Academic journal article Hecate

Not All Legacies Are an Act of Generosity

Academic journal article Hecate

Not All Legacies Are an Act of Generosity

Article excerpt

Scribbled this on a napkin at the coffee shop this morning. Might be able to use it in something. It just seemed to come from nowhere. I think I may have dreamt it.

He sits on the green couch. The arms are white vinyl and dirty from the vegemite fingers of my younger brother and sisters. How many of them are there now? Let's see. Me, my brother, my sister, my other sister and all the dead ones, the ones my mother grieves for. She calls them the angels. And always others are waiting in the wings. He sits there in the brown check dressing gown with egg down the front, bitten finger nails, chain smoking non-filter cigarettes, silent, smouldering, staring at me. 1 had to stay home from school. Where is our mother? I don't know whether to stay in the room or go outside. His eyes piercing me. Where have all the others gone.

I don't suppose I will ever use it in the novel. Someone said to me once that my characters are such strange, repressed figures. So lonely and alone. Heroines always travel alone. And how often does the heroine escape an intolerable situation only to discover that before too long, after a brief glimpse of freedom, she finds herself held captive again?

Memories are old lies

Memory is an unreliable witness, I think. But this memory comes often so I usually don't doubt it. But it could have been a dream I suppose. Most things could be if you face them. I was sick that day. I had thrown up in my soup bowl. The lady in charge of the crèche called my father to collect me, which meant he had to knock off work early. Strange that I should be aware of that small fact-I was only three years old-but I must have sensed this was the cause of his anger, initially. As soon as we were clear of the crèche, he picked me up in his arms, roughly, and held me tight, in a vice-like grip. …

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