(Re-reading old entries, I'm re-posting this favourite.As the metred piano scales start up, I'm transported back to the port town of Fremantle, my spiritual home. Wandering down the concrete footpaths, steaming morning coffee, eggs and hot Italian pizza smells waft through the air as cheerful chatter echoes off the alfresco umbrellas. The man ( Read more... )

I should be stronger than weeping alone
You should be weaker than sending me home

These two lines haunt me. Continuously.

(One of the best descriptions of a cultured dinner party that I've ever read.)"'Wait-' called Howard after him. He was gone ( Read more... )

As seen on the second page of the travelling tips my father printed off and bolded for me:
Laughing loudly, for whatever reason, counts in Indonesia as the symptom of a mental disorder.

It was under my aunty and uncle's cloth pergola with a bowl of polenta in front of me, where I watched the conversation and noticed the difference ( Read more... )

When the glass staff entrance door slides open, you step into musty air faintly smelling like cardboard. There is complete stillness down the dark corridor, shadows sliding up the walls. Climbing the stairs, there is only the sound of your footsteps. The books, the computers, the huge first floor sleeps quietly. The silence is spellbinding, eerie ( Read more... )

This journal is now friends only.

If you like the examples of my writing below, please comment and ye shall be added.

Cheerio.

Edit: If you can read my friends-locked posts, you're already on my friends list.

I remember the poverty. Sleeping on a bare mattress on the floor in an empty room at my father's new house, like a young squatter. There were flattened cardboard boxes under the mattress, which I used to draw on with little sticks of coloured chalk. Practicing writing my name in three languages, drawing flowers and trees. When the chalk went down ( Read more... )

My mother is on the other side of the world,
my lover is on the other side of the country,
my father is on the other side of the city,
my cat is on the other side of the house,
and I am on the other side of myself.

She leaned forward a little and the neckline of her black top moved slightly down and to the right, revealing a soft wart or a dermal bubble of some kind. For a moment I thought it was a quirky misplaced nipple, romanticising what was only an accidental biological bump ( Read more... )