I do not even like to cook, hate to grocery shop, do not care for the company of strangers or dinner parties, and yet when I am alone I can think of nothing else, of nothing but Cook Australia, Cook!, of being a contestant on the show, of swiftly preparing food within set time limits, of coming up with witty and insightful comments, of receiving thoughtful criticism for my dishes (hóng shāo ròu with wilted bok choy and soft-boiled quail eggs, Żubrówka and cloudy apple gelatine cubes with cheddar cheese ice-cream and crumbled butter cookies, agar-agar chocolate spaghetti with truffle meatballs and watermelon coulis), dishes I have never attempted to make as my enthusiasm only exists in the moments when cognition floats between awareness and dream, as it does now, as I doze on a lazy Sunday, lying on my side, facing away from my wife, of whom I never fantasise for our reality is all too plain, our marriage having lasted for over ten years now, a decade+, enough time to have exhausted all our anecdotes, observations, inclinations, and dreams, which is why she is never by my side when I imagine myself as a partnered contestant on Cook Australia, Cook!, C.A.C. as the advertisements call it, always encouraging the addition of a hashtag so as to ensure its propagation on social media, with which I have never engaged, having never once liked or linked anything relating to C.A.C. on my Facebook page or Twitter account or LinkedIn profile, in fact if asked about the show I turn up my nose, routinely voicing to colleagues during water cooler chitchat my disapproval of the cooking pageant enterprise, its existence wholly dependent on promoting the national grocery chain, which I proudly do not frequent, indeed I haughtily rally against, declaring my support for the independent senators who condemn these conglomerates’ strong-arming of local farmers and investments in poker-machine locations, and yet I still dream of playing the central role in this national competition, exchanging witticisms with the beloved judges, the Bulgarian-Australian who owns a franchise of continental-style cafés with locations in Bondi, the Gold Coast, and Fremantle, a fact I know because I always watch C.A.C., sometimes twice, re-watching the repeat on Sunday afternoons or streaming on-line at c-a-c.network.com.au on my early morning commute, wearing headphones and concealing my smartphone screen with my palm so other passengers do not see that I am so crass as to engage in such a show, someone as respectable-looking as myself, wearing a suit without a tie because I bring so much prestige to my workplace, Career Training Australia Ltd, where I, Lloyd Gadd, oversee the LLNP syllabus for the Write Now! initiative for the entire nation and have done so for three years, and that is as far as I need to go in justifying myself and my CV and what I stand for because as a contestant of C.A.C. that is all the time you get, a swift 30-second spot to define yourself, to characterise (or rather caricaturise) exactly who it is you purport to be, for the medium is not real, not a reflection of any sort of liveable experience, not even effective as romantic fantasy, pitiful as pornography, and yet I continue to watch this trivial show on my phone, using up my allotted monthly data, tolerating the on-line commercials I am required to watch to gain access, some of which promote the very phone network I am using, the show itself unapologetically an extended series of cross-promotional adverts, re-emphasised as I watch the bronzed-surfer judge shill his vegan and juice-diet cookbooks while giving friendly but clichéd comments to a lesbian Thai couple I am certain were only selected due to the diversity they bring to the franchise, not explicitly declaring themselves to be in a homosexual relationship but hinting at it with excessive innuendo, themselves no doubt hoping to reveal their not-so-covert passions in a Right Now! Weekly ‘exposé’ for which they will receive a handsome payment, perhaps even hoping to someday adopt a child, a troublesome ordeal that they could well leverage for another sizeable payday from RN!W for an additional in-depth article, their whole livelihoods gradually becoming an escalating series of generically dramatic magazine-glossed events, far more engaging than the currently-transpiring federal election, every voting citizen in the country eventually becoming a C.A.C. contestant, building their own brands, cooking more food on TV than in their kitchens, promoting and articulating their icastic selves, making their stock worthy to the televisual, social media, social capital networks, which no one is able to refuse, refusing itself a choice that carries with it its own advantages, my own public rejection of the show a perfect example of promoting my cultural worthiness, exhibiting to anyone who listens that I belong to an upper echelon, that I am above such bourgeois activities as hosting dinner parties or deriving vulgar pleasure from food, for