Memo to myself
10.15 am Monday
To: Robert Dax, Managing Director, Real Life
Investments
From: Robert Dax,
Strategic Planner, Real Life Investments & Subsidiaries
Subject: Meaning
Robert used to have five staff, but a combination of
economic recession, bad management on his part and plain tough luck had
whittled them down to three, then one and a half and now, finally, only Robert
himself. He had a temp come in one day a week to do some typing and the one day
a week's worth of jobs he couldn't bring himself to tackle. Apart from that it
was himself alone against the world.
Subject: Meaning.
Robert Dax sat at his desk and thought.‘You know Robert, sometimes I wonder what you do in that place.’ Helen Angel was a long-term acquaintance, someone Robert had known for six years and only sometimes slept with - that is when his de facto wife, Nicolle, wasn't looking, had gone away or was asleep. In fact, he thought fondly, it was highly appropriate, given that his office desk was the centre of his universe, of his professional, business and personal life, that he and Helen had twisted and turned on this very desk one night not so long ago in their relationship.
‘I do very little. I worry about debtors and creditors. I worry about cash flow. I worry about the future. But I do little.’
Thinking about Helen Angel made him suddenly want to speak to her. He dialled her number.
‘Hi, you've rung the number of Helen Angel. Sorry I can't take your call right now but I'm out trying to make ends meet so I can continue to exist as a worthwhile human being without lapsing into prostitution or marketing. Why don't you take a deep breath, go off and do whatever you most like doing and ring me back sometime later, when I'm here and you're there and we can try to establish some vague sort of communication suitable to the late 20th Century. Bye.’
Robert held the phone receiver out from his ear as he heard Helen's message. He really wanted to speak to Helen Angel, he really wanted to tell her just how much he liked her. But - he couldn't. He could leave a message on her answering machine, he could painfully dictate a memo to her paging service - but he couldn't speak to her. It mildly annoyed him, but he knew he would cope.
She obviously hadn't been home. If she had been home the message on her answering machine would have changed, since she changed the message on her answering machine every time she came home. Robert sighed.
Debtors and creditors
9.32 am Tuesday. Every morning, as soon as he arrived at work, Robert would go up to the post office, open the mail box and pull out the motley bundle of mail that Fate had decreed should land at Real Life Investments that day, day one of the next 365 days that made up the year. He often wondered why a year involved 365 days. But it was a question that he realised was too hard. And, like all too hard questions he avoided it. As long as he could.
If the cheques were more than a thousand dollars, things looked temporarily rosy. If they were only hundreds of dollars - or worse, tens of dollars - life was tough and it would be hell on the phone for the rest of the day.
Trapped in the everyday
11.12 am Tuesday. Robert had got into a habit, whenever anyone rang about debts. His habit consisted of saying ‘You must speak to Joanna about that, she's in charge of Accounts.’ Joanna was his temp who came in for one day a week, when he could afford her. The advantage of this was that, if someone rang and asked for Joanna, he knew immediately that they were ringing about an unpaid bill. So he would say.
Questions & answers
3.20 pm Tuesday
P.S. As I explained over the phone after your very polite call, I am sorry that it has taken me three months to answer this questionnaire, but I have been too busy opening letters demanding payment (while hoping they are letters offering payment) to reply.
Cash flow
9.15 am Wednesday. As soon as he arrived at work Robert opened, as he did every morning, the mail he had picked up from the box at the post office. He sorted everything into a series of piles with a fixed look of concentration on his face:
Sometimes, when Robert was feeling thoughtful, he reflected that he was the end of a very long chain of bounced cheques, a foodchain of cashflow. The customers of his customers could not (or did not) pay them so his customers could not pay him so he could not pay his suppliers so their overdrafts blossomed so they began legal action against him or stopped supply so everyone was part of an economy contracting faster than a Black Hole - a world where the pull of economic gravity was so strong that even light could not escape.
Sex and other people
3:09 pm Wednesday. Robert and Helen Angel had been having an affair on and off for six years. When they started, they slept together in her single bed, since she had no other. At least they did whenever Robert could sneak away from his de facto wife Nicolle.
‘Under a picture of her mother, for God's sake. We do it under a picture of her mother. She has it hanging above the bed.’
Bertrand nodded. They were sitting in Robert's office in Balmain. Bertrand mentioned that he thought Robert was being a bit critical, given that he was sleeping with Helen behind Nicolle's back.
