I live on the very edge of the hem of Melbourne’s hilly outskirts where I write essays, short stories and political commentary. Here’s my portfolio.

My great grandfather was an oak tree. I have died and been reborn eleventy-three times. I would rather eat a small piece of my own poo than watch Married at First Sight or be a public relations journalist. I am thirsty for the we, for the end of capitalism, and for the wholeness of everything – the way of seeing that is so hard to come by now but which exists in poetry and nature and the underused right hemisphere of our brains.

If that sounds pretentious to you, you might not enjoy my company. I’m sick of making myself smaller to earn your favour. I think every human is a multitude forced to live in a mono-crop. Everybody is big enough that they contain multitudes. I love the mystical and the anarcho-syndicalist all at once. I’m not interested in reducing myself to fit. Neither should you do such a disservice to yourself. There’s too many boring people in the world already.

I’m blogging again (sometimes). I’ve missed the joy that comes from just writing, without worrying about submitting it somewhere and having it rejected. Also, some stupid romantic notion about it being more mine than any piece I craft into an edible piece of production for the capitalist deadzone. This is why I am poor. Still, more blogging, less Facebook, is making me 34% less mentally decrepit.