With the question “what the hell am I doing?” ringing loud in my internal ear, I have been forced to […]

My beautiful friend Leah once spent a year living and working in Germany. Leah possesses the sort of beauty and […]

My father, visual artist Michael Keighery, has been creating work that commemorates Gallipoli.

We’ve just finished post production on the Satori & Co. Value Proposition Video and I’m reminded how darned lucky this […]

Research & development is really heating up on playwrighting project produced by Riff Raff Theatre’s Emma Sampson & Corinne Bibby, […]

But once in a while, I get that same feeling I used to get before a gym class. That sinking-stomach nausea. That anticipation and dread. I just. Don’t. Wan’t. To. Do. It … And I don’t want to do whatever it is, really badly!

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

We were no more than 22 years of age when we sat, one Sunday morning, in a backyard in Newtown and had our first real conversation. I’d only known Justin for 24 hours and 23 of them were spent in a club, but I knew I liked him. .

It always started the same way: I walked into a huge party. The party was in my honour. Of course it was. And I looked AMAZING. Of course I did. And as I flitted around the room being generally fabulous, I caught snippets of people’s conversation as I walked by. Every single chat revolved around me, and how gorgeous I looked, and how well I was doing, and how much everyone adored me. Of course they did.

Writer Marcela De Vivo talks literary translation: “Shakespeare, Jane Austen, Charlotte Brontë—heck, even good old J.K. Rowling—these are all authors that can be enjoyed by English-speakers without having to give a second thought to discrepancies in translation. Imagine reading Shakespeare in translation—how could they possibly capture the rhythm of the iambic pentameter?”