‘You're hardly in a position to complain. Perhaps she's close to her mother. That's seems to be a better bet than being close to you.’ Robert hated Bertrand's cynical judgements. After all he was really in no position to judge.
Bertrand was really good at maths. Basic maths, the sort that helped you work out who voted for what, how much a favour would cost and what you got out of it all. He'd come from the left of the Australian Labor Party, had found it all too much and had steadily drifted towards the centre and then the right as surely as flotsam drifts towards the shore.
9.32 am Tuesday. Every morning, as soon as he arrived at work, Robert would go up to the post office, open the mail box and pull out the motley bundle of mail that Fate had decreed should land at Real Life Investments that day, day one of the next 365 days that made up the year. He often wondered why a year involved 365 days. But it was a question that he realised was too hard. And, like all too hard questions he avoided it. As long as he could.
He walked back down to the office, furtively opening the
mail, scrabbling through the mixture of promotional offers, reminders of debt,
surveys from the Bureau of Statistics and account balances from the bank so
that he could extract the cheques, such as they were.
Trapped in the everyday
11.12 am Tuesday. Robert had got into a habit, whenever anyone rang about debts. His habit consisted of saying ‘You must speak to Joanna about that, she's in charge of Accounts.’ Joanna was his temp who came in for one day a week, when he could afford her. The advantage of this was that, if someone rang and asked for Joanna, he knew immediately that they were ringing about an unpaid bill. So he would say.
‘Sorry, Joanna is out at lunch (bad at 10 in the morning,
better around 12.30). Please ring back in an hour or so. Sorry I can't help
you, you have to speak to Accounts.’
If cornered or if they refused to accept the ‘Ring Joanna’
line, or worst of all, if they insisted on speaking directly to him, he said
‘Look, I can't pay anything this week. I'm expecting a number of big cheques
next week. I'll have a cheques mailed out to you by next Friday.’
‘Give us a ring when they come in and we'll send a courier
around.’
He hated that. The pressure was enormous.Questions & answers
3.20 pm Tuesday
Response to: Australian
Bureau of Statistics Survey on Small Business
From: Robert Dax,
Strategic Planner, Real Life Investments & Subsidiaries
I feel this survey should more accurately be called the
Survey of Very Small (and Getting Smaller) Business. In answer to your very
pertinent questions:
Staff: 1
Tax paid last week:
None, because no income
Cash flow
9.15 am Wednesday. As soon as he arrived at work Robert opened, as he did every morning, the mail he had picked up from the box at the post office. He sorted everything into a series of piles with a fixed look of concentration on his face:
a. Cheques (there were three this morning - if extrapolated
over the whole week not quite enough to cover his pay this coming Friday)
b. Bills
c. Letters offering to sell him something
d. Final notices (more serious than bills)
e. Legal notices (far more serious than bills)
f. Threats of death (far too serious to contemplate)
g. Notification of dishonoured cheques on his part
h. Notification of dishonoured cheques on the part of others
Sex and other people
3:09 pm Wednesday. Robert and Helen Angel had been having an affair on and off for six years. When they started, they slept together in her single bed, since she had no other. At least they did whenever Robert could sneak away from his de facto wife Nicolle.
‘Under a picture of her mother, for God's sake. We do it under a picture of her mother. She has it hanging above the bed.’
Bertrand nodded. They were sitting in Robert's office in Balmain. Bertrand mentioned that he thought Robert was being a bit critical, given that he was sleeping with Helen behind Nicolle's back.
‘You're hardly in a position to complain. Perhaps she's close to her mother. That's seems to be a better bet than being close to you.’ Robert hated Bertrand's cynical judgements. After all he was really in no position to judge.
Bertrand was really good at maths. Basic maths, the sort that helped you work out who voted for what, how much a favour would cost and what you got out of it all. He'd come from the left of the Australian Labor Party, had found it all too much and had steadily drifted towards the centre and then the right as surely as flotsam drifts towards the shore.
As a result of his involvement in the Party numbers game he'd become so good at figures that he'd gone on to become a brilliant, if somewhat dubious, accountant. He filled in as Robert's accountant on the side, when he wasn't in the pub with his old or new cronies. His main job, however, was as a credit card sales manager, with a commission and a bright, new, well-lit office in Parramatta. He often mentioned that he had a career in credit cards yawning in front of him.
