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'In high school, my bludge subject was woodwork. It was a bludge because there was a rule that if you forgot to bring your pencil, you weren’t allowed to make anything—a bizarre kind of reverse pen license. I spent the lessons participating in competitions of endurance with the other pencilless bludgers. We squeezed our limbs in vises and sandpapered each others’ arms. It was important to prove who was the toughest, the most stoic and unyielding. Later I sat at my desk, grimacing as a pearly, orange-pink liquid seeped from my skin. I’m not sure why we were so obsessed with these challenges.' (Editorial introduction)
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'After wading in unknown waters, I take sinking steps back through the sand. On a recent trip to Port Willunga, I feel South Australia’s undulating ocean for the first time. I return to dry concreted land and shake my foot. I dust it off with light slaps, watching grains of sand fall gently onto the cement. But more remains—persistent, stuck to my feet, unshakable in the crevices between my toes. The deep turquoise tide whooshes ahead of me, the breeze nudging more sand to detach and I wonder, how many grains of sand are there in the world?' (Introduction)