me it is just fuel, though I try to eat healthy because if I am to be a contestant on C.A.C. I will need to look good, without a doubt one must be in great shape to compete, to be aesthetically palatable to the public, otherwise I may be interpreted as a buffoon, as a cartoon to be laughed at, distilled to cruel catchphrases scripted by writing teams, because no one ever truly speaks their mind, all dialogue is orchestrated, a reality show production technique I am familiar with because I watched a self-declared ‘controversial’ behind-the-scenes interview, filmed by RN!W’s primary competitor What¿Now (the video recommended to me by my $1000+ smartphone using algorithms I do not understand), in which the video editor of the second season of the reality series ‘told all,’ revealing that all arguments between competitors were fabricated, that she despised the gig because it was ‘corporate’ and ‘derivative’ and not at all what she went to film school for, but at least it paid the bills, allowed her to fund her pet projects, which she has never actually had time to pursue because she has a husband and wants a child and an apartment in Sydney, and say what you want about C.A.C. (and I do say and the video editor did say, claiming not to like the show, that it was ‘just a job,’ putting up a façade of total cultural sophistication, ignoring the interviewer’s questions about the upcoming C.A.C. season, wanting only to discuss the rereleased print of Ingmar Bergman’s Viskningar och rop screening at the 26th Annual Swedish film festival, or the newly translated poems of Kōtarō Takamura, or the ethical repercussions of staging Caryl Churchill’s Seven Jewish Children: A Play for Gaza), we all have to eat, a fact C.A.C. repeats ad nauseam before adding the tagline ‘but not all of us eat well,’ as though every mouthful must be cherished, must be worthy of acclaim, and one must never be satiated, must never tolerate anything imperfect, must indulge at every opportunity, must live one’s wildest fantasy at all times, and I certainly do fantasise as I push my trolley down aisle five, just never with my wife by my side, despite the fact that she’s a competent cook, a brilliant cardiologist, a delightful conversationalist, and such a considerate lover that she surely must be far from content with my paltry performance, but I tell no one this, certainly not the cameras of C.A.C. or the pages of RN!W, I always act like my love life is spectacular, wild but not abnormal, satisfying but not central to my existence, varied but not as encyclopaedic as the pornographic tap us children of the 90s were exposed to, overseen by high-speed Internet and Bill Clinton and a perpetual state of lacking, requiring an unyielding motivation to increase one’s brand, to further invest in one’s self, whether one is Kōtarō Takamura’s ghost or a Thai lesbian ex-competitor on C.A.C. or a candidate in the current federal election or overseer of the LLNP syllabus for Career Training Australia Ltd, we’re all of us undergoing the same ailment, the same cycle, the need for more, for a different experience, a different wife is what I imagine, a Nordic woman who helps me serve up Bergensk fiskesuppe with salmon and monk fish, and we tell the judges ‘That’s how it’s served in the harsh Bergen winter,’ and we flirt with one another in Norwegian and our competitors are intrigued and perhaps a little jealous and paranoid, and we are admired for our very great and humble contribution to Australian cuisine that can now be replicated by home cooks across the nation provided the ingredients are available at the major grocery chain, which they will be as our recipe will be made available as part of the show’s cross-promotional cookbook that can be bought just in time for Christmas and makes a great stocking stuffer, or perhaps instead wannabe chefs will imitate my bandeja paisa that I prepare with my imagined Colombian partner, a curly-haired, voluptuous woman who sasses the competing teams but uses adorable, sensually-rolled consonants so as not to be labelled a monster, to which I play a mediating force, and we form a smart-alecky but adept team, and we are congratulated for our authentic selves being flawlessly presented by the video editor who pretends to hate her job but in fact enjoys the luxuries it affords and she is also secretly and shamefully intrigued by our dishes and uses her payment from said job to buy ingredients from the grocery chain she is promoting to make dishes for her kids who are grateful that their mother can provide a home in the competitive Sydney housing market as well as a meal that is both nutritious and tasty, although the kids will not realise this till well after they have grown-up because offspring are ungrateful, not worth the trouble, the worst investment, although being older without sons or daughters sends a very bad signal to the home viewer (the C.A.C. demographic consisting predominantly of family audiences, the teenage and young adult