One lingering advantage of his origins in the left, and subsequent move towards the right was his ability to, chameleon-like, adapt to whatever political environment he was in at any given moment. He liked to drop comments about running his consultancy business ‘according to socialist principles’, especially when mixing with the right people.
Bertrand was as thin as a greyhound. And as hungry. And thirsty. Still, his gums were playing up. He could taste blood in his mouth. It reminded him all-too-sharply of his mortality.
Salesmen with a Purpose
7.02 am Thursday. Over the last few years success, money and achievement had become the watchwords of a new era in Robert's life. He tried hard to be a success. He taped hand-lettered notes to his dashboard saying ‘I am a winner’ and he would sit and look at them intently whenever his car was stopped at traffic lights - a regular occurrence in Sydney.
Robert was convinced he believed in achievement. He was a sort-of ardent member of SWAP - Salesmen With a Purpose - and he religiously attended most of their breakfast meetings, stirring his cooling coffee at 7.00 am in the Hilton Hotel in George Street in the City while he picked at croissants and plates of fruit and listened to tepid speakers read their quote of the month and talk about selling the sizzle not the sausage.
SWAP cells had spread rapidly around the country in the late 80s and each chapter held regular meetings. These all started at 7 am, so that only real achievers would attend, thereby filtering out the riff-raff.
The early morning meeting began with someone being selected by the President at the podium to lead everyone in the SWAP warmup. The selected member encouraged everyone to stand as they went into the serious SWAP rituals.
Then they all sang the national anthem. After the singing had finished, everyone sat again and then went round the room, with each person in turn standing and introducing themselves and reading a motivational quote, usually related to selling something to someone, usually similar in style to, if not directly copied from, the pithy quotes offered by desk calendars as one flipped the pages each day.
‘Don't sell the sausage, sell the sizzle.’ offered one participant, for what seemed like the millionth time since Robert had started attending these gatherings. He was beginning to wish someone would come up with some fresh inspirational quotes for a change. At this time in the morning all he could think about was food. He thought ruefully that he'd happily take the sausage - forget about the sizzle.
Then everyone tucked into the food and coffee while they listened politely to a motivational and inspirational speaker. Following this, everyone was invited by the President to clear the chairs from the back so there would be room for everyone to network and exchange business cards. People would start marching towards the back of the room, crushing anything in their path, chanting.
‘Network, network, network’.
Robert remembered how, at one of his early SWAP meetings, he had been introduced to Bertrand, and had recognised him as a kindred spirit, someone who shared his ardent desire to make money, and lots of it. Robert had held out his hand, firmly and decisively, as was expected at SWAP meetings as Bertrand spoke.
‘Let me give you my card. Oh, sorry, I haven't got any at the moment. They're at the printers. Should be back soon. I think we paid him last month, or was it the month before? Oh well. Let me give you someone else's card - they just gave it to me, and I'll write my details on it.’
Robert glanced down at the scribbled card in his hand. He remembered the conversation, as Bertrand talked to him about the forthcoming Making Money Easily Conference at Darling Harbour.
Bertrand, too, knew that he had business to transact and deals to close with Robert Dax. He decided then and there to contact his potential business partner again.
Belief for the modern world
11:07 am Thursday. Bertrand was sitting with Robert Dax in his soon-to-be-repossessed office in Balmain. He had rung Robert using his mobile phone to impress him, and arranged a meeting to discuss, as he described it over the phone, a lucrative proposition of mutual benefit.
‘You want to set up a religion.’
‘Why not? There's always room for a new religion. Religion is in.’
‘So you want to go from managing credit cards, to managing souls. I suppose, if you manage credit cards, you own people - soul and all. It seems like a logical step. I like it. Count me in.’
They started with a marketing campaign.
‘Let's see. With our credit cards we always say something along the lines of “Own more, for less”. What about “Ring the Direct Line to God - Join the Revivalist Church of the Wholesome Life - phone this number for further information or send your credit card details to PO box - we'll need a PO box”’.
‘That'll cost money, but there's a nice ring to it’.
‘I know, we'll get a 0055 line. People can ring and we'll have a long message full of inspirational thoughts, including where to send their credit card details’.
‘Sheer brilliance’.
After an arduous session of planning, they stopped for a breather. Robert started to talk to Bertrand about Helen and the way she had been behaving strangely with him lately, not returning his calls and missing appointments they had made. Then he thought better of it. Bertrand was not the person. He thought to himself, for some reason he couldn't fathom, ‘Unlucky in love, lucky at cards’. He nodded and moved on to the next item on the agenda.
