word 'devouring' in relation to books, my associations are overwhelmingly positive. I see it as good, as it shows that books are being read and this is a point that Adams also makes in assessing where 'devouring books' leaves us today:<br />
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"This defensiveness about popular reading now coincides with another phenomenon: the fear that reading might lose its cultural potency completely. This is why the language of reading-as-devouring is rehabilitated, with its unprecedented positive spin. 'Devouring' is reclaimed because, at its base, it signifies interest. And in a world where Facebook, WhatsApp and Netflix compete for our attention, any interest in good old-fashioned reading is encouraged at all costs."</blockquote>
I guess the point being made is that reading cannot be seen as one homogeneous activity, but rather as something that takes on diverse forms and functions depending on context and on the different times in our lives. As with food, I suppose, we sometimes snack or binge or savour.<br />
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What Adams suggests is this:<br />
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"The language of digestion encourages slowed-down reading habits (along Slow Food lines). It reminds us to be more attentive to the subtle ways in which texts have been put together by their creators - to think before just bingeing upon pages."</blockquote>
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<br />Nicole Rimensbergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01921144424599438690noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745079365410569259.post-52646679022910868222016-06-13T09:08:00.000+02:002016-06-13T09:08:00.190+02:00Another Monday morning<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I climb out of bed, senses blunted by the winter darkness. There's just a hint of day in the pale cut-outs of the windows but it still feels like night. I pick the little one up out of her cot and we stumble through to the kitchen. Automatically I switch on the kettle for tea, still trying to regain my senses. I give her her milk while I sit down for a moment with my warm mug. Just a brief pause before another day fully claims us.<br />
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I can't believe we're in the middle of June already. When did that happen?Nicole Rimensbergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01921144424599438690noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745079365410569259.post-43999625440814543712016-05-08T14:15:00.000+02:002016-05-08T14:15:33.286+02:00In search of a reading culture<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjicNi8w86CTgSxyP_C2HtczmtinPcd1iw10c_NdT1qs95HuU_WO6bms661TShd4lun9TCA1YdjYGxyD3ZqOK67w6NI34s2MQecBKNrJv8alugDpb4ESA5LPkk4CSN24GEQpEEmKs_g1Ac/s1600/Philani+Dladla.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjicNi8w86CTgSxyP_C2HtczmtinPcd1iw10c_NdT1qs95HuU_WO6bms661TShd4lun9TCA1YdjYGxyD3ZqOK67w6NI34s2MQecBKNrJv8alugDpb4ESA5LPkk4CSN24GEQpEEmKs_g1Ac/s400/Philani+Dladla.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image from <a href="http://www.odditycentral.com/news/south-african-homeless-man-refuses-to-beg-makes-a-living-by-selling-books-on-the-pavement.html" target="_blank">here</a></td></tr>
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It's often struck me that books are not part of the fabric of everyday life in South Africa. You're unlikely to see books occupying people as they wait in queues or for taxis or snuck under the tables during lectures or resting on restaurant tables. Phones on the other hand, are everywhere, all levels of society equally obsessed and constantly connected. On a functional level, magazines and newspapers are read, but it is not often that one sees someone lost in a book for the pure, simple enjoyment and escape it offers.<br />
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Reading for pleasure is just not a priority, both in homes and in the classroom. It gets drowned out by more desperate, immediate things like focusing on the mechanical <i>ability to</i> <i>read</i> rather than <i>wanting to</i> <i>read</i> for enjoyment. Most homes are not filled with books and sadly, the same can be said for most schools too (read an old post about this <a href="http://hellotypewriter.blogspot.co.za/2014/11/the-reading-divide.html" target="_blank">here</a>). As a result the culture of reading doesn't develop, which has far reaching implications for education. In a paper on implementing <a href="https://ujdigispace.uj.ac.za/handle/10210/3684" target="_blank">a communal reading project</a> at the University of Johannesburg, Janse Van Vuuren describes the typical first year student:<br />
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"A high percentage of these learners are from very poor environments where buying books is not an option with the result that they grew up without the benefit of access to books. Many of these young people who are currently enrolled at universities are battling to overcome the disadvantage of growing up without books and an established reading culture. Academic staff at South African universities increasingly comments on the fact that students lack sound reading and writing skills."</blockquote>
That culture is so important, but not acknowledged. Students wonder why bother to read the book when one can just as well watch the movie, missing the point entirely. And so the cycle continues because books are so absent, so missing; considered relics that belong into some other world and have no relevance for the rhythms of daily life. So I was incredibly happy when I came across this heartwarming story of, Philani Dladla, <a href="http://www.odditycentral.com/news/south-african-homeless-man-refuses-to-beg-makes-a-living-by-selling-books-on-the-pavement.html" target="_blank">a homeless man who sells books</a> on the streets of Johannesburg to make a living. On my average drive to work, each time I stop at an intersection I get offered phone chargers, seasonal fruit, plastic coat hangers, and outstretched hands cupped around the empty nothingness of desperation. I am even offered the opportunity to have my windscreen cleaned for some loose change while I wait for the green light. Depending on where you drive in town, you can probably buy anything through your car window.<br />
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But books are absent from that picture.<br />
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They're not part of the economics of survival. They're not a feature of the vibrant informal pavement trade. Yet, here is the story of a man who lives hand-to-mouth, who takes his stack of books to grubby city intersections around Johannesburg and peddles reviews and books through car windows. A simple act of survival with stories as his tools, that suddenly becomes so much more...<br />
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<br />Nicole Rimensbergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01921144424599438690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745079365410569259.post-50074365867421168402016-04-05T22:22:00.000+02:002016-04-05T22:22:50.805+02:00What do children want to read?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Children and stories and reading go together. I like seeing a pile of books next to the kid's bed, or finding her asleep, her hand still resting on a current favourite, or tripping over them on the carpet, or seeing them piled on the coffee table.<br />