markets instead gravitating towards edgier on-line programming and activities, attracting much cooler and more predatory marketing teams that I dare not even fantasise about trying to appeal to), a sense of indulging too much, of being greedy with love, so reproduction will ultimately be necessary, despite the enormous time and financial drain, plus there is always the chance that Australian networks may follow the American version (Cook America, Cook!) on which the series is based and create a kid’s edition of C.A.C., Cook Australian Kids, Cook!, and my hypothetical child will no doubt have inherited the requisite wit and skill to not only compete but win, thus enriching his or her CV, allowing them to better compete in the job market, the housing market, the romance market, for it is the markets that determine us, and as I turn to my wife, who lies on her side, splayed ungracefully, the asymmetry of her coffee-stained teeth peeking through chapped lips, eyelids lightly closed, I realise that I have never seen her cry, cannot imagine her welling up as she wins the C.A.C. grand finale, or being upset if pork crackling were to burn, or if I were to threaten divorce, she would likely just shrug her shoulders, display minimal disappointment, claim not to be that bothered, likely poke fun, utilise dry sense of humour, make deadpan jabs at my romantic inadequacies, nothing too crass, insults acceptable for PG ratings, the sort of quips that fit into fluffy reality TV show asides, friendly teases, a loving cruelty, the sort of attitude that would make people at home think I’m probably a pretty nice guy for putting up with her, a guy who is coy but charming, and we would be liked (regarded as cute), then loved (regarded as endearing), then championed (regarded as Australia’s sweethearts), and our insights into cooking would be noted because I love my wife and am glad that I married her, and we will not win but come close, and do an interview on an early morning newsmagazine during which we will publicly kiss and get an ‘aww’ from the middle-aged reporter who has recently divorced and sold her story to RN!W, and as they cut away she discloses to her co-host that she wishes she could have as strong a relationship as we have, as nice meals as we make, as happy a family as we do, adoration unfurling forever, without breaks, not even for commercials, the whole audience that is the Australian population indefinitely spewing praise for me and all I stand for because I do love my wife – yes, I surely must, it is unavoidable – the unofficial champion of Cook Australia, Cook!

He, Hyuk, 혁, of the genus Menura, was better than this. 너무 똑똑한 for this country, this group of people, this absurd compulsory learning, this 생활, this queue, this 방법 he did not care for or wish to be part of. All politicians were the same to him. Noted for their capacity to ape sounds from the environment. One must cite correctly, show evidence. Give credit to the original thinker. The lyrebird was thought to be in the partridge/pheasant family, and for a time were called ‘peacock-wrens.’ He had no say in the matter. If he did, this was it: lining up with a group of unknowns to select unknowns. Original Korean inventions, embraced by the world: soybean cultivation, the greenhouse, the water gauge, refrigeration, the newspaper, the mp3 player, the milk carton. Would it matter? Its syrinx gives the bird its ability to mimic. They can even imitate the cackle of kookaburras (OOKABURRA, K. ‘CACKLE’, ANIMAL NOISES, VOL.11, PP.22–12.), growls of dingoes (INGO, D. ‘GROWL’, ANIMAL NOISES, VOL.9, PP.55–67.), rattle of chainsaws (HAINSAW, C. ‘RATTLE’, MECHANICAL SOUNDS, VOL.3, PP.110–144.), blares of car alarms (LARMS, A. ‘BLARES’, JOURNAL OF WARNINGS, VOL.21, PP.88–101.), wails of babies (ABY, B. ‘WAILS’, EARLY DEVELOPMENT SOUNDS, VOL.4, PP. 55–67.), murmurs of humans (UMAN, H. ‘MURMURS’, THE ENTIRE HISTORY OF HUMANITY, VOL.1849823, pp. 232412314–234839234.) The teacher had explained how, but he did not recall the correct 방법, confirming their opinion that he belonged 이리. Gorgeous plumage. He belonged anywhere but 이리. The University of XXXXXX takes plagiarism very seriously. Lyrebird song is a mixture of its own unique song and mimicked noise. Korean creations are used every day: TVs, cars, air-conditioning systems. 이리 he, Hyuk, 혁, copied their words, speech patterns, conversational modes, application letter templates: plagiarism. LATIN WORD FOR KIDNAPPER. 표절. The Korean word did not carry the same whiff of sin. It has been determined that your submission in LMB 391 violates the academic code of conduct. As a result, it is the decision of the faculty that you be… Put with the weakest. The result of Australian defiance. …until such time that… He ticked the box with the weakest-looking name, the smallest number of letters. Less space = less prominence. ACCORDING TO SECTION 268 OF COMMONWEALTH ELECTORAL ACT (1918), A VOTE IS REGARDED AS INFORMAL IF… He, Hyuk, 혁, signed his name.

