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.
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.
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 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
Hollowed out, I am scraped clean with a steel spoon, seeds and pulpy excess in jars and these little monsters, sitting neatly in a row. Here: tentacles and spongy parts, crocodile eyes and a soft belly. There: a gelatinous membrane covers writhing organs and a quiet, beating heart. I learn anew each time: that… Continue reading Muse
These frosty June nights are biting. They numb my fingers and turn my lips blue. I drink mug after mug of hot water, wrap myself in shawls and scarves and sit at my desk with a heat pack slid under my thighs, trying to ward off the inertia that comes from icy skin and viscid… Continue reading Halcyon days
I struggled a lot this year. I worked really hard and have come so close ? if not crossed over ??to burnout on a number of occasions. I have been depressed and exhausted, anxious and upset more than is healthy, and it?s possible I have been this way for longer than I am comfortable acknowledging… Continue reading For posterity’s sake
I?ve been a bit low lately. I?ve had knee problems since the half-marathon and for a few weeks I didn?t run at all. Even my bicycle seemed to be constantly in for repair, which meant hideous train rides to and from work every day. I got sick. Then I got sick again. The Melbourne Writers… Continue reading In pursuit of a political argument for exercise
I used to hate running. I hated it like I hated mornings, or sitting down to start an essay. The threat of dawn invoked dread. Impending deadlines made me want to curl up on myself, clutch at my knees, like a caterpillar being poked in the belly. And putting on my running shoes, stepping out… Continue reading One foot in front of the other
A golden autumn morning breaks through leafless branches. The chainlink fences that flank the railway tracks gleam as the sun rises behind them. The footpaths wear mantles of brown and red leaves. My fingers are cold and only seem to get colder as I type. I piece together a couple of paragraphs from the scraps… Continue reading 7:15