I got a little pissed last evening. The label said ‘Vote Responsibly’, a fundraiser. The frozen fish and chips were cooking in the oven, yes, I know the contradiction there. Dancing to Nina Simone, in a way that disturbed the cat, unused to a show of less inhibition. Still, I sang along as best I could, a little hop here and there. I realised I don’t know any fish. A deep hypocrisy overcame me.
The Child in Me
The day Sydney’s COVID numbers broke 600, I booked in for a week-13 structural ultrasound. Becoming pregnant during New South Wales’s COVID-19 pandemic has been a struggle. Weeks on end of lockdown, without hope of seeing family or friends, removed from the world as much as possible. The heaviness of lockdown sits deep inside the body, a weight carried in the bones. Sitting also in my body is a strange, emerging life, one that I had never imagined hosting.
Exposure
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A Steady Gamble
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On Getting a Diagnosis
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Relaxation Techniques at the Adelphi Hotel
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On Grieving the Blue of the Sky
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Eye Contact
Outside my kitchen window, beyond the chicken-wire fence, two ravens hopped about under a lightning-struck eucalyptus tree, circling one another with blackened twigs jutting out of their beaks like they were children playing at swords. In Norse mythology, Odin, king of the gods, would send a pair of ravens to Earth, their names Huginn (thought) and Muninn (memory), here to spy on us humans and report back.
The Butterthigh Effect
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The Red Soil Road
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Joy
The ocean smells of a layer of wet sand that has dried in the night, that cracks and buckles under bare feet. It smells of blood that’s drawn from walking too close to a sharp coastal grass. The ocean smells of a blast of cold air that tightens the skin, of salt-caked lips, of the slap of tarmac on the drive home. But, more literally, I’m told it smells of sulfuric seaweed and crushed shells and microscopic bacteria and fresh wind. Whatever that means. For decades, I have known those smells only through mimicry. I have read them in other […]
Home
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