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.
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
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
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
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
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’.
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