Patching up her make-up using her compact mirror, Mary Joy caught her reflection and felt, as when Captain John Hunter sent an animal specimen (pelt and accompanying sketch) to the naturalist George Shaw in 1799, believing it to be a deception by Asian taxidermists made up of a combination of CHOCOLATE AND RICE MAY SEEM A PECULIAR MIX, BUT CHAMPORADO IS A POPULAR DISH IN PHILIPPINE CUISINE, MADE BY BOILING STICKY RICE WITH COCOA, MILK, AND SUGAR. She belched, tasted cocoa, and reapplied eyelid tape to give the impression similar to the Pacific hagfish or lamprey. Platypus eyes contain double cones. The corneal surface is curved, similar to the sea lion or otter. Following today’s obligation, Mary Joy would attend to the post office to pay her fine. She was a novice driver: one who has not held a licence for a period of at least two years. Last Saturday evening, she had drunk a bottle of San Miguel at the casino bar – AT OVER 80%, AUSTRALIA HAS THE WORLD’S HIGHEST GAMBLING RATE, WITH 4% OF ADULTS ENGAGING WITH ‘POKIES’ WEEKLY – after using Centrelink payments to gamble, an indulgence she afforded herself every weekend. She had won $1,320 –GAMING MACHINES RETURN, ON AVERAGE, 90% OF TURNOVER TO THE GAMBLER – and consumed a drink to celebrate. BAC must be zero. Men spoke to her, attracted, she suspected, by her $460 shoes – widow of Filipino dictator Ferdinand Marcos, accused kleptocrat, first lady from 1965–86, one of the richest politicians through her amassing of clothing, artwork, jewellery, and offshore accounts. After leaving Malacañang Palace, she left behind five hundred gowns, one thousand hand bags, and an absurd amount of shoes –, the low hem-line of her skirt, and confident posture, though when she responded, dissolving her coy veneer – born with ankle spurs, which contain DLPs and cause lysis in pathogenic bacteria and viruses, powerful enough to kill small dogs/cats – refusing their offers to purchase drinks, revealing she wanted to get home as she wished to attend church the following morning – 87% OF THE FILIPINO POPULATION IS ROMAN CATHOLIC; IN 1970 A FAILED ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT WAS MADE ON POPE PAUL VI AT MANILA AIRPORT – interest waned. Driving home, she was pulled over. Police can require vehicles be stopped for ‘prescribed purpose,’ which includes breathalyser tests. Failure to stop can result in fines of up to $6,000. She sensed this would happen – Electroreceptors and mechanoreceptors are located in the bill; cortical cells receive input from these receptors, and she was acquitted of 32 counts of illegal transfers to Swiss accounts in 2008 – that her luck for the evening would run out (RETURN ACHIEVED OVER APRPOX. 3–4 YEARS). The policewoman was curt, but not rude. Mary Joy admired this quality, received the fine in the same manner, with minimal English. She had learned enough to exist, to live the life she wished, SERVED IN BOWLS WITH CONDENSED MILK AND DRIED ANCHOVIES. She ticked her name off at the desk, received her ballot, and placed it immediately into the ballot box, ACCORDING TO SECTION 268 OF COMMONWEALTH ELECTORAL ACT (1918), A VOTE IS REGARDED AS INFORMAL IF… unmarked, content she was above such things

