EMANDA PERCIVAL

Arrived at Can Serrat this morning. As content as I am to be out of the city again, as everyone before me ever has I wonder, how is this going to go? To start this book and integrate the diary of Ida Pfeiffer smoothly, the heading of each chapter or stage will be from sections of her own words.

Today I don't want to write anything. I've met with the foolish notion of the outside world intruding on this space. Which goes towards proving space is created as much by mental arraignment as it is by physical arrangement. I hear the traffic more, am annoyed by mosquitoes more, am less hopeful for this project. Yet it is a switch within me that has flipped. Tomorrow will be different again. Feeling trapped by the confines of words on a page.

Loading the pack-horses is a business of some difficulty, and is conducted in the following manner: sundry pieces of dried turf are laid upon the horse's back, but not fastened; over these is buckled a round piece of wood, furnished with two or three pegs. To these pegs the chests and packages are suspended. If the weight is not quite equally balanced, it is necessary to stop and repack frequently, for the whole load at once gets askew. ...every moment something was wrong.

Iceland becomes wild quickly, the houses and towns sink like toys left in the garden when grass grows up around them. They are part of the landscape but they do not appear to adjust it. Even Reykjavik ends abruptly in mountains, ocean and wild flowers. There is so little rubbish left to litter the land that a drink bottle and a cigarette butt were glaring obvious as I road along (I picked them up).

...a fat, dead bird overflowing the clamped jaws of her dark grey and cream tufted head. In millisecond thoughts I went from carnivorous sheep, to maybe not a sheep until I finally registered it was an arctic fox. I stared, she stared, I thought about my camera and instantly discarded the idea, she thought what the hell are you, dropped the bird – it didn’t jump up and fly away – and sprinted off over the humps and mounds of black and green earth cloaked with silver-grey, rain-soaked clouds.

A little more abstract than original ideas. Possibly notes and her diary sections filled with observations and photos and stories. A mishmash book. Allows other women to be introduced along with other elements, even articles…am I thinking like a magazine set out? No, a more experimental style of writing than I've used before. What if I start by writing these bits and pieces and then see how it fits together, adjusting the format and style to suit the work and the story (story and the work).

I'm typing up notes from my diaries and I think how dull, I know my own story, but as I re-read it becomes continuously apparent I don't. I only know the big, brash. brush-strokes of it.

Time here has slowed to the speed of childhood, where days last the perfect amount and are filled like a water balloon pushing out its skin until it is close to bursting. Is this the elixir of life? The mystical unknown that has been sought for centuries? It is not that my time is purposefully filled with forced actions, or that I am checking off lists of must do's. Yet I am doing, creating, enjoying and filling every moment completely without effort; and I am producing more than I ever have.

Words go in, words come out. Adjectives become noxious weeds for a day. Sections get moved and shuffled, trying to find the sense of balance. Everything goes up like a six year old learning to juggle. Slowly, slowly, a shape is forming. One I may throw away tomorrow when I attempt my first reading, or maybe, just maybe, I'll find myself on the right path. If not I go back to gardening.

I have finished the first two chapters, ready for editing in a day or two when I am a little more detached. To celebrate I rode around in a camera obscura, was inspired, and subsequently wrote a short story in three hours. The first presentation of my work with reading has also been held. Feedback was positive but I always find it difficult to trust in positive feedback, preferring a tempered approach so it can lead to improvement. However the discussion that came of the reading was lively.

My process seems no different from anyone else's and maybe that's why we read them, to reassure ourselves that although we may strive for individuality we don't want to be too far from our own kind, our humanness. So I will include also the lesser elements of my process: my eyes burn from the screen time, I do things out of my skill set to release i.e. painting, yet I still want to be perfect at them, I want brutal feedback so I can stop doubting the positive, mosquitoes are a bane to focus.

What a day. My knee held up well, but I was wet within 20 minutes and leaking water within 40 minutes. By the time I turned off for coffee in Strandarkirkja my shoes were filled. I had my own portable puddles. Owner and daughter of the cafe marvelled at my wetness - marvelled in Iceland equals: hearty look, nod of head, slight smile, 'you're wet'. Humour here is somewhat similar to Australia's. We all watched as another mountain-biker pulled in and entered in much the same state as I had...

I didn’t stay warm and my exhaustion was not enough to keep me sleeping as my body temperature dropped, just exhausted enough to make it feel as if I was dragging myself out of my grave to put more clothes on. My concern about my sleeping bags’ insufficiency is realised, regardless of how many people assured me on no evidence it would suffice. I ended the night curled so closely into the fetal position I could have refit in the womb.

The reality seems to be that regardless of how much I feel I am on the right path for me in my creative life, I am required to split myself and walk two roads. One to live in society, pay rent, feed myself. The other to step towards the fulfilment of my soul. As much as I am enjoying the journey, somedays I can not wait until these paths cross and join and I can be less torn and my energies allowed to focus completely on where they want to go.

A couple of nights ago we held the monthly Open Studio where artists present their work of the residency. For my writing we made a loop recording of one section in English and translated the written format into Spanish. Visitors were naturally more drawn to visual art, with the language barrier it was easier to contemplate, discuss and enjoy. This has given me a new idea of how to present my writing in public situations, thoughts are brewing and I'm looking forward to testing it out when cooked.

Officially it is over, but I take so much away: a finished first two chapters and know where the rest are heading; two written and completed unplanned short stories; a designed and exhibited performance art piece; my beginning in painting; a new idea for words. Mostly here I've grown solid as an artist, I am less fearful of the fact I want to write, less worried of the disappointments this causes those I love. This is my road to explore. I will be back here, I only live 45 minutes away.

I am suffering from post residency confusion. Society, noise, need for a new way of earning, socialisation without possible escape. People, new people, more people. It is fabulous in its way. Tiring. Inspiring. I look forward to returning to Canserrat next weekend to visit new friends and breathe. A small hiatus from this site while I gather my marbles but next week I will post some of what I have written over the past month.

It strikes me as I am busy working to pay for my writing time, that I have no space for writing. The twisted irony. This raises a question or an observation that the busier we occupy ourselves the less free our creativity. Do we stifle our self expression on purpose? The quandary remains for me working to pay for words that I hope will pay for themselves when I have more time to work on them.