• Georgia Keighery

    About

    Thursday, April 18, 2013

    Wondering about what to write here, I keep hearing my internal voice shriek “DON’T TELL THEM THAT! THEY’LL KNOW YOU’RE A FREAK!” … So, I think it’s best to begin there. At the freak.

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  • MyNewName_Column_GeorgiaKeighery

    My New Name

    Thursday, April 18, 2013

    I’ve spent the last few days luxuriating in the possibilities of a name change. All the things it could mean to me.

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  • SandraThibodeaux_Featured_GeorgiaKeighery

    Sandra Thibodeaux

    Friday, November 2, 2012

    3 poems from guest Sandra Thibodeaux, the incredibly talented poet and playwright from Darwin

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  • Mother Knows Best

    Mother Knows Best

    Wednesday, January 26, 2011

    In the bedroom of a religious-relic-laden house in Sydney, a sister begins the closely guarded ritual of donning the nun’s habit. Over neatly pressed underwear, a voluminous black tunic with immense sleeves, is slipped into, leaving the body entirely covered, neck to floor. Over that, the scapular. With well-rehearsed flicks of the wrist the white wimple is tied at the back, leaving only the face and hands free of covering. In quick, graceful succession, the white starched circular bib or “guimpe” and the “bandeau” are added… A pause for reflection, and gentle adjustments… Finally, in crescendo, the black veil is drawn up and over, and pinned with large pins at the crown of the head … “To keep it neat”, is the smiling explanation.

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Wright Right Write

Jan / 26

Wright

He stood in front of this class and he said “Playwright, dear friends, is spelled p-l-a-y-w-r-i-g-h-t … that’s ‘w-r-i-g-h-t’ not ‘w-r-i-t-e’ … you see, a play is not written … it is wrought!”. As soon as the words had left his mouth and its corners began to rise in a knowing smile, I was captivated. It felt like the most profoundly correct statement I had ever heard. It was a fundamental realization. It was right. Wright!

My People

Oct / 22

My People

She was an entrant in the 1965 Miss Australia Quest. She was Miss Central Northern Suburbs. She was clearly the most beautiful woman in the damn pageant, but no one liked dagoes back then. Italian was NOT in. Despite Sofia Loren. Despite the 19-year-old Italian-Barbarella who would one day be my mother. My mother’s beauty was always something I was proud of as a kid. Proud, in the depressingly defeated way, that only the overweight, spectacled child of a former Miss Central Northern Suburbs can be. I spent hours looking at her technicolour 1960s model-shots wondering how I had sprung from the same genetic well as her. Wondering what, exactly, my hippy-tastic mother had taken in 1970s that produced my “uniqueness”.

Perfect Date

May / 16

Perfect Date

I often take myself out on “dates”. Alone. I like to go and sit in a restaurant, at a romantic little table, and watch people. I like sitting by myself. Other people often seem uncomfortable to see me sitting alone, but I quite like it. It is true that on occasion it’s a little awkward being solo, but awkwardness is another skill I excel at, so I even enjoy that. Wait-staff look concerned on my behalf as I request a table for one. They’ll ask repeatedly if I need anything, as though, perhaps, I’ll give in and order a companion from the menu. Nevertheless, despite the discomfort it seems to cause some, I really enjoy going out alone. Sometimes I’ll write while I’m there, but more often I just sit at my table and watch people. Because they’re perfectly fascinating.

Mother Knows Best

Jan / 26

Mother Knows Best

In the bedroom of a religious-relic-laden house in Sydney, a sister begins the closely guarded ritual of donning the nun’s habit. Over neatly pressed underwear, a voluminous black tunic with immense sleeves, is slipped into, leaving the body entirely covered, neck to floor. Over that, the scapular. With well-rehearsed flicks of the wrist the white wimple is tied at the back, leaving only the face and hands free of covering. In quick, graceful succession, the white starched circular bib or “guimpe” and the “bandeau” are added… A pause for reflection, and gentle adjustments… Finally, in crescendo, the black veil is drawn up and over, and pinned with large pins at the crown of the head … “To keep it neat”, is the smiling explanation.