→ → → He had been here before, would be here again, cyclical was the word he was looking for, the exact articulation of his feeling. vòng tròn. ○ ○ ○ SAME ROUTE. The term that had caused so much trouble, the term he understood but could not pronounce. Before you are able to legally operate and chauffeur fare-paying passengers, you must have the correct licence. WE’VE RECEIVED SEVERAL COMPLAINTS FROM PASSENGERS. phàn nàn. Back to Việt Nam. SAME ROUTE. A charter driver’s licence allows a driver to carry fee-paying passengers. Go back there, come back here. SAME ROUTE. vòng tròn. Kangaroo on the side of the bus. Macropodidae, macropods, meaning large foot. On the tail of the plane. QANTAS flight. NOW DEPARTING. SYD → SIN → SGN. Thành phố Hồ Chí Minh. NOW ARRIVING. There again, back again. Tag on/off. NOW DEPARTING. SGN → SIN → SYD. Where’s it stop? → ‘Ring number. Ring Transport.’ Tôi muốn về nhà. WE’VE RECEIVED MULTIPLE COMPLAINTS. YOU MUST HELP THE PASSENGERS. ‘I drive bus. Ring number.’ Studies have proven a correlation between hopping and breathing. WE’VE RECEIVED AN ENORMOUS NUMBER OF COMPLAINTS. NO ONE UNDERSTANDS YOU. ‘Ring number.’ You really put your foot in it, mate! Macropod. Powerful hind legs for leaping. You’re going to have to fly home to reapply. ‘Ring number.’ → SGN? Yes. thở To apply for an extension to an existing licence, the Road Traffic Regulations state the applicant must meet the following: as feet leave the ground, air is expelled./ ‘Are you Duong?’ Yes. Yes. vâng. UNTIL SUCH TIME AS YOU ARE ABLE TO IMPROVE CONVERSATIONAL ENGLISH, WE ARE UNABLE TO EMPLOY … Tôi không hiểu. …has, for at least three (3) years, held a full driver’s licence (i.e. NOT a provisional licence), shy and retiring in nature, ‘please fill out your form here,’ must be renewed within three (3) years, → TRANSPORT OFFICE, ○ ○ ○ egg descends from ovary → uterus ‘Please take your form there and fill it out.’ Fertilised into neonate. ‘Yes, over there!’ SAME ROUTE. ‘Next please!’ Must be of good character. NOW DEPARTING. ‘Yes, just fill it out there!’ ACCORDING TO SECTION 268 OF THE COMMONWEALTH ELECTORAL ACT (1918), A VOTE IS REGARDED AS INFORMAL IF… He still did not have a pencil. He had been here before, would be here again, cyclical was the word he was looking for, the exact articulation of his feeling. vòng tròn. WE HAVE RECEIVED AN EXCESSIVE, UNACCEPTABLE NUMBER OF COMPLAINTS. Form must be filled out correctly or it will not be processed. ‘What do you need?’ Mid-bound, they can reach speeds of up to 50km/h, causing impact with a vehicle to be severe, often resulting in injury. ‘No, they’re there. Why are you coming back?’ Desk → Electoral Booth → Entryway → Desk → Submission box → Electoral Booth → Exit → Home → SYD → SIN → SGN ○ → ○ → ○ → SAME ROUTE → ○ → ○ → SIN → SYD → Transport Dept. → Embassy → Immigration Dept. → Centrelink → Class → → → NOW DEPARTING.