‘What about a direct mail campaign?’
In search of unreliable facts
5:11 pm Thursday. ‘How do you know that this table exists?’ demanded Bertrand with a serious air. ‘No, let's start with something simple. How do you know that these relationships exist? How do you even know that the women who you are in the relationships with exist? Answer that one’
Robert looked at Bertrand, sighed, made a derogatory sign at him and ran a comb through his hair.
‘Bertrand, you are nuts.’
‘Is that how you sum up four hundred years of Western philosophy? Where's your inquisitive nature?’
‘I only have an acquisitive nature.’
‘And where's it got you. Only into trouble.’
‘I have serious matters on my mind.’
Robert snorted.
‘I think I can find other people to take me seriously.’
‘Like all the women you're seeing.’
‘There are only two.’
‘Yes, but one you've lived with for eight years. Why don't you tell her about Helen?’
‘I can't. It's all about incremental matters. Do you remember that character in Crime and Punishment, the one who kills the old woman with the axe. He describes what happens and it's always stuck in my mind. The first blow is to kill her. Then the next one is to wipe out the first blow and then on and on. It's exactly the same with not telling someone something you should. Once you don't, it gets harder each moment that passes, bit by bit.’
The Research Process
7:18 pm Thursday. The climb up the steps to the battered flat was slow and Robert had to stop for a rest on the way up. The cigarettes were getting to him, he thought. He'd have to do something about them. Probably sooner rather than later, was his second thought.
He stopped and flicked through the folder he was carrying. It was a thick notebook, foolscap size, bound in red with pages filled with a fine scrappy handwriting. Robert was keeping a dossier on Nicolle. He had decided years ago to start listing all her shortcomings, all the occasions where she did something wrong or didn't do something right, for use as evidence against her later on.
This particular trip was part of the research process. He was on his way to Helen's flat to see her. They'd writhe on the floor of her lounge-room or in her big double bed for an hour, he'd explain to her Nicolle's exasperating habits and weaknesses and then he'd go home. Helen would be full of semen and unhappiness. He'd be full of self-righteousness and satisfaction. It was a mutually fulfilling relationship.
Dossier of discontent by Robert Dax
7.22 pm Thursday. Robert ran over the contents of the dossier in his mind. He had some very good examples:
Robert stopped. He had finally reached the flat he wanted. He knocked loudly on the door.
Work in the present tense
9.32 am Monday. Robert dropped heavily into his seat, leaned on his desk and started to open the mail. There wasn't much today and the walk back from the post office had been a bit depressing, as he contemplated how few cheques could be in a pile of mail this small. He walked out to the tiny kitchen to make a cup of tea, squeezing past the cheap fax he had managed to borrow from an old acquaintance. It was one of those faxes that had no blade so, no matter how long the faxed message was, it ran on in one long scroll.
One lingering advantage of his origins in the left, and subsequent move towards the right was his ability to, chameleon-like, adapt to whatever political environment he was in at any given moment. He liked to drop comments about running his consultancy business ‘according to socialist principles’, especially when mixing with the right people.
Bertrand was as thin as a greyhound. And as hungry. And thirsty. Still, his gums were playing up. He could taste blood in his mouth. It reminded him all-too-sharply of his mortality.
Salesmen with a Purpose
7.02 am Thursday. Over the last few years success, money and achievement had become the watchwords of a new era in Robert's life. He tried hard to be a success. He taped hand-lettered notes to his dashboard saying ‘I am a winner’ and he would sit and look at them intently whenever his car was stopped at traffic lights - a regular occurrence in Sydney.
Robert was convinced he believed in achievement. He was a sort-of ardent member of SWAP - Salesmen With a Purpose - and he religiously attended most of their breakfast meetings, stirring his cooling coffee at 7.00 am in the Hilton Hotel in George Street in the City while he picked at croissants and plates of fruit and listened to tepid speakers read their quote of the month and talk about selling the sizzle not the sausage.
SWAP cells had spread rapidly around the country in the late 80s and each chapter held regular meetings. These all started at 7 am, so that only real achievers would attend, thereby filtering out the riff-raff.
The early morning meeting began with someone being selected by the President at the podium to lead everyone in the SWAP warmup. The selected member encouraged everyone to stand as they went into the serious SWAP rituals.
‘Feel good, feel great, glad to be alive.’
Everyone chanted in unison three times.