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But sadly this seems to be the exception. Children don't read anymore or, at best, don't read enough. We hear this repeated throughout the various loops of educational circles. The remedy it seems, is more regimented reading programmes and carefully manufactured books. However, Jack <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Relentless-Progress-Reconfiguration-Literature-Storytelling/dp/0415990645" target="_blank">Zipes,</a> expert on the fairy tale and critic of Disney, argues that our response to this decline in reading among children and young people is based on "misreading" the situation. This misreading has resulted in the state, its education departments and the publishing industry ushering in an array of reading programmes and an unhealthy quantity of books without substance.<br />
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His is an interesting argument that challenges the response to the reading crisis and one that cautions us about the direction these interventions have taken. In particular he takes to task national reading surveys (for example the National Endowment for the Arts in the USA which looks at the decline in reading for pleasure) for not discussing the quality of books that are being manufactured for young people. He points out that we are simply looking at a skeleton of numbers.<br />
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I'm particularly interested in the questions Zipes asks, those questions that the skeleton remains mute on: "What is a book for children? How are children exposed to reading materials and taught to use them? What are the diverse socio-cultural contexts in which children read? Do other media complement the reading of books? Hasn't the screen replaced the book to produce multimodal reading? Why read what we read, and do we have a choice? What role does social class, race, and gender play in learning how to read?" (2009:31).<br />
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So what should children be reading? I've written about my disappointment with what is on offer in most toy stores in South Africa <a href="http://hellotypewriter.blogspot.co.za/2013/10/once-upon-time-books-were-entertaining.html" target="_blank">before</a>, with the narrowing of literature to easy-to-sell products. When it comes to access to books the range is incredibly limited, which doesn't do much for answering the question of what children should be reading.<br />
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Zipes takes Disney to task for making the book a product that is pushed onto children. The Disney approach moves seamlessly from movie to book to toy to CD. Disney artifacts are everywhere and the stories are lost somewhere among them. Tinkerbell is appropriated and repackaged and lost to J.M. Barrie. Cinderella and Belle and Snow White are transformed into two dimensional shadows of their former selves and children loose touch with the roots of those old stories.<br />
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Zipes states, "One might argue that the example of Disney is not typical of the book publishing industry for children. But that is not true. The impetus to produce books that will replicate themselves, books to produce films that replicate the books, films to produce books to replicate the films, books that will sell books of the same category - this impetus can be found throughout the industry. As far as the publishers are concerned, books are to be manufactured to sell other books, and in the process, the tastes and values of children are to be molded to suit the tastes and values of the culture industry en large, for a book is no longer a single commodity but closely connected if not intertwined with other similar products. If children are to read, they are basically encouraged to consume more and more of the same."<br />
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I'm a bit torn on this one. Part of me says read... just read... anything that takes your fancy... it's okay to just wander. Another part wants to direct, to map, to plan out the journey of the reader. More of the same might be comfortingly familiar, particularly to the developing reader, but in order to grow we have to try new things... pick up that unfamiliar story not associated to a familiar TV character or the well-worn spin-off from a movie.<br />
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That is where the problem lies and Zipes' argument is that the book as commodity can't solve our reading crisis, that in fact, if anything, it deepens it. </div>
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Nicole Rimensbergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01921144424599438690noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7745079365410569259.post-65267186889736624332016-02-06T08:38:00.002+02:002016-02-07T09:43:24.857+02:00It's February<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's February. Days clamoring hot, sitting too close and intimate in the week; one day melting into the next. The whirring of aircons is a constant, like some mechanical breath. A temporary coolness. Beyond its reach the air, moist and soupy, condenses on your skin. Slippery. Damp. It's the month of moisture, where nothing ever feels really dry. We prevail, as everyone must, with daily tasks, punctuating them by dipping in and out the cool circle of our plastic pool: after breakfast, before school, after grocery shopping, before work, after cooking, before sleep. On hot afternoons, we watch from the veranda the air thickening with the promise of a storm. All too frequently clouds of clenched fists hold spitefully onto the rain. Thunder grumbles, no relief comes. We wait...<br />
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Over the last couple of weeks, I've had to acknowledge a dip in my productivity. This blog has become a somewhat silent place. I'd like to blame February (my accusation is that it's too hot to think). Writing, like most end-of-the-day tasks, gets neglected, and finally ignored.<br />
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But of course it's not really February. It's not the heat or the sapped energy.<br />
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It's the reality of living and working and mothering. It's a finite amount of time sliced thin. It's the lived modality of the "musts" before the "would like to's". So, instead of feeling constantly defeated by it, I have decided to post less often here. I'm sure I will get to the "would like to's" again soon, but for now there'll have to be a pause. <br />
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Dear readers, thank you for your support and kind words so far. I hope that you do stick around for posts that emerge sporadically, spontaneously, as and when there's a moment to spare!<br />
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<br />Nicole Rimensbergerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01921144424599438690noreply@blogger.com6