November 2024. This piece in The Australian is my take on French parachutist Franz Reichelt, the art of washing elephants, and why writing fiction isn't good for your health (or mind).
So now all of these people have set their sights on washing elephants, but instead of saying forget the elephants, we say, Here, come and study elephant washing in more detail and you’ll have a better chance of getting a (the) job. We put an enormous amount of effort into learning the art of elephant washing (study tours, residencies and so on) but the job never comes up because the elephant dies and we’re all sad and some wannabe elephant washers even kill themselves.
So now all of these people have set their sights on washing elephants, but instead of saying forget the elephants, we say, Here, come and study elephant washing in more detail and you’ll have a better chance of getting a (the) job. We put an enormous amount of effort into learning the art of elephant washing (study tours, residencies and so on) but the job never comes up because the elephant dies and we’re all sad and some wannabe elephant washers even kill themselves.
Garry Shead The Ern Malley Suite
October 2024. Here's another Ern Malley chat I had with Mair Bosworth on BBC Radio 4's Poetry Detective.
I had read in books that art is not easy
But no one warned that the mind repeats
In its ignorance the vision of others. I am still
the black swan of trespass on alien waters.
I had read in books that art is not easy
But no one warned that the mind repeats
In its ignorance the vision of others. I am still
the black swan of trespass on alien waters.
January 2024. I wrote this essay in the Glasgow Review of Books about the German (early) modernist playwright Georg Buchner, and especially his play-in-fragments, Woyzeck. I also talked about a few similar writers (ranging all the way to the twentieth century).
... a series of fragments as powerful today as they were 190 years ago. The sharp, frenetic dialogue reflecting Woyzeck’s psychosis; the excision of everything unnecessary; the contrast of dialogue and folksong; the unheard voices, all leading to the inevitable.
... a series of fragments as powerful today as they were 190 years ago. The sharp, frenetic dialogue reflecting Woyzeck’s psychosis; the excision of everything unnecessary; the contrast of dialogue and folksong; the unheard voices, all leading to the inevitable.
October 2023. After seeing an Australian Museum exhibition of the Scott Sisters' nineteenth century paintings and descriptions of moths, I wrote this piece, out now with EcoTheo magazine. You can read the piece here, or order a copy of the magazine here.
In their wattle-and-daub living room, father and daughters glance across the candle-lit room at each other; the nib of Walker’s fountain pen disturbs the silence as Hattie washes out her brush in a jar of water, then continues painting the green-winged male moth, with its transverse streak; the flame-red females with jagged patches on each forewing.
In their wattle-and-daub living room, father and daughters glance across the candle-lit room at each other; the nib of Walker’s fountain pen disturbs the silence as Hattie washes out her brush in a jar of water, then continues painting the green-winged male moth, with its transverse streak; the flame-red females with jagged patches on each forewing.
October 2023. I've always been fascinated by Fastball's song The Way. It's based on the story of an old couple, Lela and Raymond Howard, who were found dead in their car soon after setting off for a drive on 28 June 1997. The god of bike bells is a (a personal) riff on this story. It was published by Apricity Magazine (University of Texas at Austin).
Bill knew Chris had Stage Two liver cancer, and that never ended well (he’d had an uncle who’d lasted three weeks post diagnosis). So when the call came, when Bill heard the Grandison’s car had been found at the base of Mount Berryman, he’d said to Gennie (waiting for her coffee at The Proprietor), ‘Accident, my arse.’
Bill knew Chris had Stage Two liver cancer, and that never ended well (he’d had an uncle who’d lasted three weeks post diagnosis). So when the call came, when Bill heard the Grandison’s car had been found at the base of Mount Berryman, he’d said to Gennie (waiting for her coffee at The Proprietor), ‘Accident, my arse.’
April 2023. I wrote a short story about photography, memory, and death. Our Chemical Art appears in Volume 6 of Spare Parts Lit.
Just remember, Thomas, if not you, then who? Twenty years work and my boys arent interested, Bessie’ll sell the whole lot, the cameras, the paper and chemicals, the cart and Mavis (as you know, just point her in the right direction) to the highest bidder. So its just you.
Just remember, Thomas, if not you, then who? Twenty years work and my boys arent interested, Bessie’ll sell the whole lot, the cameras, the paper and chemicals, the cart and Mavis (as you know, just point her in the right direction) to the highest bidder. So its just you.
February 2023. The Budgerigar is about a boy who sells J.D. Salinger tours in his hometown of Cornish, New Hampshire.
As he looks up, sees a tall man, a long, box-shaped face, like his head had once been full of groceries but now is just a head. And a nose like a boxer’s nose, like it’s been hit once too often. He watches this man coming towards him, and he watches how he’s staring at him, interested in something.
As he looks up, sees a tall man, a long, box-shaped face, like his head had once been full of groceries but now is just a head. And a nose like a boxer’s nose, like it’s been hit once too often. He watches this man coming towards him, and he watches how he’s staring at him, interested in something.
January 2023. The Dogs is a story about truth, plagiarism, the value of words. It follows the last days of Walt Whitman, and an awkward conversation with a friend.
A pneumatic drill started out on the street, coming up through the foundations, the walls, the floor, their feet, and the old man said, 'If I could write another poem, I would. But everything is working against me, us, all of us … the idea that we’ve got something worth saying.'
A pneumatic drill started out on the street, coming up through the foundations, the walls, the floor, their feet, and the old man said, 'If I could write another poem, I would. But everything is working against me, us, all of us … the idea that we’ve got something worth saying.'
January 2023. This wistful piece describes the submerged town of Tallangatta. It was written for 3:AM magazine.
Four boys dead, but only two fell through the ice, and the others went to save them. Like, in numbers, things would be better, everyone could be saved, this aspic, this silver nitrate moment that always had and would be ...
Four boys dead, but only two fell through the ice, and the others went to save them. Like, in numbers, things would be better, everyone could be saved, this aspic, this silver nitrate moment that always had and would be ...
