|This account contains my modeling.|
|And my writing.|
Enjoy. I love creating it all.
Delays on the Sandringham LineI grumbled with the rest when they announced it: delays on the Sandringham line. They said someone had died and I believed them. I stopped grumbling and felt the familiar guilt settle into my chest. That guilt you feel when you cry over a chipped iPhone screen and then remember starving Kenyans.Delays on the Sandringham Line by Halohid
When they said that the body on the track was mine, I believed them. My mouth filled with cotton wool. I blinked very hard at the world, memorising its curves; the exact texture of chewing gum under foot; the way the oily air shimmered, rising off the hot surface of the road; the glint of the sun on the glistening train tracks, snaking off to infinity.
They said, ‘I don’t know why I’m doing this.’
They said, ‘I wasn’t expecting you to answer.’
They said, ‘Muscle memory.’
They said, ‘I guess I’m just in shock.’
I said the feeling was mutual.
They asked what happened and I couldn’t answer. ‘Guess it
What he sawI keep thinking about the bike riderWhat he saw by Halohid
The one who rode past the night we kissed on the street corner
I never mentioned this before
I didn’t want to admit that I was kissing with my eyes open
I was trying to live that moment to the fullest
My sensorial memory
Places that kiss on a summer night
It sets the light at dusk
The temperature in the high twenties
The pavement as cooling
My sensorial memory exposes skin
A strapless dress perhaps
A light shirt
Out of character for us both but
That’s what my memory says
My calendar says different
It places that kiss in mid-winter
We were both tipsy so dusk was long gone
My fingers remember the greasy film of sunscreen
My memory is
Not to be trusted
But I believe in the bike rider
I felt him pass with every inch of my skin
Every guilty eyelash shifted with his breeze
I wanted to run after him
To stop the spinning wheels and demand
Could you tell?
One day in the future, not too far away, we will have GPS dots. Buy them in bulk. Put them on anything worth more than a few dollars. Your phone. Your laptop. Your keys. Your dog.
Log in and find out where they are. Locate your missing keys. Follow your laptop through the streets of Melbourne on the back seat of a thief's car. From your work computer, watch your dog, a little blue dot, leap the fence and wander down the street. As you run to your office door, turn back and see the blue dot meet the line that is Punt Road and stop moving.
You drive, fighting back tears and checking your phone but it doesn't move again. When you arrive your dot becomes your dog and your dog becomes your dead dog and you take him home and you bury him in the garden and you move house and you get a cat and, in time, she dies in your arms and you bury her under the peach tree in your Northcote share-house and pets come and go and so do you, one suburb to the next until the city is crisscrossed with your movements and the suburbs pulse with your little blue dots, now buried underground. They blink like satellites beneath sixty centimeters of dirt, from the roots of gnarled peach trees: a map of grief and joy and guilt and anti-histamines and unconditional love that you carry in your pocket forever.
Today scientists are trying to grow you a new heart. And a new liver. A kidney. A lung. They observe the future under a microscope. A future in which, when you are suffering – when you need a new body part – they will take some of your cells and grow what you need: organs, created for your biological specifications.
What will these future people think of us when they hear that we once waited for strangers to die so that we could fill our desperate bodies with parts of theirs? That we died waiting for others to die because the grim reaper could not keep up with our demand? Will they think us barbaric, for craving that motorbike crash or that life support button being flicked? Or will they hear of the fathers signing over their son's organs and swell with pride that someone, in the depths of their grief, would save the life of another child? I think they will twist their minds inside out, trying to comprehend a memorial service for a man whose heart beats on in a different chest; anniversaries passing as that heart hammers away. In history class, I think they will turn to each other and pose the question: cells die and re-generate so when does a heart stop being my child's and start being yours?
Oh we who stagger about in this dark, terrible past, what brave creatures we must be. Saints and martyrs and warriors all.
I grew up in the driest state in the driest continent in the world and yet my neighbour still watered her concrete driveway every night in summer. I suppose she must have found it soothing; her and the hose and the hot night air. |
But this is no way to introduce myself.
I am a theatre director, award-winning playwright and chronic story-teller. I'm a scruffy red-haired hippy and full-time artist. I was a photographer first, then a model and then a photographer again. I shoot self-portraits, am a prolific playwright and theatre-maker and a passionate loud mouth about politics, humane treatment of refugees, gun control, sexual freedom, LGBT youth and mental health. In 2013 I will be completing my Masters of Performance Writing at the Victorian College of the Arts, where I previously undertook Post-Grad studies in theatre direction. Because this is the main part of my work, I post here less than I used to but I love your company here on DA.
I tell stories to anyone who will linger long enough to hear.
Note: I don't tolerate sexist or demeaning comments and will probably mock you publicly if you leave sexually explicate comments. I take my art seriously.
Current Residence: Melbourne, Australia
Favourite photographer: Eckyducky, AlexanderB
Favourite style of art: Contemporary theatre
Personal Quote: 'Keep Left and be considerate' Australian road rules but I think it applies to all manner of things.