When teaching was undertaken by technology. The robots. Deep, flat voices- internal, electrodes.

Meaning and understandings from newborn to 29 months. a throbbing feeling. A cocoon, of cast and inatural mirrors. Sounds and responses. Taught, manipulated- faces. Smile, instruct, milk, vomit.

Sanitary smells of sickness. The alphabet. Eating it all up. Horror and tone and light. Thrumming, bouncing sleep. Excitement, an

Isolation and control. Ingrained fear. Phobia and the strange plucking observations. Chicken like movement, beads. My history, raised on computers, movements and I’ll reflections. Each we share. The bells, my heart, these unblinking eyes. Vitals. My observations, charts, screens, blips and blobs. Always scratching at me, measuring blood. Fleshy pink pin cushion. I’m 5 now- I remember only a little bit of my time. Raised by computers, a steel whet nurse. Ink drying that marks my ID number. Barcoded. Bars, tracking, prison, awaiting work. Recite the poems. Recidivist. Recidivist. Recidivist.

I remember-

Putting wet washers on an ex girlfriends back. Caring.

I remember my brother telling me that my old coin collection wasn’t worth anything.

I remember debating with my dad if it was a wasp or a bee. (It was a bee)

I remember my brother and father telling me that they saw the Easter bunny outside in the back yard, it was raining and they were laughing. My mum told me the truth.

I remember my mother.. As I walk in the door to my hotel, a woman is smoking. She apologizes. I say not to worry about it. It reminds me of someone.

For me: Winning is, Winning the heart of people.

The fat woman in my hotel spoke about the lie of climate change this morning. I had to drink some coffee to brighten my mind, disengage sir.

We watch the television to confirm our happiness in a world full of problems and injustice.

Pork tornadoes

Smuckers Jam- 100

Chain reaction popcorn effect.

Love languages:

Touch –

Acts of service –

Quality time –

Words of affirmation –

Gift giving –

Lots of renovations –

Cab driver : silence

Queen parachutes into the super bowl

Betty white – actress

Hello,

We all got up. We all got dressed. Breakfast was an event, or non. We may have showered, some of us are thinking about other things, later we will speak. I’ll give you one-minute to relax into the day. To warm up and create order in yourself, so that you might listen ………………………………………………. (sixty dots).

I landed in Syracuse, it was late. I didn’t have the heart to share a cab with the two students from Oswego, blaming it on me having barely enough fuel in the tank to converse.

I hailed a cab, a big hammy Indian picked up my bags like and swung them easily into the trunk.

I decided to sit in the back. I handed him the directions to the my hotel, he said “speak, I don’t read”.

So I dictated. He confirmed, as the cab rumbled along.

“Lots of renovations going on at the airport,” I said.

Silence. A minute passed

“Are you from round here?”

Silence.

I was very pleased, drained and off balance. The rest of the ride was quiet. Traveling alone from state to state, hotel to hotel can be isolating. Social energy stores and then festers. It felt perverse having my foundations float away into nothings.

I thanked the Indian graciously when I arrived safely at the hotel.

I walked in and told the receptionists. They laughed and said “welcome to Syracuse”.

It was a classic case of sadness in the big city.

I thanked them for their help and bid them goodnight as I walked away to the elevators.

They said nothing.

I landed in Syracuse, it was late. I didn’t have the heart to share a cab with the two students from Oswego, blaming it on me having barely enough fuel in the tank to converse.

I hailed a cab, a big hammy Indian picked up my bags like and swung them easily into the trunk.

I decided to sit in the back. I handed him the directions to the my hotel, he said “speak, I don’t read”.

So I dictated. He confirmed, as the cab rumbled along.

“Lots of renovations going on at the airport,” I said.

Silence. A minute passed

“Are you from round here?”

Silence.

I was very pleased, drained and off balance. The rest of the ride was quiet. Traveling alone from state to state, hotel to hotel can be isolating. Social energy stores and then festers. It felt perverse having my foundations float away into nothings.

