We are a nation of Indigenous peoples and immigrants, a new world with an ancient past, a land of many melodies
Now here I am, in a country town, in a pub of good spirit, in a song without end, in the company of people content to play their role, with the ghost of Walt Whitman hovering at my side.
Like a million fools before me, and a million more to come as sure as night follows day, I leave my virgin emotions unspoken, expecting osmosis to be a go-between.
Intention often gets forgotten when it comes to art and all that remains are interpretations. How others remember our insides in music or words or pictures is what survives time.
A bloke had a vague notion. The Williamstown Literary Festival turned it into a reality.
It is a source of quiet pride – and privilege - that nearly a dozen contributors to Stereo Stories have entrusted their accounts of mental health with us.
Greensleeves is the sound of anticipation. The sound of promise and summer. The sound of hot days. The sound of ice-cream on your tongue, melting over your fingers, dripping onto your toes.
No shaking shoulders and no audible sobs for this public crying needs to be invisible for the grief mask to be effective. "Don’t let the sun catch you crying", sings Gerry with his Pacemakers.
A rollercoaster through yourself. The rain monotonously pounds on the floor-to-ceiling window, obscuring the twinkling lights of the city. Murmurs disperse across the room...
Given the literary aspect of Stereo Stories and the embracing, innovative nature of libraries, one should not be surprised that libraries have hosted quite a few of our concerts