This gruesome witchy tale made me want to hide my cauldron. Or seek the needled poppet that makes my joints stiff and sore. Sparse writing and deep historical acuity makes current gender relations seem louse-ridden and dangerously power-laden. No Samantha in sight.
Brought to my notice by Marion May Campbell. Lives up to this promise. Her reading of Western Poem drops like a storm on the crowded room. Her final reading, from her forthcoming work on Rosie was breathtaking. A performance of tumbling éclat.
Violent Femmes reminder of eighties profit in my imaginary . Call it superannuation. Lead voice looser, instruments tighter. No cynic, not me. Dance blister(s) with Mary Lou and our loves. Epiphany. This gospel grunge shaped part of my affinity with Gillian Welsh.
Proof of the power of the short story. Each vignette carefully traces over the bruises left by teenage vulnerability, showing the destructive power of choice bound by the contingencies in family, finances and friends. Easy to read, a long way from light.
confused, dates wrong, misaligned so goes the Mercury Moon my Constant tells me I cannot refuse this tricky moon, run out to greet it in person unglassed returning, I fall in love, again this neighbourly tree reaching towards its potential tides full
Pause on the Trades Hall stairs. Red lips kiss-mark Whitlam. Mwah. The new venue is no Shebeen. Blink like Dracula at the lights turned up. A live groove gets the crowd moving. Hard sell of Soft Cell’s Tainted Love makes the night.
Workshop on drones makes it clear that the machine is within us. My collaborators justify sousveillance of animal activism. Designing for war is questioned from beginning to end. An opera is sung. The role of the divine character in surveillance is revealed.