I thanked the Indian graciously when I arrived safely at the hotel.

I walked in and told the receptionists. They laughed and said “welcome to Syracuse”.

It was a classic case of sadness in the big city.

I thanked them for their help and bid them goodnight as I walked away to the elevators.

They said nothing.

Today I plaster this page with those unwritten lists. I write for order and progress. So that I might look back and reflect. See how much I’ve achieved. Look what I’ve done. Progress.

Jack Kerouac – ‘the feeling of an empty train station’. It must have just left. The restraint of the still air and the fading warmth from the metal tracks. The distance grows, numbness grows with a subtle vibration. Perhaps another train hurtling along the tracks. Coming or going – I wonder. Just passing through, an A to B of timeliness. Importance and waste tangle with serpents biting themselves. The pit of my stomach, the inability to continue functioning the way I want to. Memory shatters. I am present and fearful of the images and perceptions of others. The almighty well from which they might draw. Endless and eternally possible. Cut and hung in patterns, language like fabric and knotted rope both cover and hang about us. The performance of a lifetime, to pretend at any point it all culminates. I bubble away. “The pot on low”. Occasionally flowing over, spitting pasta on the walls. Nothing sticks, but I’m ready. I will survive. Hot air, food, the path of least resistance not always what I choose. A suffering reality, the thing I’m doing will sustain until there is betters easier though to continue doing what I have always done. My mastery is the test of time, forgetting everything but the task at hand.

This list, this list. Gift to myself, badly wrapped, unconsidered, tissue and news- are the papers which I am used to folding. Save the best for a time when we expect a beginning or something final. The continuity of our speeches and our doings. Report. Report. Report. Blood sweat and tears, whatever bubbles and flows over. My sick liver, and failing detached brain cells. Escapees from the common prison. There will be no gallows, no hanging in the commons. Atlas of my soul on earth. How does it sound, cellophane reality, taste of plastic in my mouth. The heavy posture, this badly wrapped world. Are you happy now? The mirror licked clean, isolated spirits, phone bound and numbers apart. Luck of Herman Hesse presses his German thumbs for luck. Bless your unblinking eyes, your googling, boggling loss. Where was I supposed to be, and where am I without my lists. No reflections, no knowledge, no story. Nothing seeming to connect me with the past or potential. Listless, loss-lacking, lament. Just an empty page. The list of unfulfilled lists, hopeless category . Wishful, task oriented. Miles per hour- fastly approaching the afterlife of age care homes and not so super “annuation”. Let the years go by and my attempts go to the archives. Trivial trials. Guilty trails, in selected in my mind. The pros and cons list never got past the first entry, mute complaints in the beer garden of eden. Take be back in time to see how good I am at shopping. I am not a builder- our knowledge, this time is not for everyone’s survival. Great cities will mumble. A fourteen minute standstill. It all shut down, shops closed, tumbleweed encroached and then took over. The birds started flying again. A natural piece, slivered into our homes. Uncarried by the human hand. Traded in mystery, lost archive. Natures list. Extinction. The unwritten history of all we have achieved, no language survives the way that it was. Not communicated. Moot. The jester with fingers too his liPs. A lion’s paradox. Crouch down. Make notes, pointless animations, diversions and subversions. A list of revolutions. A numbered note for shopping. If places. PhotosX trophies. Conquests. Quests and progress. Success and submissions. Deadlines and the dots. Fine points and ordinary charted moments. Time slots and revelations about what I was doing then and the things I have an opportunity to tackle. Motivation. Limp sketches of the future. Bought into, sketched on paper. Weak recycling habits of a race consumed to run in circles at its own misunderstood job. The lifestyle of the jobless, creative waste, digressions of if’s. The butts of our own monetary joke. Holy holy nights by the candle. Midnight ink and the oils of past people drown in the poor waterways of our Times. Items stem from these lists. Love, gifts and ungracious hope. The carrot on a stick existence files itself way on tissue paper. Tearing the hearts of the ugly believers. More lists tomorrow – true north. A false narrative in a morally Barron and codified eternity. Insignificant dots. Page boys throw melons at passing priests and politicians and then direction is all the same. Cross my fingers and press my thumbs. How can I make a list that saves the world from itself? Or do I: not have to do that?

