A Study in the Art of Revolution II

When I was five, Dean B?? bullied me for my freckles. It?s my first memory of primary school. I was self-conscious about the way my skin looked for years afterwards. The comments didn?t stop as I got older, either. I remember being 13 and walking out of Middle Brighton train station in summer in a… Continue reading A Study in the Art of Revolution II

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

An eddy and the undertow

I have perfected the art of the 24-hour lament. If you can call it a lament. An expulsion. Catharsis. A moment of reflection before the purge. I let you into my body momentarily, now I am pushing you out again. Before that: I found precisely eleven post-it notes in my copy of Virginia Woolf?s To… Continue reading An eddy and the undertow