THE FOLLOWING IS AN EXTRACT FROM OUR RECENTLY PUBLISHED NOVEL THE LAST SUMMER OF HAIR. As the afternoon progresses and the heat sits thicker on the dry land, the Salter clan work their way through copious helpings of barbecued meat, slabs of lager and numerous bottles of cheap, sweet bubbles. Tissue paper hats and broken crackers…
Le retour du printemps
… Then they were in their spring, their bright emergent hope. Girls. Boys. Budding into sex and fumbling, tender belief. On the crest of hormones and heartache. Theirs was the eternity of boundless tomorrow. The widescreen romance of aching desire and the blizzard lust of newly invented love. Here the peaks of exception; vaulting the…
My ten year love letter to no one
The art of the billet-doux is not dead (and neither am I) You may well ask – with some justification, I might add – why anyone would dedicate themselves to the writing of over 600 love letters across a ten year period without sending any of them. You may also wonder for whom these unmailed…
They are all you
Ever since I met you, I have always known. It is not that they are shadows, nor you their ghostly forebear. Neither do they replace you, or simply stand in your place. They shall not follow in your wake, nor wear thy lovely crown. The shiver of your love shall not be stilled in their…
If we might still mend it with kindness
Already, it has begun. The slow uncoupling. The incremental shifting of orbit. The quiet cellaring of doubts – earmarked as likely ammunition. Yet I wonder if we might still mend it with kindness. For not so long ago we were a kind, as though we had reached across the unbridgeable gulf between souls and seen…
Watch our award winning ‘meta’ romance!
TWO is an award winning ‘meta’ romance; where the post-modern boy/girl thing suddenly gets very real and the rules of engagement change forever. Love may well be a game – until you get hurt. Because one & one will always make two. Shot in around St Kilda in 2010, this minimalist 53 minute romance was…
Love letter # 479 In gods, I do not believe. In destiny, I place no trust. Neither do I look for signs in stars. But you! In you there is every reason to believe. I did not manifest you. You are not an answered prayer. You are so much more than a wish fulfilled. I…
Love letter # 507 With you, I was beautiful. It was transformative. It changed the way I saw the world. As though, with your eyes, I could see through the congealed disappointment of years. Where darkness and doubt once reigned, in your advent, light and liberty were unfurled. Until then, you were the gorgeous detail…
Love letter # 545 I saw you in the evening. You turned your golden head toward me. Eternity moving slow. Some things you remember with the circle of breath.
Love letter # 514 I said, “Show me a sign.” You said, “There are no signs.” Of course. Only in the absence of signs. From here on, I shall practise emptiness, such that I may fill with your light unobstructed. Now I shall attend to the silence, such that I may know your quiet voice….
Love letter # 0.1 All the light did was shine. And there you were.
Love letter # 662 This noonday, on the Esplanade, overlooking the blue expanse, I travelled at the speed of sunshine. Across the bay of forgetting. The light must have been just so. Call it azure, cerulean, aquatint…it was the colour of belief. The belief that comes before knowing. I was arrested mid-breath. The clatter…
I know at last the power of not knowing
You set in motion a chain of extraordinary events in me, by an act of authoring not yet fully understood. Perhaps it was simply something you allowed. In the space you created, the quiet had their say, the imperfect were permitted, the vain became irrelevant. And our fear turned to awe, thanks to a force…
Love letter # 478 Every year at this time I fall in love with you again. For a few weeks from mid-September my body remembers. Not in words or pictures. In quickening. A tension sweet and low and giddy. On bright evenings I breathe in honey. I glide, as though you had just bestowed your…
Behold them in the triumph of light
What now, if anything, shall we wrest from sediment? When the pretty lights have faded to fallen husk, what shall we make of burnt out shells? This, my love, is what awaits us this spring. In the garden of history, the archaeology of whispers. Here now, bones of fire. Brush the dirt from fragments, reconstruct…
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