I am a miner, sifting through the silt of the mental dump of creative ideas, books, magazine articles, paintings and photographs and staged performances, digging into the morass of travels, conversations, jobs, and dreams. Most days turn up little more than ore, which is put on the page, eventually to be smelted into a bar … Continue reading The work of writing
Breaking
Despondence arrives with spotting on the roof. Warm rain falls on the paddocks, to Grow feed for the cattle, as Hope drips warm into water. Spreading tendrils, sinking clots. Iron falls heavy With the rhythm on the tin. Metallic, rusted, and running. New moon, same loss, A failure to keep it within. The sky drops … Continue reading Breaking
Writing dust
My memories are stacked cheek by jowl in the back of my mind. All of the interesting places I've been, all of the different lives I've seen, all of the cultures I've learned about, smells, tastes, music, smiles, ideologies. The different expressions I've seen and danced, the embraces, the kisses, the hardships and luxuries have … Continue reading Writing dust
Expressing anger
I wish I had another way to express myself when I'm angry. Writing intellectualises it, and I want a more primal expression of my rage. I want to scream with creation, splash my anger across a canvas, rip and tear and shred and end up with a representation of how pissed off I am. I … Continue reading Expressing anger
Tiananmen Square
In 1989, my father wrote a letter to the Chinese Ambassador to Australia, a man I had previously met over spicy jellyfish during a banquet he hosted in my father’s honour. Dear Sir,Having recently witnessed the heartbroken tears of my sixteen-year-old daughter I am compelled to write to you to condemn, in the strongest terms, … Continue reading Tiananmen Square
The body as memory
My body knows it has memory, of pristine lines in brightly lit dance studios, floors speckled with rosin and grit, smelling of pine, hairspray, sweat. Clean things. Bright things. Moving with easy memory of millions of plies at the barre, in the centre, in preparation for every movement, catching the end of every step, jump, … Continue reading The body as memory
Twenty Cents Extra
Big bloke with a hat cries in the sun Beating down on his paddock of dust His mate, he had said, would have taken his gun Shot himself in the head cause he can’t earn a crust Mother nature has spoken, we can’t change her mind She’s the one who’s in charge … Continue reading Twenty Cents Extra
Lunch in Noumea
The Tourism Expo at the Tjibaou Cultural Centre was full of Noumena people hungry to purchase deals to New Caledonia’s attractions, but with a week and a goal for my trip of umbrella drinks and rest, I purchased a discount voucher for a treatment at the spa at my hotel, and made my way through … Continue reading Lunch in Noumea
The scarf
Safaa pressed an aghabani scarf to her face as she sobs, hiding. Her sister had bought her the scarf as a farewell gift the last time they had visited the souk together. Some of the silk flowers were unraveling, red and blue stitches busted through days of wringing it tightly while reading the international section … Continue reading The scarf
Worm farm
With less caution than I should have had, I opened the lid. The food scraps I had collected for my new worm farm had putrefied. A layer of maggots writhed in a heaving mass on top of the sweet-smelling brown liquid. Juveniles of various creatures crawled over the maggots and scurried up the sides of … Continue reading Worm farm
Sarah Bonnar 