Then they all sang the national anthem. After the singing had finished, everyone sat again and then went round the room, with each person in turn standing and introducing themselves and reading a motivational quote, usually related to selling something to someone, usually similar in style to, if not directly copied from, the pithy quotes offered by desk calendars as one flipped the pages each day.
‘Don't sell the sausage, sell the sizzle.’ offered one participant, for what seemed like the millionth time since Robert had started attending these gatherings. He was beginning to wish someone would come up with some fresh inspirational quotes for a change. At this time in the morning all he could think about was food. He thought ruefully that he'd happily take the sausage - forget about the sizzle.
Then everyone tucked into the food and coffee while they listened politely to a motivational and inspirational speaker. Following this, everyone was invited by the President to clear the chairs from the back so there would be room for everyone to network and exchange business cards. People would start marching towards the back of the room, crushing anything in their path, chanting.
‘Network, network, network’.
Robert remembered how, at one of his early SWAP meetings, he had been introduced to Bertrand, and had recognised him as a kindred spirit, someone who shared his ardent desire to make money, and lots of it. Robert had held out his hand, firmly and decisively, as was expected at SWAP meetings as Bertrand spoke.
‘Let me give you my card. Oh, sorry, I haven't got any at the moment. They're at the printers. Should be back soon. I think we paid him last month, or was it the month before? Oh well. Let me give you someone else's card - they just gave it to me, and I'll write my details on it.’
Robert glanced down at the scribbled card in his hand. He remembered the conversation, as Bertrand talked to him about the forthcoming Making Money Easily Conference at Darling Harbour.
Bertrand, too, knew that he had business to transact and deals to close with Robert Dax. He decided then and there to contact his potential business partner again.
Belief for the modern world
11:07 am Thursday. Bertrand was sitting with Robert Dax in his soon-to-be-repossessed office in Balmain. He had rung Robert using his mobile phone to impress him, and arranged a meeting to discuss, as he described it over the phone, a lucrative proposition of mutual benefit.
‘You want to set up a religion.’
‘Why not? There's always room for a new religion. Religion is in.’
‘So you want to go from managing credit cards, to managing souls. I suppose, if you manage credit cards, you own people - soul and all. It seems like a logical step. I like it. Count me in.’
They started with a marketing campaign.
‘Let's see. With our credit cards we always say something along the lines of “Own more, for less”. What about “Ring the Direct Line to God - Join the Revivalist Church of the Wholesome Life - phone this number for further information or send your credit card details to PO box - we'll need a PO box”’.
‘That'll cost money, but there's a nice ring to it’.
‘I know, we'll get a 0055 line. People can ring and we'll have a long message full of inspirational thoughts, including where to send their credit card details’.
‘Sheer brilliance’.
After an arduous session of planning, they stopped for a breather. Robert started to talk to Bertrand about Helen and the way she had been behaving strangely with him lately, not returning his calls and missing appointments they had made. Then he thought better of it. Bertrand was not the person. He thought to himself, for some reason he couldn't fathom, ‘Unlucky in love, lucky at cards’. He nodded and moved on to the next item on the agenda.
‘What about a direct mail campaign?’
In search of unreliable facts
5:11 pm Thursday. ‘How do you know that this table exists?’ demanded Bertrand with a serious air. ‘No, let's start with something simple. How do you know that these relationships exist? How do you even know that the women who you are in the relationships with exist? Answer that one’
‘Bertrand, you are nuts.’
‘Is that how you sum up four hundred years of Western philosophy? Where's your inquisitive nature?’
‘I only have an acquisitive nature.’
‘And where's it got you. Only into trouble.’
‘I have serious matters on my mind.’
Robert snorted.
‘I think I can find other people to take me seriously.’
‘Like all the women you're seeing.’
‘There are only two.’
‘Yes, but one you've lived with for eight years. Why don't you tell her about Helen?’
‘I can't. It's all about incremental matters. Do you remember that character in Crime and Punishment, the one who kills the old woman with the axe. He describes what happens and it's always stuck in my mind. The first blow is to kill her. Then the next one is to wipe out the first blow and then on and on. It's exactly the same with not telling someone something you should. Once you don't, it gets harder each moment that passes, bit by bit.’
The Research Process
7:18 pm Thursday. The climb up the steps to the battered flat was slow and Robert had to stop for a rest on the way up. The cigarettes were getting to him, he thought. He'd have to do something about them. Probably sooner rather than later, was his second thought.
