I spend a lot of time trying to remember how to write. I fiddle about at my desk, cleaning the keyboard or attempting to neaten the piles of paper that started off in some kind of order (tax receipts; to read; to shred) and are now somehow comprised of books and art supplies and paper bags and receipts. I used to worry that I never had any ideas, and any that I did have were essentially derivative. It was a symptom of fatigue, I think.
Some books bother me for reasons I struggle to articulate, and I sit there poised between turning the page or throwing the thing away entirely so as to avoid having to undergo the restlessness it inspires. Charlotte Bront??s Villette is one of those books.
The new National Program for Excellence in the Arts guidelines state that it will not fund individual artists. The funds with which it has been created have been cut directly from programs in the Australia Council that did. This is a direct loss to individual artists at all stages of their careers, and will result in the creation of less art, less accomplished art, and less representative art from across the community.
It happened months ago and I had not heard?the funeral had been and gone?and I was struck by a terrifying kind of vertigo. I could have told you what an old backpacker-dorm acquaintance in England had for breakfast that morning but not that a person with whom I had shared uncountable drinks, smokes, cars, music, ideas, weekends, good times, had found life so unbearable that he struck it violently from himself.
I?spent last weekend by the ocean, reading books, drinking wine, taking long walks along the shoreline and listening to the moody waves rumble against the rocks. We often think of the Great Ocean Road in terms of its beach towns ? Torquay, Lorne, Apollo Bay ? or by the natural sculptures towards which the tourist… Continue reading On writing and guilt
Gone Girl is an MRA?s wet dream. Look, I enjoyed much of the novel. Gillian Flynn writes a highly?readable?sentence, and the text is a masterclass in the use of the unreliable narrator. I enjoyed David Fincher?s film interpretation of it, too, even though I already knew where its plot twists would lead. Watching it?on the… Continue reading Gone Girl
The signing of the new refugee resettlement contract between Australia and Cambodia last week had all the makings of a political farce. Before the gathered dignitaries were able to toast the new arrangements, a full tray of champagne flutes crashed to the floor. Morrison and Cambodia?s Interior Minister Sar Kheng clinked lonely glasses amid growing… Continue reading On the rise of Scott Morrison
Some nights I lie in bed half asleep, listening to the chattering in my own head. Different sets of voices overlap one another, as if I?m standing in line at the bank or the supermarket checkout queue as crowds of people bustle around me, relaying to each other their anecdotes and grievances and the details… Continue reading Fixing
I remember: The sharp stink of campfires and the tang of eucalyptus and pine. The crunch of shoes on gravel in the dark. Rain on a canvas roof. The sound of nearby water, and the way it changed the feel of the air. I was taller than the boys, mostly. Taller, heavier, thighs and hips… Continue reading Late night
I have to come clean about something. Not because I think it?s unique, or exciting or brave to fess up. I don?t think the result will make particularly good reading, and I certainly don?t think any of it needs to be public knowledge. If anything, I?m writing about it simply because I?m sick of sleeping… Continue reading The Chicken Project