The hard part

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.

Eulogy for youth

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.

Muse

  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

In pursuit of a political argument for exercise

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