He stopped and flicked through the folder he was carrying. It was a thick notebook, foolscap size, bound in red with pages filled with a fine scrappy handwriting. Robert was keeping a dossier on Nicolle. He had decided years ago to start listing all her shortcomings, all the occasions where she did something wrong or didn't do something right, for use as evidence against her later on.
This particular trip was part of the research process. He was on his way to Helen's flat to see her. They'd writhe on the floor of her lounge-room or in her big double bed for an hour, he'd explain to her Nicolle's exasperating habits and weaknesses and then he'd go home. Helen would be full of semen and unhappiness. He'd be full of self-righteousness and satisfaction. It was a mutually fulfilling relationship.
Dossier of discontent by Robert Dax
7.22 pm Thursday. Robert ran over the contents of the dossier in his mind. He had some very good examples:
March
11: Went out with friends. Didn't come home until 2 am. Left her clothes all
over the bedroom floor, where they stayed for a week.
March
14: Borrowed my pens and didn't give them back despite numerous reminders.
April
27: Forgot to pay gas bill when she had specifically promised to. Also left
dishes in sink for whole week.
Work in the present tense
9.32 am Monday. Robert dropped heavily into his seat, leaned on his desk and started to open the mail. There wasn't much today and the walk back from the post office had been a bit depressing, as he contemplated how few cheques could be in a pile of mail this small. He walked out to the tiny kitchen to make a cup of tea, squeezing past the cheap fax he had managed to borrow from an old acquaintance. It was one of those faxes that had no blade so, no matter how long the faxed message was, it ran on in one long scroll.
He cursed. The fax paper tumbled down the side of the
cupboard from the machine and stretched out across the floor. He bent and
picked up the beginning of the roll and started. It was a fax from Nicolle,
full of closely written detail, headed:
What's Wrong with Robert Dax
and Why I am Leaving Him
He read it, skimming the details, afraid to read too much.
He cringed. He read to the end, then ripped it out of the fax machine, crumpled
it into a ball and threw it across the room. He staggered back to his beloved
desk in shock. He looked at his tiny office, then down at the top of his desk,
as he had done every morning for years.
Poking out from the slim bundle of mail was a postcard.
Postcards were unusual, especially from sunny, cheery places, elsewhere in the
world. He brightened a bit.
It was from Helen. In Los Angeles!! He hadn't heard from her
in days and he had decided not to ring her - she could ring him for a change.
He read the card intently, wondering what she was up to.
‘Hi, I'm having a great time - finally. Go to hell (but ring
me first!).’ She had written down her home number in Sydney as her contact number. Confused, Robert picked up the
receiver. Still holding the postcard in his hand, he quickly dialled her
number, waiting impatiently while the phone rang, imagining the dark wooden
floors in the hallway where the phone sat on a small ornate table with a lace
cloth.
‘Hi, you've rung the number of Helen Angel. Sorry I can't
take your call right now but I'm on a plane to Los Angeles. I'm leaving because
I'm sick of wasting my time. Robert Dax is a complete bastard who has been
cheating on his girlfriend Nicolle for 12 years.... with me. Bye.’
© Stephen Cassidy, 1994
© Stephen Cassidy, 1994
Shortlisted, HQ magazine story contest, 1994.
Commended, Bauhinia Literary Awards, 2003.
For more information about the author see Writing biography.
See also
State of origin
Multimedia piece developed with visual artist, Deborah Faeyrglenn, State of origin looked at where we come from, where we go next and where we truly belong. In this work the writer and visual artist combined word, image and computer technology to make visual music. Words and images moved across the computer screen, with no fixed address, State of origin.
The lost art of conversation
Installation, developed with visual artist, Deborah Faeyrglenn, on words, meaning, reflection and infinite (or at least, partial) regression. Three tall thin vertical mirrors stand against the wall, covered in bursts of words. Three matching paper shadows flow out from the wall along the floor. Words on the mirrors flutter and blur into shadows, The lost art of conversation.
balloon
A fictional narrative work in the form of a website, the website as writing. About the adventures of a refugee from the big city who sets up the High Country Thought Balloon Company. A series of brief vignettes about the characters, situations and stories which intersect the path of the balloons as they soar across the skies of the Southern Tablelands and Snowy region. It is about changing perspective, balloon.
Malacoota Inlet
‘Shutdown in a flat, wet land, the line beween sea and sky where grey meets grey, where stricken yachts come in’, Malacoota Inlet.
