The parts and the sum of the parts and the whole
I came down with my first bout of COVID-19 at the end of my birthday week — I write it with the suffix as it is a reminder of how fortunate I have been to go untouched for four years.
Thoughts during my bedridden first week were almost entirely focused on my sense of lost time, the gargantuan task of catching up that awaited, the panic of not catching up, the fear of never returning to a state of wellbeing, and so on.
Four weeks on, I have caught up, my energy is back, I am once again swimming, and I feel a sense of deep gratitude for being alive and getting a little more time on this journey.
Thoughts of death have always been close to front of mind for me, and in theory, I have a sense of peace about the whole returning to stardust and collective consciousness way of looking at it, but with the death of my brother last year, the sudden, gasp-inducing gut-punch moments when I remember, sometimes even uttering out loud, ‘he’s dead’, and feel anew the enormity of the loss of him and the irreversibility of death, I go straight back to square one of not being able to make sense of what it all means.
While watching Memory Film: A Filmmakers Diary (2023) during this year’s Melbourne International Film Festival, I came across a line from Bashō’s The Narrow Road to the Deep North (1702) that gives comfort, raises questions, and offers much to ponder about life and death.
The journey itself is home — Bashō
The film made me reflect on fragments we leave on this earthly plane and the stories they tell. My brother didn't leave behind many material or even digital fragments, but the unanimous sentiment from the many people I spoke with following his death is that he was an exceptionally kind and gentle person. That is some archive.
More on the film below.
Memory film: a filmmaker’s diary
A Japanese death poem
I caught writer, director, producer Jeni Thornley’s Memory Film: A Filmmakers Diary (2023) at a regional screening of the Melbourne International Film Festival (MIFF).
The film, told in the tradition of the Japanese death poem, was composed from Thornley's extensive Super 8 archives (137 rolls and 9 boxes of composites) that span three decades.
The dialogue-free film relies on images, text of quotes and poems, and a brilliant score by Joseph Tawadros (impressively composed in a day) to drive the narrative.
Intimate fragments from Thornley’s life, activism and work, pieced together thematically rather than chronologically, offer a meditation on life and the significance that these fragments take when viewed alongside so many other fragments that cumulatively make up a lifetime.
The screening was followed by a conversation between Thornley and Al Cossar, artistic director of MIFF, allowing fascinating insights into the filmmaker’s process and collaborative approach. I was particularly interested in Thornley’s cataloguing of each scene from her archives into themes, and how she selected quotes and poems by drawing on treatments she’d written for the project as well as hand written material and diary entries over the years.
In addition to the Bashō quote I shared earlier, another bit of text that spoke to me was a reference to Sei Shōnagon’s 'list of things that quicken the heart'. The idea of compiling such a list blew me away. If you associate a quickened heart with an anxious state, perhaps an alternate translation may inch you closer to the intended meaning: ‘list of things that make the heart grow fonder’.
New Australian Fiction 2023
Launch of Kill Your Darlings’ annual fiction anthology
It’s official! New Australian Fiction 2023 has launched! Pictured here is the talented, generous and lovely editor, Suzy Garcia, at the launch in Melbourne on 30 August.
It was lovely to listen to readings from Allee Richards, Madeleine Rebbechi, Chris Ames, Natasha Hertanto, and Chris Flynn.
The anthology also features Daniel Alwan, Shaeden Berry, André Dao, Eleanor Kirk, Julie Koh, Hope Loveday, and Kalem Murray.
Congratulations to all the contributors, and Suzy and the KYD team.
I had a great time meeting many writers, editors and readers and smiled for much of the journey home, thinking about my good fortune in being part of an inclusive, vibrant, diverse writing community.
What an honour to have been one many eyes — or two of many eyes — poring over many, many words (and so-many-hyphenated-compound-words) to bring the anthology to life. It was a delight to work closely with Suzy and Caitlin McGregor, and a privilege to be trusted with stories that all the writers put so much care and craft into.
I am so glad to have been there to celebrate its launch into the world.
Go grab yourself a copy at your favourite independent bookstore, or online. You deserve it!
Moonrise
An old poem
I don’t write on my personal blog much these days, but occasionally I get pinged with a dopamine inducing notification of a ‘like’ in response to something from my archives. I was surprised to receive such a ping recently on a poem published almost nine years to the day of the sudden, random engagement. I’m a little wowed, if I do say so myself, by what the me back in August 2014 wrote. It is an ekphrastic poem, created before I knew of the term ‘ekphrastic’. It was inspired by the painting ‘Moonrise’ by George Innes.
I share it here with a change in the subject’s pronouns and light editing.
Moonrise
She wears her solitude
Like a life vest
Impervious to judgment
Of eyes that pry
And thoughts delving
Deeper than the waters
She navigates
Alone
Night falls
And she is safe in its darkness
Taking cue from the moonlight
As it rises
Reflecting on the surface
Leaving the water more viscous
Bearing the weight of quiet contemplation
Her vessel floats on
Raptorial Writes
A monthly writing prompt
Set a timer for 10 minutes and write. Write a list of things that quicken the heart.
I’d love to know how you go! Post your writing to Instagram using #RaptorialWrites, or feel free to share it in the comments here. Happy writing!
Raptorial Bites
A monthly short story book club
This month’s read was published online on my birthday this year! I almost selected a short story by Bashō but happened upon Cynthia Ozick’s A French Doll (2023) after randomly selecting an unopened print copy of The New Yorker. I have renewed my drive to read from my stockpile, but with the more relaxed approach of #20WeeksOfNewYorkerFiction rather than an intense repeat of #100DaysOfNewYorkerFiction.
You can browse past Raptorial Bites and join conversations at any time — comments remain open on all threads and admittedly, I have some catching up to do, but lucky me, I have already read this one! Spoiler: I loved it.