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.

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

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