Sitting on twigs
‘Sitting on twigs in the flat lands, in a piece of country loaded with meaning, like a tightly coiled spring’, Sitting on twigs.
Signature of water
A series of artworks as part of the Waterworks exhibition at Goulburn Regional Art Gallery responding to the shared task of facing up to life on our dry continent. It ranged from short, minimalist animations, using cartoons, to hyperfiction drawing on the styles of crime novels. It was a mix of poetry, storytelling, images and sounds which were heavily influenced by the styles of popular culture and the urban and rural landscapes around us, Signature of water.
For more information about the author see Writing biography.
See also
I smoke baby cigars
‘Smoking baby cigars in the dark of the backyard. Like some Cuban presidente haranguing the crowd with reminders, I proffer a list of romantic anniversaries, our May 4th movement, our July 12th uprising – our moment when everything became new’, I smoke baby cigars.
Cut back to black
‘Cut back to black, thin chill drizzle mid-winter – infinite regression on petrol’. Also called ‘Revhead heaven’, Cut back to black.
Coming back to these stones
‘Coming back to these stones – in the sandy dry reaches of the Coorong in South Australia’s South East birds flicker across the flat water like beads of run-away mercury’, Coming back to these stones.
Landscapes in a rear vision mirror
‘Heading at a moment's notice into Broken Hill, breaking several traffic laws on the Barrier Highway, in the rear vision mirror the land kept switching colours’, Landscapes in a rear vision mirror.
Stopping by Lake George
‘Lake George is a vast stretching freshwater lake, with no outlet. It is only diminished by evaporation. Many stories are told about Lake George, a still point of the turning earth, with all the quiet of the eye at the centre of a hurricane’, Stopping by Lake George.See other work from the Conversations group exhibition, Goulburn Regional Art Gallery, 2004 – a collaborative exhibition of writers and visual artists.‘Smoking baby cigars in the dark of the backyard. Like some Cuban presidente haranguing the crowd with reminders, I proffer a list of romantic anniversaries, our May 4th movement, our July 12th uprising – our moment when everything became new’, I smoke baby cigars.
Cut back to black
‘Cut back to black, thin chill drizzle mid-winter – infinite regression on petrol’. Also called ‘Revhead heaven’, Cut back to black.
Coming back to these stones
‘Coming back to these stones – in the sandy dry reaches of the Coorong in South Australia’s South East birds flicker across the flat water like beads of run-away mercury’, Coming back to these stones.
Landscapes in a rear vision mirror
‘Heading at a moment's notice into Broken Hill, breaking several traffic laws on the Barrier Highway, in the rear vision mirror the land kept switching colours’, Landscapes in a rear vision mirror.
Stopping by Lake George
State of origin
Multimedia piece developed with visual artist, Deborah Faeyrglenn, State of origin looked at where we come from, where we go next and where we truly belong. In this work the writer and visual artist combined word, image and computer technology to make visual music. Words and images moved across the computer screen, with no fixed address, State of origin.
The lost art of conversation
Installation, developed with visual artist, Deborah Faeyrglenn, on words, meaning, reflection and infinite (or at least, partial) regression. Three tall thin vertical mirrors stand against the wall, covered in bursts of words. Three matching paper shadows flow out from the wall along the floor. Words on the mirrors flutter and blur into shadows, The lost art of conversation.
balloon
A fictional narrative work in the form of a website, the website as writing. About the adventures of a refugee from the big city who sets up the High Country Thought Balloon Company. A series of brief vignettes about the characters, situations and stories which intersect the path of the balloons as they soar across the skies of the Southern Tablelands and Snowy region. It is about changing perspective, balloon.
Malacoota Inlet
‘Shutdown in a flat, wet land, the line beween sea and sky where grey meets grey, where stricken yachts come in’, Malacoota Inlet.
Sitting on twigs
‘Sitting on twigs in the flat lands, in a piece of country loaded with meaning, like a tightly coiled spring’, Sitting on twigs.
Signature of water
A series of artworks as part of the Waterworks exhibition at Goulburn Regional Art Gallery responding to the shared task of facing up to life on our dry continent. It ranged from short, minimalist animations, using cartoons, to hyperfiction drawing on the styles of crime novels. It was a mix of poetry, storytelling, images and sounds which were heavily influenced by the styles of popular culture and the urban and rural landscapes around us, Signature of water.
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