ELECTRIC FEEL by MGMT. Story by Barbara Samuelson.
It was the first time I learned what a silent disco headphone system even was.
It was the first time I learned what a silent disco headphone system even was.
My name sounds different when she says it, and often, I ignore her the first time so I can hear her call it again.
Mum was a practical woman. She expressed her love through deeds. Tender words and demonstrative affection werenāt her strong suit. Particularly at home.
You resolve to simply never think about Harry Styles, or One Direction, ever again.
My daughter takes me to a movie that sheās already seen and thinks I will like. The movie is so-so, but thereās a song in it that I love.
It was strange: I listened to it, and the unspoken words hanging between us were suddenly said ā not by him, or me, but by this angelic voice from afar. It was an admission, an apology. No, it was a plea. No, maybe it was just a song.
I take off and pedal cross the road. The waa-waa synth-like drop begins, and the drums kick in as I, too, drop onto the Merri Creek path, a petite valley sectioning the northern suburbs of Melbourne.
Michael Leach joins the dots between Elvis, Memphis, Marc Cohn and Florence Welch. And teacups.
The blue star light went to my room, the PokƩmon poster and books went to my sister, and the guitar went to a corner in the living room, where everyone fights the urge to strum it when they walk past. What are we if not pieces of our older sibling, broken off and handed to us as they grow?
We start with magic tricks; whilst I make things disappear I am gauging their interests, their humour, their energy.