moving

Since leaving the family home some time ago, I’ve packed my possessions and moved eight times. Last weekend, I made it nine. (Don’t worry, I still proudly boast the 3054 postcode!)

Admittedly, some of those moves involved going overseas and I didn’t have to pack up ALL my possessions but let me tell you, it hardly makes a difference. Packing up your crap and moving is the same regardless of how much you’re packing or which country you’re doing it in. And it’s exhausting. There are movers to research and hire (if you move as often as I do trust me when I tell you I’d have no friends or family members speaking to me if I relied on them to get me from my old place to my new place with my heavy furniture and boxes of books). There’s mail to redirect, utilities to be cancelled, paperwork to be filled in, and bonds to be paid. Oh, and let’s not forget the process of finding boxes to pack your stuff in, and the packing itself.

The weekend of the move is usually full of anxiety (will the movers find parking close enough to the house/flat? will they wreck my stuff? can they fit everything through the new doorways?), physical pain and thoughts of ‘what the hell am I going to do with all these boxes now?’ ‘are the neighbours going to be too noisy/quiet?’ ‘why do I need eleventy-five keys to get into my flat?', ‘where the hell are the bins?!’ and 'why, dear God, do I have so MUCH STUFF!!'. But once that last box is unpacked and you can sit on your couch in your new home with a glass of wine, it all seems worth it. A new environment can do wonders and you tell yourself you’ll never, EVER move again. (But then the lease expires and thoughts of a new abode creep into your brain, which has conveniently forgotten the trauma of the last move.)

I went through that trauma and now find myself in a lovely new flat in a block that definitely has a Melrose Place feel about it. I can see palm trees from my living room window (where this very piece is being written) and the neighbours aren’t afraid to smile when you pass each other. The distance to Rathdowne Village and Piedimonte’s is about equal and the tram is just around the corner. The flat itself is modern, has no carpet and the shower pressure is GREAT! I never, EVER want to move again.

kill your darlings

One of Australia’s latest literary journals, Kill Your Darlings, has taken its name from a quote attributed to William Faulkner. As stated by the journal’s editor Rebecca Starford, the phrase means ‘to ruthlessly cut out that which doesn’t serve a purpose in one’s writing, no matter how sentimental one feels about it’. And thus, I was hooked. The striking title and cover had me at ‘hello’ but as soon as I read about the meaning of the journal’s title, and its vision - to create literature that demands attention - I felt very happy that I had been in a buying mood that fruitful afternoon at Carlton’s Readings.

New fiction, essays, commentary and reviews. This is what the content promises and each section has been a delight to read. I particularly enjoyed Clementine Ford’s piece on internet dating, ‘Love in a LOL-ed Climate’, and ‘Talk Derby to Me’, which is Georgia Gowing’s ode to roller derby (something I wish I was brave enough to be awesome at!). The fiction offerings are just as thought-provoking and here I want to give a special shout-out to ‘Theories of Relativity’ by Chris Womersley. Just, wow.

I can’t wait for the next edition…make sure you get your hands on a copy.