Over the long weekend. I lost a close and dearest friend. As Jack and Jill went up the hill, his need was cured with a tiny pill. The extra strain on heart and brain climaxed in pain when he finally came. Vital parts flopped and the pumping stopped. As he lost his life, in his wife.

I rode down the nicest street, on my way home. It was lined with oak trees. Large maple-like leaves rested in golden heaps. A ute drove beside me for a moment then slowed and pursued me. I became aware of myself, a rare vulnerability. I changed sides. Looked back. They pulled over. They had not been following me, after all.

I came to the end of the street where a gentleman without a helmet rode past me on the main street. He had right of way, no helmet and carried a sandwhich, roll or something like that in his left hand. The foil was rolled down, bright little creases reflected the street lights. He had dark sandy blonde hair that suck up on end. With only one hand for balance on the handle-bar he took a bit.

I’d been holding off commenting to people all throughout the evening ride. I didn’t say ‘good work’ to the runners I passes. I had only said thanks to two separate families. One picked up their dog as I passed, the other told his daughter to stop.
‘Thanks’ Is all I said.

As this night rider passed by, I jokingly -I think it was jokingly- said, ‘Sick’.
He didn’t make eye contact but rode past. The intersection was a confusing one. For anyone out of town, they’d have been surprised to find that in a car they would have to follow this gentleman as he came along right to left, approaching one of the larger hills in Hobart. As he reached the hill, he took his only hand off the handlebars and put them both in the air. The perfect hero pose. Celebrating his rouge behaviour, a young larrikin. Bull horns and a half-foiled bun, raised to the sky in reverence to nothing in particular but a bubbling comment i’d been holding onto for far too long.

Once upon a land there was an old prince that spent all of his time inside.
Each day he would order a delivery of flowers for the royal estate. He would proceed then, over the following hours, to arrange, trim and place tremendous and intricate bouquets within the separate wings and levels of the palace.
His name and title was Prince Bavard. Although he often suggested,’Please, Monsieur B’ to guests and household staff. An unassuming man of graying hair, demure and of shy disposition, his station and rank was not destined to rise above that of prince. This was because his gentle nature and modest fixations brought little talent for politics nor the governance of a society that so supported his great family. The De la Roccolis had ruled over France for a quiet age which had afforded all a sense of fecund and prosperity.

There can never be too much of a good person.

Debra’s Zebras pulled debris from the sea.
You and me would see the debris consistency as bras and cheese.

What are you afraid of?

What can you see?

Log into my gov

Avoiding you and me

We’re all in this

In this together

Our company missed

And beers in sunny weather.

Nominations:

He comes from a family of kind and charming intellectuals. He carries all of their positive personality traits and welcomes conversation as a soft of co-creation-enlightenment.

Huw is the youngest of four boys – yes, his poor mother. Having known Huw for most of his life there have been numerous instances and successes that signaled his resilience, and will to succeed and do great things.

Most recently Huw is undertaking a PhD at Monash University. Following his passion and ambition in the medical sciences, he has been offered the opportunity to undertake a Fulbright Scholarship at Yale University later this year. In doing so he hopes to continue his work in Neuroscience; studying the effects of technology (smartphone) on our moods and motivations.

Huw is an exceptional human being. Driven, he possesses and demonstrates qualities beyond an all-rounder, surpassing any expectation of the status quo ‘slow-and-steady’ approach to an academic career. Huw is also an example of the necessary sacrifices of-and-for success. Every single day people compromise and make excuses. But not Huw, he has what it takes to be single-mindedly focussed in order to increase the depth and span of collective human knowledge.

Most importantly, Huw is grounded. Both interested in theory, and practical in it’s analysis and application

Why win?

Huw should win this award for his contributions and efforts thus far. As a public speaker he has inspired students in Tasmania and Melbourne to follow an academic pathway.

Australia needs passionate and inspirational leaders, now more than ever. In a world of distraction, technological advancement and fake news we are more susceptible to suggestion and mass media marketing than ever.

Huw is someone that cuts through the noise and will continue to make a vitally important contributions to Australia and the human race. His work has the potential to unlock the secrets of the human brain which will help us to better understand ourselves and the community in which we live.

** Cruise control doesn’t steer for you.

Wait a minute, if you’re back here, who’s driving?

I’m awake. It was a dream; that body, that life. Love condensed, the sex, the abuse, murder and freedom. Coldly ending in the corner of a bathroom sink or a cement block by the beach. Snagged and rolling under the surf.

He had my blood on him, my everything. His straight brown hair, beautifully abused body. Oil and chisel, Lorax moustache and public curls. I felt as much as saw; looking at this someone you loved, and the monster they became, and the body of Geneviéve, cold. She’d done it, she was a feminist, that’s how we met. I felt her hate, loved, but never fully understood. Like me she missed something, but committed fully to her ideal, bolting down to a feeling and destroying anything-anyone. I think I loved her, I don’t know why she was there. Perhaps I’d invited her, she lay behind him, me in-front as he took me from behind, sand like silk beneath us, slapping, careless. Loveless, he pushed through me, done with effort. A maestro lover, fallen. Wayward ejaculations of energy, with fading care for a world that passed by too quickly.

Remember this feeling. Remember this feeling, remember this feeling, remember… this… feeling. Please try to REM–

Hi, It’s me.. This is my body. My consciousness, there’s the wall at my head. It’s early. Possum early. Screeching, scrambling guttural growls wake me. God I wish they were dead. All dead, remember? All?

How can this be preserved? My body was like a black ant’s. Carapace smooth, almost reflective. Suspended breasts, a socketed torso, lean and full of life with warm, supple concaves and rounds. A balance of hills and caves, peaks and troughs. One more life that wasn’t my own.

I’ve been gardening a lot recently. Watering the plants at least once a day, either in the early morning or late evening: it brings me great peace. The smell of dirt and greenery have a freshness; livelt; an organic nature that agree with my every sense. Peace, and the joy for my wellbeing in seeing things grow. Today I realised that something had devoured my plants in the night. The tick had soon become a tock. The swing of my emotional state. Fuming.