After three days of discussions, readings, writers, ideas, and eventually rain, the Byron Bay Writers Festival has come to an end.
If you happened to miss it, or didn’t catch a session you were hoping to, the SCU media blogging team probably covered it.
I hope everyone who made it stayed dry and had a great time, and for those of you who didn’t—enjoy the blog!
Stop. It’s too pink.
How pink is too pink?
That pink is too pink.
It just became pink.
Well, it’s too pink.
One drop too pink?
Probably three drops too pink.
It wasn’t pink two drops ago.
It must’ve been, it’s more than translucent pink.
It’s one drop too pink past translucent pink.
One drop too pink.
I watched her dropsaw briefcase snap open releasing
papergun necklaces, which rattled the branches of trees.
Where had the paints gone? the ones lost in the freezer.
She is a good deal, blonde.
Red fading turns to brown, and the
heat is forgotten as skyward bubbles fill slender necks.
A cat hashtagged cries all night and sleeps all day, as
a star-picket prosthesis steadies a scabby table in an unshaded yard.
A petite female frame planes plywood from a Sasquatch footprint.
A teacup pig snorts
from the businessman’s car, full
of surfboards and clinking empty glass
almost full, always leaving room for more. Lacquer drying
in toxic waves of heat, bending McDonalds splintering
in sunburn, and drying spray-painted collages, fifty shades of hot-pink.
She is a Sundog Dirtbag, her
dream is an enterprise. I heart
her art, which can be found online.
words exist beyond belonging
1. sometimes, when i was a kid, i would wonder if the letters of the alphabet fucked each other.
2. to be honest, i would imagine how the letters of the alphabet went about fucking each other.
3. d would definitely fuck c.
4. h would try to get on top of p.
5. b would do e back-to-front and e would ask f for a three-way.
you never cease
to amaze me.
you complete me,
i love you.
The season is a damp dollar sign: a sign that the humidity is bearable but the traffic is not; a sign that the mould is barely tolerable and the mozzies won’t stop; when rivers swell and roads vanish beneath puddles—puddles so deep, if ducks landed they’d be relabeled ponds—when unrelenting nor-easterlies push carnivals of wind all summer long; when sandy beaches are blemished by bluebottles and floating trumpets embellish our footpaths, all mauve and miniature; when ripening papayas nourish and brushturkeys flourish in yesterday’s rubbish; when clouds of bats tarnish dragon fruit sunsets; when early down town is still quiet and stylish, and in the street the scent of rum and beer mingles with that of espresso, when the aromas are all singed and overpriced and as heavy as damp dollar signs.
Louise Crisp says: she grew up in hard country meaning, she was free to wander. I say: I grew up in soft country meaning, I was free to wonder. The rainforest mountains sheltered me in nurturing undulation. A tanned kelpie followed my scent upstream. We ate from tropical fruit trees with abundant exoticness. Swollen rivers often left gullies full of water. The music was as consistent as the rain. Even the cicadas had rhythmic purpose. In creek corners we hunted crystals. The canopy was my home, and it was anything but silent. With nothing but harmonies, even in the pitch black dark, I never felt alone. How else can I explain rainforest-dwelling?