The Fullest Circle

22 years ago I arrived in Australia, fresh faced and damaged, 18 going on 19, already affected yet still so naive. I moved in with my Dad in a Victorian suburb called Clifton Hill, in a cute little apartment opposite the massive park that dominates the suburb. I had intended on a fresh start, away from the mire and malignancy of Auckland, a city I loved and hated simultaneously. I came here, to Australia, to Clifton Hill to reinvent myself.

Of course, we all know that problems follow us, even across the expanse of oceans. A fresh start is a fallacy, especially at that age, when wisdom is yet to touch our brows. The span of experience between then and now is staggering. So many lives compacted into one. 41 years old, and I find myself back in Clifton Hill, cat sitting a marvellous creature named Keyser in a cute little shoebox apartment – right next door to where I used to live.

The concept of things coming full circle has always eluded me, being somewhat of an unintentional nomad. I have moved constantly in the 20 odd years I’ve been here, all within the same city, never settling for long, always trying to outrun the darkness. And here I am, back where I started, in much the same situation. Shell-shocked and blinking against the light as I start my life again. Again. Always again. It feels odd. I don’t feel completed, or satisfied, or finalised in any way. I feel much the same as I did then, albeit tempered by the complexities of a life well-lived. Here I am, talking as if I’m in my twilight years when really, I’m just beginning.

I have no idea what’s coming next. I don’t know what the Fates have in store for me. I know things are moving; my career, my self worth, my adultness, all are moving forward at a rate that I can’t fathom. I have no control, I’m just holding on and going for the ride, knowing that what’s to come will be as surprising and soul altering as what has been.

One thing that is different now to what was then: I am fierce now. More fierce than I have ever been. My heart is shredded, my soul is singed at the edges, but it gives me a power that I can’t describe. I am aware now, more awake than I ever could have imagined. I don’t see the path in front of me, but I’m now at a point where I don’t need to know what’s coming. I just have an unwavering faith that the Universe knows what it’s doing, and I’m about to enter something new and unimagined.

This blog, all the things I have written, splashing my innermost desires and despairs across the page gives only a fraction of what I experience. It’s my platform, my tool of self-expression. I have followers, but really, it’s just for me. My own little narcissistic soap box of opinions and responses; a sifting of disjointed thoughts into something clearer. Comprehensible.

I am here now.

I am here.

I am.


Of cats and chocolate

Photography by Phoebe Taylor

Photography by Phoebe Taylor

You shouldn’t feed chocolate to cats. It’s bad for their hearts and teeth. I don’t know this from experience, just simple common sense. Also, leaving chocolate in a hot car for 5 hours reduces it to goop. Tasty, tasty goop, but goop nonetheless.

These are my two favourite things at the moment: my cats, and chocolate. I’m supposed to be learning lines for my next show – A Reading List for the Outback Housewife – but what I am doing is playing with my fluff-ball princess powder puff cat named Persephone, and eating chocolate that’s been left in a hot car for 5 hours.

You see, Mallory – that’s my character – is a bitch. A 38-year-old dyed in the wool Catholic who lives in 1940s outback Australia and who hates sex. I’m finding it difficult to relate to her. It’s also the third insane bitch character I’ve played this year, which leads me to believe that I play nasty and mad very well. You gotta do what you’re good at.

Mallory  "A Reading List for the Outback Housewife" Written and directed by Christopher Bryant Photography by Sarah Walker

“A Reading List for the Outback Housewife”
Written and directed by Christopher Bryant
Photography by Sarah Walker

I have a story, dear reader. A few chapters have already been scripted and performed to the world via the awesome world of theatre, and yet there is still more. There is my story, and there are other stories that are waiting to be told and vented all over anyone who cares to listen. If you will permit me, in the weeks, months, even years to come, I would like to vent on you.


With chocolate.