Take a day. Sunday. And as ‘why’.

comparison.

Drawing line, connections, between stories.
The work that we’re doing – the love story. It’s all viewed from 20 or thirty years later. Between times, there is a maturity. Travelling the same paths. Doubling over of a line.

Excited openness.
Lets talk about criticism – of women. Deliberate.
Purpose and direction. New York Girl.

Tell me three different things, separation.
All the stops. I’ll tell you the links. Draw it all together.
Anything of this world. Another planet but treatable. Relate –

If you keen the appointments you must, after that when all is done. You are normal. 9-5 production. Morbid outside and beyond.
Jane, not plain. Bony face. Tugging at me.

‭I remember-

Putting wet washers on an ex girlfriends back. Caring.

I remember my brother telling me that my old coin collection wasn’t worth anything.

I remember debating with my dad if it was a wasp or a bee. (It was a bee)

I remember my brother and father telling me that they saw the Easter bunny outside in the back yard, it was raining and they were laughing. My mum told me the truth.

I remember my mother.. As I walk in the door to my hotel, a woman is smoking. She apologizes. I say not to worry about it. It reminds me of someone.

The short story ‘form’ is something that the magazine publishes, however the content of an entire magazine should hang together and be unified. As such it’s quite reasonable to entertain the idea that a short story written around the experience and culture of Autralian youth it bound up in a changing identity . With affiliations to Australian identity, bound up in a larikan mentality – rich with genocide, outlaws and criminals the possibilities for tangential growth there are definitely opportunities for a Tasmanian renaissance, reovolution and fashioning. There’s certainly room for nuance and reimagining in the Tasmanian magazine space.

Right the way through, the issue tracks changes in big and small politics from feminism to housing. With the huge rage and the freedom to accept written works deemed ‘excellent’ Island presents an opportunity for a variety of submission types.

The emerald green of the trees and sapphire blue of ocean -gag.

The removed from the hubbub of traffic jams and the blistering proximity of the equator. In amongst the old growth forests, nature reserves and green gullies, the Tasmania people thrive. This sense of community is one that acknowledges the difference of setting and enjoys the livelihood of more than just farming. All the while from the opening tone of the editor and chief, there is an the important recognition of the dualism between reading and writing. Without one, there is no use for the other. It’s through this measure of acknowledgement that the magazine sustatins its readership and engages with the wider audience of mainland Australia and the world.

The works are reflective of the cultural diversity and historic richness in Tasmania. These function to represent a general public and nuance views. Herein the intended audience of Island can be perceived as being anyone with a vested interest in any of the overarching principles of reading, writing culture and ideas. The fulcrum of a magazine which collaborates and publishes only works of excellence is that there is buy in from the Australian population. The granular point being, that people read and write for different reasons, at different times, to unique and vastly different topics. Situated thus, the Island ‘sandpit’ can be seen as a welcome invitation to join in a conversation between people from vastly different world views. In acknowledging this, the celebration of Australian Art and Culture has a platform from which a populace may share with one another whether they seek new knowledge, respite, identity confirmation or an altered perspective .

The content of the magazine presupposes a level of interest in the unique setting and characters of Tasmania. Bound up in each issue’s pages are poems, stories, articles, interviews, artworks & photographs. Each of these in turn add a layering to the complex and unique taste plate of Tasmanian fare.

The issue in question speaks with high praise of the lifestyle that’s bundled in with Tassie living, how things have changed since apple farming and paints a positive picture of the future. Digging down into Australian identity, Island excavates with precision the change of focus which has seen us turn from being the mere ‘Apple Isle’ into being a powerhouse arts both inspired and driven to be a positive and sustainable catalyst for change, form the politics of equality to the economics of the universal income.

An island state that is steeped in history , with a bright and blossoming future.