Thigh movement caused crackle in Douglas’s headphones. *static* DEAD PRESIDENTS *static* He was not allowed to listen to music during class, but today was not class. Do you identify as (A) Aboriginal ☑ (B) Torres Strait Islander ☐ (C) Both ☐. ‘Are you listening?’ Douglas was listening to *static* DEAD PRESIDENTS, to Nasir bin Olu Dara Jones. Born Sep. 14, 1973, ‘BROOKLYN’ splayed across his shirt. Its location unknown, regarded as fantasy, a place he might *static* CITY BANDIT, *static* SINGLE-HANDED *static* …include regional groups that identify under various names from Indigenous languages. No plans to *static* SPIT PLEGM *static* Data on belief demographics among Indigenous Australians is unreliable. Census methodologies have been ill-suited. Nas’s father, Olu Dara, was a Mississippian blues musician. His DNA indicates roots with the Yoruba people, as well as traces to Scandinavia. The ignorance of others on the subject assured him of untapped wells within *static* THOUGHTS ALONE *static* REMANDED *static* The teacher always insisted on discussing Indigenous … ness. The coin displays an Elder and is not intended to depict any person in particular. Didn’t care for it, no desire to *static* AIMING GUNS *static* ALL MY BABY PICTURES *static* Over 250 Indigenous languages were spoken at the time of European settlement. The teacher didn’t know that ‘dead presidents’ referred to money, disapproved of the ‘inherent nihilism’ in the phrase, treated Douglas like a baby, an animal. Australian coins all display a head of the monarch, and native Australian fauna. *static* RELEASE SCRIPTURES *static* MAYBE HITLER’S *static* Douglas adored this pessimism, wished such lines could serve all purposes, a lyrically percussive snippet for every situation, a synthesised catalogue of *static* What he craved, what would take him where he needed to be. Harvard University established the Nasir Jones Fellowship, which served to fund scholars who show potential and creativity in the arts in connection with hip-hop. *static* IT’S MINE, IT’S MINE *static* He just needed new headphones. If there were politicians that could provide… ACCORDING TO SECTION 268 OF COMMONWEALTH ELECTORAL ACT (1918), A VOTE IS REGARDED AS INFORMAL IF… Douglas scratched ‘I’M OUT 4 dead presidents 2 REP’ across the ballot papers.

‘Car-dee-jay!’ Khadija. خدیجه. Mother of Believers, first wife of Prophet Muhammed, PBUH, of the order Monotremata, one of the few surviving members. Her aural instincts never perked to recognise ‘Car-dee-jay’ as her name, the Australian accent forever seeming like bad radio reception, the buzz of a mosquito swarm, زیر ابزی. Dari Persian/Afghan Persian is recognised by the Afghan government as the official language. In fact, she never perked. THE TALIBAN EXPERIENCED A NUMBER OF DEFEATS. The echidna is a shy, placid animal. Its diet consists of basmati in broth with lamb. All surrounds deemed irritants. THE TALIBAN FAILED TO CAPTURE KABUL, REPELLED BY MASSOUD FORCES. Echidnas do not thrive in extreme conditions, preferring to dwell in caves to shelter from harsh weather. ‘Car-dee-jay, can you point where we are on the map?’ She gestured at the red blob at the top, with ‘R-U-S-S-I-A’ scrawled across. A guess. Bake in oven. Knew it was a guess. Schools in Afghanistan = >16,000; rate of literacy for Afghan females = approx. 24%. WITH PAKISTANI MILITARY AND SAUDI FINANCIAL SUPPORT, THE TALIBAN CAPTURED KABUL, ESTABLISHING د افغانستان اسلامي امارات, IMPOSING شريعة. Knew the teacher knew it was a guess. Wanted the teacher to know it was a guess, because the echidna can also burrow into soil, or cram its whole body under rocks. On this soil she never perked, only plodded forward as in this queue. Left foot, right foot. If disturbed it curls into a ball, hiding beneath sharp spines. She had learned ‘left’ was left, ‘right’ was right, though this information was not stored, not deemed of use. In one (left?) ear, out the other (right?) ear …with raisin(s?) Wandered through the store until it was found, through aisles, passing rice(s?), fruit(s?), cereal(s?)