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AbstractHistoryArchive Description
Notes
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Contents indexed selectively. Other material in this issue includes:
Theseus by Ruth Corkill
Contents
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From 'Fragments for Her History of the Father',
single work
autobiography
'What is the difference between a duck? One of its legs is both the same ... or, one of its feet is both the same. Either way, this nonsense riddle he teaches us when I am too young to understand.' (Publication abstract)
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The Life I Owe,
single work
autobiography
'I had two very good chances of never being born, and I suppose I've always been conscious of the fact. Of course there were more than two, as that's the way life is, but two, even when I was quite a young child, were immediately obvious to me. My grandfather served four years with the AIF during the First World War, and saw action in both Belgium and France. His luck (and mine) held, however, for he was in the artillery, and so had some protection against the wholesale slaughter of trench warfare. My father's Second World War was entirely different. Sent to Darwin when the Japanese were bombing it regularly, he later took part in an amphibious assault on Borneo, and became forward scout in the jungle: at one point he walked over an enemy soldier who was hidden in the undergrowth. Although the Pacific War ended in August 1945, my father could have been killed or wounded during the interval afterwards, as enemy soldiers refused to capitulate and kept on fighting for at least another six weeks. he was finally demobbed in February, 1946.'
(Publication abstract)
- Remnantsi"When she became a mother her particular ways of folding sheets,", single work poetry (p. 31)
- East Sidei"i remember a spring in the boards", single work poetry (p. 32)
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One of Your Family,
single work
essay
'In the digital collections of the State Library of Queensland, there is a four-minute video of a Mr Herman Bambie talking about a national apology.'
(Publication abstract)
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John Forbes in Carlton,
single work
essay
'After I returned from overseas I caught up with John Forbes at a reading at La Mama where he and Alan Wearne sat in the front row of the small theatre cheering on Emma Lew. I had seen some of her poems published in the journal 'Otis Rush' and I thought that her poems were mysterious and sharp, reminiscent of Gig Ryan's poems. She read to an appreciative crowd and in the break John told me that he was accepting poets to tutor. Since returning from overseas I had been trying to find some direction in my life. I was working part-time and living in a share house in east St Kilda. I hadn't written much while I was overseas for two years, yet I felt that I had a lot of material within me to write about. I was also nervous about what John might think of my poems, as he wasn't exactly a lover of poems about the country. His own poems were urban, cool, mocking and loaded with clever associations. What would he say about my poems of India and overseas?' (Publication abstract)
- Our Chief Debti"When it comes to the spicy conspiracy", single work poetry (p. 49-50)
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Benjamin,
single work
autobiography
'Not everyone made it through the ice.
'Picture this: 45 million square kilometres of land covered by glaciers. The northern oceans frozen over. sheets of ice covering the mountains, the valleys, the flatlands, and the deserts.'(Publication abstract)
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The Other Life,
single work
autobiography
'For many years after we arrived in Australia, the most important connection to our former home in Cyprus was my mother's photo album. as one would expect, most of the images in the album are of my mother's family: her parents, siblings, aunts and uncles. Every now and then, a page is devoted to my father's relatives. There is nothing wrong in admitting that these figures are supporting players; their role is to fill in the background, rather than to play a determining part in the story. Guided by my mother's prompts, I used these images to draw together some of the threads that made up our family history, at a time when my knowledge of this history had been foreshortened by the dislocation of starting over. Here is a photo of a handsome uncle who went to London to study chemistry but married too young and did not finish his degree. Next to him is his serious looking older brother, who was both a high-ranking officer in the colonial police force and a clandestine member of EOKA during the time of the troubles. Nearby is a portrait of my mother's cousin dressed in her neatly ironed high school uniform. She is standing next to a side-table on which rests a vase filled with freshly picked cyclamens. The photograph was taken just before the operation intended to correct a vision problem that left her partially blind. Looking directly at the camera with a mixture of pride and youthful embarrassment, her eyes betray no hint of this fate.' (Publication abstract)
