Cirrus@Austlit

'We are always on Country, no matter if it is called city or desert, school or bush, road, rock, mountain, beach—even in the prison it is all Indigenous land. This is the settlers’ unpayable debt. I run down by the river on Wurundjeri Country, in morning or night, whether it is lighted by mist or the silver wattle blooms, it’s all the ancestors and the stories of this land, which I can never fully know. It is through art and writing, I think, that we have already begun to reciprocate these stories, to account for and somehow resist malign presences, which, as Charmaine Papertalk Green tells us in ‘More than Balga Grass trees and kangaroos’ (2022) have tried to ‘eras[e] our stories out’. So here:' (Introduction)

'Welcome to the brain dump and rants of a burnt-out Black woman who has mastered the skills of denial and compartmentalisation around grief and loss.'(Introduction)

'This year, in April, I turned 45. I also moved into the first house that I have ever bought. It’s taken me until I am thoroughly middle-aged to put down some actual roots. I’m in a suburb that I’ve always felt at home in, in an area that I first moved into as a teenage home-leaver. And despite the fact that the place needs some pretty expensive work to make it sustainable, it feels pretty good to finally have a ‘permanent address’.' (Introduction)