The anaesthetic nurse, with her calmbedside manner, talks me throughthe panic of having to stay in linefor the oncoming whiteout.Seven engines rev up in a metallic choir.I breathe, two inhales at a time, syncedwith the arctic blizzard hummingagainst the glass.From the backseat, she whispersencouragements, sedating mewith an artificial confidence.Soothing, recognisedlike the preschool teacher when I […]
Some people make writing look so sexy, especially when advertising their tortured-poet-personas online. But writing, when you’re in the trenches of duty, when you’re watching golden hours slip by, when you’re awaiting a dreaded phone call, is nothing more than one pained hour of resistance after another. It goes against every structure of obligation. It’s
Scent is prime and primitive. A form of time travelling.I used to be a teenager, prime and proper, sweat-fearing,rule-abiding, God-loving. Without a will. Belonging tothem. The most radical discovery: the butler in DinnerFor One dabbing the whisky he’s serving onto his neck.Hot, warm, drunken, macho. Or the vanilla and tobacco-scented hair oil in the cabinet,
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I woke up to seven missed calls at 1pm. This is how I usually operate, minus the calls. I fell asleep late, or rather, collapsed into sleep like I’d been sedated by an entity. Something had a hold of me last night. I was possessed by an opportunist, a monk, and a hungry spider. The
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
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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