- How to Milk a Goat, single work short story (p. 69-77)
- No Boxi"I used to say,", single work poetry (p. 78-80)
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Two Tales from the Greek,
single work
short story
'The scene you come across is not unusual in its brutality, but you vomit all the same. You stare down at what you have not digested as if it is the most miraculous thing. As if at this moment you would be happy if there was no other thing. And yet, even in this turning away, traces of what you cannot unsee linger like the perfume of mausoleum flowers...' (Publication abstract)
- Dirge for the Survivors of Makronisosi"We survived Makronisos, we survived the torture;", single work poetry (p. 112)
- Vespertine at Labastidei"each night i lie beneath pale fleece", single work poetry (p. 113)
- Penelope Makes Revisionsi"Red sun in the morning,", single work poetry (p. 114)
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Anton Bell,
single work
essay
'Anton Bell drowned on the 23rd of December 1953. I know the exact date because I found a small newspaper clipping reporting the drowning. Evidently the event was not of great importance. Presumably the day was one of bigger stories, otherwise, the drowning May have had more prominence. Or perhaps Anton was buried in the third page for a reason. A lot of things were buried in those years along with a lot of people who had survived the war, but came undone in the peace. Nevertheless, some of the filthiest managed to wash their stories clean. And I suspect Anton bell was among them. The yellowing scrap of newsprint was stuck to the back of a photograph with a piece of adhesive that had lost its grip. Despite this, they had stayed together for more than half a century-the photograph and the bit of old news, coupled courtesy of four silver cardboard corners that attached the photograph to the thick grey page of my mother's photograph album.' (Publication abstract)
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La Chanteuse,
single work
autobiography
'From Geneva the road climbed into steep woods rising to the Jura Mountains and the french border. The stone chateau was set back behind trees and was not visible from the path. It was 1998, and I was looking for work during the summer break. My friends had given me Madame's number. apparently there was always gossip in the village about her true identity. Some believed she had been a spy in the last war, working for the Free French in Egypt. I was looking forward to finding out more about this elderly woman, living in seclusion. At the interview she appeared quite practical, explaining the necessary chores in a lively intelligent manner. She did seem particularly worried about my Australian accent and asked if I liked to sing, an unusual question, I thought, for a simple house-minding job. Above all it seemed I must attend to her lovebirds secreted at the top of the tower. "Come I Will show you," she smiled.' (Publication abstract)
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Because Puppets Do Not Age, Do Not Fear Gravity, Do Not Abandon Those Who Love Them Most,
single work
short story
'Sergei Vladimorovich Obraztsov, for example. A puppeteer of note. From the old World. And yet it begins here with rabbit and fox on the bedroom wall, his three-year-old daughter unsure whether to chase shadows or watch his hands. And right then he knows that he is not interested in images; he wants to create 'things'...' (Publication abstract)
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On Being Sincere,
single work
autobiography
'When I am in the vicinity of the bench - it's in a quiet) shady Spot - here in inner Melbourne, I'm on my way to the supermarket. The first time I noticed the plaque and then stopped to read it - a few months ago, about four years after the death of Henry Joseph Kata - I was so moved by its simple eloquence, sincerity and the import of the loss on the person whose words they are, that I suddenly entered into a kind of sympathetic mourning and hung around for some time out of respect. The bench may not have been there for long, council approvals being notoriously slow, and since the route I take to the supermarket is relatively new to me, I can't say when the bench was first put in place. I'd go for recently. I'd guess there was a quiet ceremony, in attendance the deceased's companion and those closest to, I am assuming, her. Attached to the slats of the bench, next to the plaque, there is always a sprig of fresh rosemary. The soulmate's bereaved returns often, possibly daily and, I expect, sits on the bench with her memories. Communes. Although the bench is for public use in a public space, a bench among other benches placed around the large, leafy park in positions where shade or a broad view is maximised, I would feel as if I was invading another's intimate space if ever I sat on it. So I don't. Maybe, one day, grocery bag in hand, I'll see from a distance Henry Joseph Kata's soulmate attaching a fresh sprig of rosemary or quietly sitting out the afternoon, alone.' (Publication abstract)
- King Parrotsi"a photo", single work poetry (p. 134-136)