I’m in the library attempting to finalise a grant application, which is a foolish waste of time if you ask me, but I committed to doing it quite by accident after turning up at a non-existent consultation session which ended in a long phone call and several headaches. The maths is the hard part. Who the hell decided that a poem is worth 0.4 short stories? Anyway I suspect it is one of those things I have to learn how to do if I’m to succeed in denuding myself of normal responsibilities, so I’m inching through it.
When Nathan lived on the same street as the Australia Council we used to walk past at dawn, on the way back from some mad binge. We'd bang on the glass doors and ask the cleaner for a grant. He always smiled and said yes, of course. We had to read his lips over the noise of the vacuum cleaner.
Writing opportunities are floating around in unexpected places, as usual. The claypans launch of shifting ground was rained out by an abrupt electrical storm, which turned the evening into a picturesque, muddy delight, and nearly drowned the microphone. Instead I read a story at the other launch at the desert park – a great night of interesting and diverse performances. Driving home I realised I was being followed by the other black EH. There is (I think) a silent camaraderie between us. I would like to meet whoever owns it, but in a way I prefer the silent encounters, the raised hand above the wheel, the oddly formal intimacy. Car culture is interesting.
We went camping (me, Texta, Sherwood and 47) on Saturday night to Hugh River, where it also rained unexpectedly, which only improved the flavour and robustness of several cups-o-tea. I got happily whiskey drunk - singing drunk - and swam in the ice-cold water, somehow less chilling at 1am with several drams of jameson’s in my system. There was lots of beautiful pink grass. The dog stepped on the banjo. Some dingos came right into our camp. I saw a crane and some possibly-geese, and felt very sad about leaving this beautiful country.
Yes, it is still there: a powerful emotional reaction to this place, which is nothing like belonging. Driving out west there is a place just past Mt Gillen where I always feel the aches of town drop away behind me, and a sudden weightlessness, something close to love. What the fuck am I doing in the desert? On paper, it seems ridiculous. But there are times when Alice feels like the most exciting, beautiful place in the world, a great conspiracy. Don’t tell anyone.
What the fuck am I leaving for? Well, going to Melbourne in a week and a half for the emerging writers' festival and then to Sydney for a visit. Still intending to take off up north over winter, because it gets too cold here. But I am pretty sure I will come back to Alice before too long. This is not goodbye. Meanwhile, I am wandering around a little stunned from one art event to another, dripping with premature nostalgia, non-specific homesickness, and a little bit of actual rain.
It's not all weepy sentiment though. I've been racking up some notoriety before I leave, including disturbing the peace at Pauline Hanson’s book launch (you have to scroll down to get to the article – the AS News website is ultra low-fi). I hope she enjoys reading that story about the queer girl who gets beaten up by rednecks.
When Nathan lived on the same street as the Australia Council we used to walk past at dawn, on the way back from some mad binge. We'd bang on the glass doors and ask the cleaner for a grant. He always smiled and said yes, of course. We had to read his lips over the noise of the vacuum cleaner.
Writing opportunities are floating around in unexpected places, as usual. The claypans launch of shifting ground was rained out by an abrupt electrical storm, which turned the evening into a picturesque, muddy delight, and nearly drowned the microphone. Instead I read a story at the other launch at the desert park – a great night of interesting and diverse performances. Driving home I realised I was being followed by the other black EH. There is (I think) a silent camaraderie between us. I would like to meet whoever owns it, but in a way I prefer the silent encounters, the raised hand above the wheel, the oddly formal intimacy. Car culture is interesting.
We went camping (me, Texta, Sherwood and 47) on Saturday night to Hugh River, where it also rained unexpectedly, which only improved the flavour and robustness of several cups-o-tea. I got happily whiskey drunk - singing drunk - and swam in the ice-cold water, somehow less chilling at 1am with several drams of jameson’s in my system. There was lots of beautiful pink grass. The dog stepped on the banjo. Some dingos came right into our camp. I saw a crane and some possibly-geese, and felt very sad about leaving this beautiful country.
Yes, it is still there: a powerful emotional reaction to this place, which is nothing like belonging. Driving out west there is a place just past Mt Gillen where I always feel the aches of town drop away behind me, and a sudden weightlessness, something close to love. What the fuck am I doing in the desert? On paper, it seems ridiculous. But there are times when Alice feels like the most exciting, beautiful place in the world, a great conspiracy. Don’t tell anyone.
What the fuck am I leaving for? Well, going to Melbourne in a week and a half for the emerging writers' festival and then to Sydney for a visit. Still intending to take off up north over winter, because it gets too cold here. But I am pretty sure I will come back to Alice before too long. This is not goodbye. Meanwhile, I am wandering around a little stunned from one art event to another, dripping with premature nostalgia, non-specific homesickness, and a little bit of actual rain.
It's not all weepy sentiment though. I've been racking up some notoriety before I leave, including disturbing the peace at Pauline Hanson’s book launch (you have to scroll down to get to the article – the AS News website is ultra low-fi). I hope she enjoys reading that story about the queer girl who gets beaten up by rednecks.
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2 Comments:
Hi jen
happy to share the mike with you any time. and yes, it was a bizarre room. i always build these things up in my head and the reality is always completely different. hope to catch you again.
and good luck reading those stars
nathan
Thanks for writing this.
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