I live on the very edge of the hem of Melbourne’s hilly outskirts. I used to love to write essays, short stories and political commentary and if I can reach some sort of stability from within the Great Motherfuckery I’ll love it again.
Living in Australia means I am drowning in a 1cm wide cultural discourse that runs centre-to-far-right these days, some portions of which think themselves more radical than they are. A sea of creepy refusal to see the machine. The “left” wing is pro-imperialism with a spicy topnote of synthetic leftism, unquestioning authoritarianism and class ignorance. A pox on both their houses. Our last original thought was in 1994. We don’t even know who we are beholden to. We think as soon as we can get Labor back in it’ll be fine. Straya.
Like Rachel Carson, I think living with a sense of awe is a radical act. It’s hard in the end-of-capitalism fire sale but still it seeps in sideways.
Here’s stuff I’ve written, from online and in print.
Discombobula 