I wanted to write about Australian life as Australian life can be in the cities, the interior. Most of us function very far from the land of gum trees and windmills and true blue Aussie blokes yeah mate yeah beers ‘n that fuckin’ sport ay yeah she’ll be right as bafflingly and consistently espoused by our film and literature. That is small representation of what this country is and can be, and I’m periodically super annoyed by the middling tourism brochure that seems to serve as our artistic identity as well as celebrate a certain kind of willful ignorance that regularly does not apply. When it does, it should not be celebrated. It’s a problem here. Stop pushing it as a national virtue.
This story was rejected by just about ever ‘major’ lit journal in Australia. It was accepted almost immediately by an American lit journal that specialises in Australian works. I know. I laughed my ass off, too. Then I cried it back on, so I could rip my morning coffee shit and whisper “Fuck you,” to the high-rise of “Sorry, there aren’t enough cork-hats in this” no-no slips shading my gmail.
Also a handy ode to mothers everywhere, and an apology to my own.