Cirrus@Austlit

'Nuclear phenomena have been described as ‘uncanny’ because they disrupt rationalist ways of understanding space and time, but also because they are sites for the return of a variety of cultural repressions. In this essay, I explore an Australian instance of nuclear uncanniness—the ‘black mist’ that followed the first nuclear trial at Emu Field, South Australia, in 1953—through a work of life writing by witness and Anangu woman Jessie Lennon. I find that I’m the One that Know this Country! (2000) offers an Anangu critique of the nuclear uncanny, in which the various disruptions of the nuclear age are revealed to be part and parcel of the processes of colonisation. The work of life writing itself is the means for the Aboriginal survival of the nuclear apocalypse and its associated epistemological upheaval, structured around Lennon’s authorial position as ‘the one who knows this country.’' (Publication abstract)

'Late afternoons in the back seat, being driven home, I fell asleep and woke up again. The gutters were full of shredded bark and slick leaf matter. Streetlights blinked on. I watched the houses pass without wanting to arrive anywhere. In clumps together, or thin and alone, conifers stood in the spaces between driveways, stark against the umber of eucalyptus.' (Introduction)

'“I peeled apples and sliced them finger-nail deep, waking you with their scent” (1): Jen Webb’s Sentences from the Archive (Recent Work Press, 2016) begins with the pastel erotic vignette ‘Outside the Orchard’. It’s like a favourite private memory that gets indulgently recycled from time to time. “The astringent bite. Fluid in the mouth. Green skin, spiralling a green S across the lawn.” (1) But by the third poem ‘The heart of the sea’, the green is muddied, the tone becomes urgent, and the murmur of inner experience is abandoned for a collective voice: “The navy arrived in fast boats, urging us to board, guaranteeing our lives….” (3) The tense shifts midpoint to a present which seems to express a kind of futility, like the futility of prediction: “Tonight we wait, hand in hand, standing on the deck. In the distance we see it draw nearer. I think that it’s a rainstorm, but someone says no, it’s angels. Someone else says it is the herald of our end.” (3)' (Introduction)