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.

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

Things I do not want to talk about at parties

This is the worst thing. This dry mouth belly tumbling soul sucking can?t tell if I?m breathing. People say the art of conversation is dead. That we don?t know how to connect any more. That our relationships have devolved into farce and fancy, as though the rules of engagement are tempered by deliberate pantomime and… Continue reading Things I do not want to talk about at parties

You might have noticed…

I’ve recently started blogging at Overland Literary Journal. In case you don’t frequent their blog regularly, here’s a link to my most recent offering on the past, present and perception of the small community of Woorabinda: ‘Canine Country’.

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Categorized as Writing Tagged

The itch

1. The bugs have been biting my legs since I got to Brisbane. I douse myself in insect repellent, swat them away, slap them, swear at them, beg them to stop, but still they bite. I wake up in the morning with little red welts peppering my legs. 2. There is frangipani in the garden,… Continue reading The itch