… peel of orange… the right nut(s?) with shell(s?) that can be pulled away with fingernail(s?), chopped pistachio(s?) The female lays one soft-shell, leather-like egg, which is deposited directly into her pouch. Prepare. ‘Name and address?’ MASS DISPLACEMENT WITH MANY ESCAPING TALIBAN RULE. Puggles will live in the den for up to a year. Bad radio reception, buzz of mosquito swarm, زیر ابزی. ‘Her name’s Car-dee-jay!’ Muhammed (PBUH) was monogamously married to Khadija for twenty-five years. Handed paper covered in scrawl, bad radio reception, buzz of mosquitos. Eat. Echidnas have no teeth. They break down food by grinding with their tongue. She draws a circle. Round, round… ACCORDING TO SECTION 268 OF COMMONWEALTH ELECTORAL ACT (1918), A VOTE IS REGARDED AS INFORMAL IF… spiralling through names of would-be senators, indenting paper with graphite before ambling away, left (left?) foot, right (right?) foot, back home to cook, to sleep, to… after her death, Muhammad PBUH married in polygyny.

Waste of time. What she thought. Always plodding forward. Like this queue. Emu and Kanga. Can’t walk backwards. That’s the motto. Coat of arms. Golden wattle framing. Heraldic visual design. Commonwealth authority/ownership. Just keep moving. Just get work. Why she’s here. She was told. By Centrelink’s phone. At nine a.m. Kept on hold. For four hours. Ordered to attend. Just keep attending. Improve language skills. The supposed goal. Impossible, unmeetable benchmarks. She’ll never achieve. Set by boards. In government offices. Who’re paid decent. Unimaginably high wages. To rate her. Her literacy levels. Abilities to comprehend. For broader purposes. Engagement with society. Decoding and cognizance. Increased passage fluency. Better computer literacy. As of 2013. Words, numbers, tech. Fourth in world. Working age adults. Ages 15–74. Which includes her. She is 46. She is data. Valuable as data. Above international average. Numeracy levels below. Bad with numbers. Cost of groceries. Completing tax returns. Paying for petrol. Calculating financial interest. Being a citizen. Of this country. A nice ideal. Incomprehensible to her. At this time. In her lifetime. With her resources. With limited capabilities. Despite political assertions. Despite best efforts. By all involved. Despite infinite education. Nothing is learned. Classes merely repeated. To satisfy whom? Best possible outcome? A redundant profession. In mechanised culture. A would-be robot. What’s the point? Today’s real motto. To what end? A potential nest-egg? She’s government funded. Will always be. So why bother? Partake in charades? Veneer of endeavour? Nothing is free. Mustn’t seem so. Intolerable to taxpayers. This she comprehended. She was nuisance. A societal ineffectual. A non-criminal plight. Handed a form. Boxes to fill. Semblance of involvement. Just draws faces. With downturned smiles. ACCORDING SECTION 268. COMMONWEALTH ELECTORAL ACT. VOTE REGARDED INFORMAL… Her authentic opinion.☹☹☹

Shouldn’t be’ere. None’f us should. It’s the weekend, for cryin’… Life only means anythin’ on the weekend. From Monday to Thursday it sure a’shit doesn’t. Mine sure a’shit don’t. This boofhead with tea towels wrapped round’er head in the middle’f summer, she definitely shouldn’t be’ere. The teacher reckons she demanded a ‘women’s only’ class. Thinks she’s Queen’f England. These Muslims… they com’ere and demand, whine, bitch. Bet she gets whatever she wants whenever she wants. Bet when she sticks her hand out bus drivers screech to a halt. Not me. Those bastards don’t even touch the brakes. I’m less picky these days. Easy-peasy. Pick me up whenever you want. Put me in whatever class you want. Expectations are on the floor. Just need a place to live, some pink on my skin, and