Mildew on the whiteness of Hölderlin

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When the ships become water nymphs

Poetry Swans that are almost swans, sharp-tongued fruits, mocking sheep farmers whose faces grow woollen, dancers at the bush-doof manic to their portable generators – changes come swift...

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Cinema

Poetry I cry in the cinema Or not cry So hard that my head aches with the holding back Not in the film When those beside me weep Manipulated by...

FictionWriting took almost everything from me. Most afternoons, I’d arrive home from teaching classrooms of uninterested students, have a little Henry time, defrost a ready-to-eat supermarket meal, open a bottle of shiraz and write until midnight. Most weekends, I’d start writing once the hangover wore off, break for lunch, and then write again until dinner. It wasn’t just punishing on my physical health, it ruined my relationships, most recently with Greg, who said I’d die miserable and alone if I maintained my grim routine. And for what? The occasional acceptance from an obscure journal read by twelve other short-story writers?

The sentimentalist

In ConversationI’ve positioned myself as somebody who’s constantly going through the trash of yesteryear with my raccoon paws and saying, ‘Wasn’t it grand?’ I think it’s more that I’m drawn to things I misunderstood rather than things that are just old, and I’m also interested in diagnosing the culture through what we loved, what we made and what we despised. It’s becoming much more clear to me the older I get.