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!
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”.
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.
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.
