Recently I had a conversation about depression and killing time: what it looks like now, in the age of the internet and all its fringe benefits. When I want to kill time I become so concerned with the how that I plunge headlong into a gluey kind of idle that is self-aware, that manifests as: hours sitting cross-legged at the foot of my bed, looking at the wall and holding onto a book like a toddler and their one soggy corn flake. I am weighing out the most efficient way to do nothing. Recently I had a conversation about depression […]
When my American partner is overseas, her side of the bed tends to become a bureau, an odds-and-ends bowl, and a library (sometimes also a snack cupboard). Books press against me like a body pillow, not because it’s comfortable, but because my reading habits change. They keep stranger and longer hours. They ask for greater, perhaps distracting discontinuity between genres and styles and narratives. They ask, in short, for a lot of courtesies, unsustainable courtesies, and I grant them. Omar Sakr’s first poetry collection, These Wild Houses, impressed me with the range and vulnerability of its lyric voice—at times prophetic, […]
Sunday, noon: I’m sitting with friends beneath a huge old mulberry tree, its green providing us with shade. The suffocating haze of bushfire smoke which had been blanketing Sydney is mercifully absent, enabling this picturesque moment: a Christmas lunch between three couples, one with a newborn, the other with a baby only a year old lolling about on the grass, and lastly, myself and my partner. They’re all eating ham, I’m eating lamb cooked apart. My phone buzzes, and I look down at an email from a stranger titled ‘Head in the Sand’, accusing myself and all Arab Muslims of […]
I DON’T READ MUCH. A friend sent me a book SO MUCH LONGING IN SO LITTLE SPACE The Art of Edvard Munch Knausgaard (the writer) says… ‘Munch was around 50 years old when he painted the cabbage field. There is a longing in this painting…a longing to disappear and become one with the world’. I got to page 35, I passed the pain barrier, in other words, I’m hooked. A friend sent me HEIDE Pi.O. Pi.O. is a legendary figure in the Australian poetry scene. He was born in Greece and brought up in Fitzroy. I met Pi.O. at a […]
I have not read William Golding’s novel Lord of the Flies, a text many meet in high school literature class. Despite this, I thought I knew the plot through cultural reference. There was that Simpsons episode, where the Springfield yellow school bus goes off route and sees the kids stranded on a deserted island.
My boys think it’s uncool to get a lift home from school. They’d rather be on the bus with the others, standing in the aisle with their earphones in one ear and their school bags over one shoulder. Sometimes they try to walk home but I’m worried they’ll hurt their backs, carrying all those books.
I consider myself somebody who watches a lot of reality television. Married at First Sight was once my chosen poison, and it is exactly as it sounds: a juicy social ‘experiment’ where, according to objective compatibility standards, two individuals are coupled, only to meet for the first time at the altar.
A reworking of Ezra Pound’s ‘Salutation’ for the 21st Century
O generation of the absolutely online
And absolutely connected,
I have seen fisherpeople on YouTube,
I have seen them with their unreliable internet,