Australia Day is for the Gubs. Not just some Gubs, but all Gubs. It is inclusive in that, whether it is loved or hated, it can’t be ignored. For those who are into great streaks of zinc cream across their faces, it is a great day for beaches, bbqs and a bit of burqa bashing if that is their bent. For the Balmain bolshies, it is a great day to reminisce about the Bridge walk and lament the fate of their blak brothers and sisters.
Symmetrically proportioned with clear eyes, long lashes, even nose and sumptuous lips. Glowing, unblemished skin that reflects the light. A long graceful neck. Smooth décolletage. Perfectly-rounded pert bosom, narrowing to hand-span waist. She would call her—Caryatid, formally, from the Greek. In ancient times, sculpted female figures serving as architectural supports. In Jane’s case, her architectural visage. A mask. An appendage. Her pillar of strength.
Inside the Time Cube it was, admittedly, pretty fucking nice. And our friends were there! Even the dead ones! All of our art and music and culture, and all of the thrilling and dangerous new forms of expression and rebellion were happening there now.
Two thousand rough sleepers in Victoria who were offered hotel accommodation during the pandemic are now being hastily evicted. The government showed us how easily they can house people when it’s considered a priority. They can’t unshow us that. We can’t unsee it.
Navid is chasing his dreams. Dreams that as a stateless Feyli Kurd he cannot achieve where he is, a Feyli Kurd who cannot acquire a National ID card, who cannot participate in sporting competitions. Living here is difficult for someone like Navid who has given his blood, sweat and tears to wrestling. He is a stateless person whose life changed suddenly, who can now no longer remain living where he is.