Storytelling as Commodity: The Antipodes A Cultural Critique. Annie Baker’s 2018 play The Antipodes delivers a clever critique on creative industries and the commercialisation of storytelling. It is not surprising that as the market value of storytelling industries like film, TV, theatre, and publishing grows, stories are increasingly tailored to fit audience expectations. We have […]
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It’s in here – this dark cavity of my palm,where invisible Venus is suspendedin a perceptive night. Wrapped in skin.Not her own, but her own too sitscloser to her sobs, her heart-throbs.Among us, peaking in, we have weaponsof earthly materials, ready to dashtowards the next bellow from a God.We seek new platforms, beyond the skinthat
When Divinity Shows Up Read More »
And the kitchen in my final stateis on the move again like an imagein a catalogueAnd I think I’m getting used to the painof the initial separation and the changefrom us to IAnd I try on the third life for sizeand when the fourth doesn’t fitI see that nothing willAnd I realise it’s a dead
In Sunday school, the student asks the teacher how old he will be in heaven. The teacher tells him to pray for the answer. The student is nine years old and leaves class for the last time.There’s a sense of something liminal in certain coffeepots. They’re old and systemic in their design and can be
in a spotlight on the dock divinity through cloudsI’ve stood and watchedher fumbling to steerthe boat ashore my voice –the thunder keeps her stillas if she’s not even tryingto get away from over there way over thereshe trips overboardswims through the coldsea of indecision she floatsin limbo and disappearsI can’t help but notice how it’s
Years later when I stumble into a café in Finland,I halt by the coffee station and grab a fistful ofmy mother’s sleeve, Listen to the song! I shout.What? – she jumps – Is going on? And I cannotexplain why my head is turned to the ceiling fan –eyes wide open, letting the showers of an
The roads are closing again for the night and my aunt sighs into her tea. Another snowstorm is coming. The boats are tied down to the quay in a spiderweb of ropes. I’m restless to get out and feel as though it somehow relates to me. A bit of imagination is welcomed. My friend calls
Nothing Bad Happens Read More »
When you call your mother, what should we do? you’re not looking for the meaning itselfbut for what there’s left without it. You’ve finished Camus and the chamomile tea –you feel a revolution or a metaphorical suicide. When you go for a walk, there’s wind to notice –which you do. A book is torn to
Does it Mean Anything? Read More »
A small boy on a gigantic blue bicycle rush past us. I spot him from the woods, where my two younger cousins and I have been sent to fill buckets with cloudberries – summers have become laboursome, after we became adults. The boy’s legs are stretched, and his toes strain to push the weight of
we speed along through valleys and steep hillsthe driver determinedto put us back where we belong butI did not agree to be shoved alonghis path of Carpe Diemhis time schedule speeds tires tiredspeeds rubber and asphalthe drives on while I’m at the station negotiatingprices of one life-time guaranteed friendshipover another and I cannot resist the
Time Is a Taxi Driver Read More »