Published in Overland Issue 207 Winter 2012 · Uncategorized Islands Andy Quan I am sleeping tonight side by side with my mother on spring and feather, matching queen-sized mattresses, in the adjoining room my brother and his family. We’ve escaped Vancouver where father has died for Victoria’s quaint tea and saucers, halibut and chips, cream-filled chocolates, Salish art, a visit to eldest brother’s duplex, parks for the grandkids to run free. Distract us. Today, I leveraged grief for a table at a packed restaurant. How long can we get away with that? Mom ponders. Now, she surprises me, channel- surfing: CSI New York, Evening News. Rest is all I want, the narrow corridor between our beds, thirty-five years between us, our islands of sorrow barely visible to each other but I understand my role as company, as witness. Andy Quan Andy Quan is the author of four books, including two books of poetry, the most recent of which is Bowling Pin Fire. He has lived in Sydney since 1999 where he edits, writes, cycles, facebooks, watches reality TV cooking shows and coaxes rainbow lorikeets to his balcony. Visit him here at www.andyquan.com. More by Andy Quan › Overland is a not-for-profit magazine with a proud history of supporting writers, and publishing ideas and voices often excluded from other places. If you like this piece, or support Overland’s work in general, please subscribe or donate. Related articles & Essays 17 January 202517 January 2025 · rape culture Neil Gaiman and the political economy of rape Emmy Rakete The interactions between Gaiman, Palmer, Pavlovich, and the couple’s young child are all outlined in Shapiro’s article. There is, though, another figure in the narrative whom the article does not name. Auckland city itself is a silent participant in the abuse that Pavlovich suffered. Auckland is not just the place where these things happen to have occurred: this is a story about Auckland. 20 December 202420 December 2024 · Reviews Slippery totalities: appendices on oil and politics in Australia and beyond Scott Robinson Kurmelovs writes at this level of confusion and contradiction for an audience whose unspoken but vaguely progressive politics he takes for granted and yet whose assumed knowledge resembles that of an outraged teenager. There should be a young adult genre of political journalism to accommodate books like this.
