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We Helveticas are everywhere / down subways across shopping centres / hey heyyying on dating apps / s(t)olid pillars / tempting you into our cult / be like us we can give you / unencumbered lines / soft smooth curves / respectability & ineffability
I only wish when I was growing up there had been examples of autistic characters on television like Heartbreak High’s Quinni (Chloé Hayden), played by actors who are themselves autistic. Chloé Hayden is one of the first autistic actors to play an autistic character in a major TV series, and I feel angry that I didn’t see this sort of representation when I was younger. If I had, I may have realised I was autistic before I was in my 20s, which may have made my journey easier.
In the last few weeks, we have been drowned, smothered or mired in words that have striven for solemnity. Such occasions as the death of Queen Elizabeth II and the various Grand Finals are held to transcend the everyday and so to demand elegiac or epic words. It is easy to laugh at the manifest failures to reach those heights, whether by Poets Laureate who should have known better, or by excitable journalists. There is, however, something endearingly human in the attempt.
Humans depend greatly on hope. In a recent interview, Tova Friedman discusses her book The Daughter of Auschwitz, the memoir of the part of her childhood spent in the eponymous and notorious concentration camp. Can someone who has seen first hand the depths of human depravity be at all hopeful about the future?
We celebrate wordsmiths, minor and major, whose gift it is to write the world for us / To create the nourishing broth, the alphabet soup, of words to work their magic / Words that exhort and advocate / That calm and soothe / Words on which to float away / Words for strength on another day.
There's an assumption that writers shouldn’t be writing about groups they don't belong to, as if this couldn’t be done with honesty and insight, respect and restraint. Difficult, yes, but impossible? Whether in fiction or non-fiction, outsiders might misunderstand and misrepresent the people they depict, but sometimes, insiders will too. Sometimes, outsiders will lack insight, but sometimes, when they’re curious, attentive, when they do not overreach, they’ll capture truth.
Out of the blue I was sent a photograph that is nearly 40 years old. Why did this photograph trigger a wave of nostalgia? For me, nostalgia is not something to be sneered at as a longing to return to a forgotten past, but rather respected for allowing us to reflect on remembered joys.
Joel Birnie’s short and admirable book provokes reflection both on what should have mattered in the relationships between colonial invaders and Indigenous peoples in the nineteenth century and on what matters in the relationships that constitute Australia today.
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