Text Thursday: Get Caught Out in the Sydney Theatre to Inspire Men in Bangkok.

Now I’m just getting ridiculous

FYI, the level of stupidity displayed in my titles is directly proportionate to how much sleep I’ve had. You’re all doomed.

First thing’s first. Congratulations to my American followers on #Obama2012.

Congrats on four more years of common sense and reason. Image courtesy of Obama’s twitter page, which I’ve already linked so lemme alone.

I can’t help wondering how MENA/Asia/any-where-else-in-the-world feels about both the outcome and the fact that the west never seems to pay as much attention to their elections as they do to the American ones.

Moving on. Ok onto some quick food for thought.

The SMH ran an article yesterday by Aviva Truffield entitled How to Inspire Men to Read Books by Women addressing some of the concerns people have about ‘women only’ writing contests.

She raises some interesting points. Image courtesy of SMH.

I’ll be interested to know what my femme followers think about the credibility and implications of gender exclusive literary competitions. Helpful or Harmful?

In other news, Travel Blackboard ran an article on Tuesday about Bangkok’s first literary festival.

Featuring 100 authors from around the globe including Australia’s very own Matthew Condon, it represents a step in the right direction for literary circles worldwide.

Image courtesy of Random House Books Australia.

Matthew Condon, in addition to campaigning for literary prizes, edits the Courier Mail. If you don’t believe me, check out his twitter page – @MatthewCondon2. I wouldn’t lie to you, honest.

Moving on.

More for Australian peeps (sorry non-Aus followers, I’ll post non-Aus relevant prizes soon I promise).

Entries for the Sydney Theatre Company’s Patrick White Playwright’s Award and fellowship closes TOMORROW. If you’re over 18 and have a full length unproduced play just lying around, get off your butt and enter. There’s a total prize pool of $35,500 to be had. Plus there’s a picture of Patrick White staring you down, I don’t know about you but that makes me want to enter, if only to avoid his posthumous judgement.

Now I have to get out of my pajamas and get ready for my day job do lots of important artistic things so I’m going to leave you to get Caught Out with the ABC’s 500 word story competition.

I’m not really sure if you win anything but hey, you can submit your 500 word masterpiece and feel chuffed when they feature it on their website. And this early in the morning that’s good enough for me.

Plus there’s a picture of someone in plaid looking shocked. You know that’s a good sign. November’s theme is Someone who shaped me. So get to it minions!


Table-Talk Tuesday: ‘Golden Hour’, fat lips and the meaning of life.

Sunday Afternoon.

– Fireworks.

I overheard the meaning of life
on the 8:09

I wrote the meaning
of life on a fifty
I swapped

the fifty for change
and a pink grapefruit

whoever you are
I want you to know
that grapefruit was shit

golden skinned, brown inside
mottled pink as bruised lip

I sincerely hope you are better
with philosophy
than you are with grapefruits.

Flowers with fat lips.

Table-Talk Tuesday: Nuns, Pixlr Purn, and Baba Yaga.

It is in these moments that cats dream of world domination.

A Moment with the Nun.

On Sunday I met some nuns and their friend, a woman in a fluffy pink coat.

“You really should have a tip jar, you silly little girl” said the woman in the pink coat.

I smiled, lips thin as a shoelace.

The tiny nun at her side looked at me and rolled her eyes.

Galaxy fabric on the train.
Rhubarb – the exhibitionist vegetable.

Just so we’re Crystal Clear

She’s going for new age but looking more Baba Yaga with every visit.

She wore a chain of bells around her hips. She sounded like a sleigh as she hobbled towards me.

“Remember what I told you about the crystal?” she said.

“I remember.”

She pushes up her insect-eye sunglasses and squints at me expectantly.

“Never touch another person’s crystal.” I said.

“That’s right darling. It’s for your own good. Bad energies.” she said, her eyes half lidded.

“That’s right.” I nodded.

“Can we bring our beers in here?” she said, curling her bony hand around a schooner.

Lonely Trees hold each other and reach their hands to the clouds.
Ew – overcast.



Lining up the wood on the block

he’s a decent size, matured, a pale shade.

The axe swings her high arc, wedges silver

into the centre. He rocks open, his ant-black

heart dribbles pincers onto her feet, shock

shakes them off. Later in the fuel stove

his wine sap heats and hisses his defeat.

First published in Voiceworks, no. 83, Summer 2010-2011.