A creative reflection on growing up a Queer, Jewish woman of colour in Sydney, Australia. Originally written and performed for FOJAM Festival.
See the original performance of the story here or scroll down to read. Or both. Why not?
My mother always cooked by colour
and I should have known then how important it would prove to be.
But I didn’t.
When she cooked, she’d lean over the pot in the kitchen and breathe in the rising steam, eyes wide open. She’d stir, inspecting the pot and turn around suddenly and say
IT NEEDS ORANGE.
Carrots. Pumpkin maybe.
This story was written in 30 minutes using the prompts ‘mirror’, ‘radio’, and ‘old’.
The door swings shut- gently, because of the special springs they put in to prevent the doors slamming. They think loud noises will agitate us. Or that we won't get through the doorway fast enough and get knocked over and break our hips.
I’m still sitting in my chair, and I can hear their footsteps disappearing down the hall. I always stay in my chair for a while after they leave, breathing in their smells, eyeing the imprint on the other armchair. …
I’m sure, by now, everyone has an idea of what’s going on. Many of us are working from home if we can, choosing to stay home as much as possible, or in quarantine or lockdown.
I’ve seen an explosion of articles about how to cope with staying at home:
How to cope with being at home with your partner 24/7.
How to work from home.
How to work out from home.
How to be more productive.
How to be less productive.
How to accept being more/less productive.
It’s a difficult time for everybody, especially people who have never freelanced…
The sum structure of your younger self’s pastimes are encircled in Diamond Bay, the geography of the park manifesting the self-imposed social hierarchy of the Saturday gang.
Here, the damp rock wall separating parkland and sidewalk, where you tied your skipping ropes together and abseiled down. Scraping your knees and palms one at a time, her first, then you, then them. In that order, you played at danger.
In that order, you played at danger.
Face the crumbly stones and ignore the tree with the sharp bark, ten paces diagonal over your left shoulder lies the clump of bushes you…
I often joke that I like to shock my Nonna (bless her cynical soul) by telling her I take my clothes off for money, but the truth of it is life modelling is totally non-sexy work.
As of writing this in February 2020, I’ve been life modelling for approaching 7 years. In that time, I’ve modelled for countless sketch clubs, oil paintings, portraiture, sculpture, tattoo artists, even movement pieces and as part of a duo.
I know what I’m doing, and many (many) of my friends have come to me over the years asking for tips and advice on how…
It started out as a joke on LinkedIn. John Espirian had posted something about best practice naming conventions, and I joined in with a joke about how I learned my lesson back in my uni days when i submitted ‘Psych-Essay-Final-Final.doc’ instead of ‘Psych-Essay-Final-Actually-This-Time-Though-I-Promise.doc’.
One thing lead to another, and I solemnly vowed to produce a short story told entirely through document titles, coffee orders, and email subject lines. If you work in a creative industry or in-house at an agency, this is for you.
Oat milk flat white, no sugar You have mail: Client brief
ThisBiz_WebCopy_About Page_Internal Feedback…
It’s every in-between hour when the grey light softens the edges between things and the world becomes more malleable.
It’s dawn. it’s dusk,
we’re lying outside on the grass and you’re speaking
your words are tripping and fluttering from your teeth and tongue and lips like a stream of flower petals
they’re tumbling and falling into the space between us but still soft,
such soft velvet vowels I want to reach out and
Through my shirt I can feel the hard-packed dirt,
softened by rain and steam and my own body heat.
I can feel…