the occasional box’f Grace Estate. Nothin’ fancy. If I wanted more I’d try harder. All’s luck anyways. If I’d been born at the right time to the right peoples I’d be Queen’f England. But the Queen’ll be dead soon. I’ll outlive her, I reckon. Surprised she’s still kickin’. When she keels, there’ll be a bunch’f fake weepin’ by people who never knew’er. Then they’ll put her idiot children on the money. Queen and I’ve both got that in common: idiot children. Whether you’re rich or poor, educated or dumb-as-bricks, kiddos disappoint. Ev’ry idiot here standin’ in line is someone’s mistake. All’f us’re only here so we don’t get a fine. That’s all this country is. Forms’n fines. Fillin’ out forms to prevent fines. So much bloody paper. Country’s a mess. Big mess’f paper. This heat. This mob. This guy who stinks’f chilli-cabbage. Ev’ry day he brings out a tin’f it, slurpin’ and stinkin’ and suckin’. Or this galah with her drink drivin’. Who thought it’d be a good idea to give her a licence? Only in this country. Nothin’ but stupidity’n humidity, forms’n fines. They should stick that on the coins, around the Queen’s head. Better bloody motto. May as well stick these dumb idiots’ heads on there too: Mr lost-his-bus-licence-cause-he-can’t-speak-proper-even-though-he’s-been-comin’-to-this-class-for-two-years. Or little high-school-dropout-with-the-baggy-pants. Or the only other real Australian who can barely speak. Yes, I said it. Real. White. Can’t say’t these days though. Can barely think it. Gotta keep your gob shut. If I said what I really thought I’d get booted out’f class. Only way to survive is to pretend. So that’s what I’ve been doin’. Pretendin’ I’m dumber than I am to stay in class. Beats workin’. No point gettin’ good. Not at anything. Not anymore. Too late for that. Sure, I can sew, and add up a few numbers, and show up on time. But no one needs clothes sewn anymore. Not by these hands. No one’s puttin’ pennies in these paws. No one ‘cept the gov’ment. In a few years, everything’ll be robots anyway. So, for now my job’s to be stupid enough (or pretend to be stupid enough) to be in this English class, but not so stupid I get kicked out. I’m an actress. Like Nicole Kidman. Cate bloody Blanchett. Geoffrey fuckin’ Rush. Real Shakespeare stuff. Multiple-performance seasons. As long as I get better slowly I can keep this up for a five-year stint. Unless they repeal the whole learn-for-money program. Which, by the look’f the dopes in this line, they prob’ly will. But as dopey as they are (and they’re thicker than cold Vegemite), none’re as dopey as my Gul. I told’er to vote, but she didn’t come. So, she’ll get a fine. Then she’ll complain. Say she didn’t know. Then beg me to pay it. Or beg me to fill out a form so she doesn’t have to pay it. These days I’m havin’ to pay for ev’rything. More nappies. More formula. More wipes. Says she can’t just use cloth. She’s got no idea’f the cost’f things. How a number equals time. My time. Can’t even afford a drink these days. Need a mortgage just to get a sip. Prob’ly ‘cause half’f it goes to taxes to pay for the lives’f Mr Stinky-cabbage and Mrs Can’t-say-more-than-three-words and Ms Lost-my-licence-drink-drivin’. Pollies always say they’ll stop these guys comin’, but nothin’ changes. They just keep comin’ and comin’. They’re all’f’em liars. Actors. Pretenders. Just like me. Can’t do a thing. Or if they can they don’t. Used to say they’d get rid’f the Asians, but never did. Now the Africans and the Middle-Easters and all the other non-whites (yes, non-whites) keep trundlin’ in. No one ever leaves. Prices keep goin’ up. Things stay bad. Or get worse. There’s just too many people. Should stop havin’ kids. All’f us. Children’s lives don’t improve. Opportunity shrinks. Possibilities narrow. You just shove more ballots and forms into more boxes and hand out more fines to collect more money and ev’rything stays the same. Or gets worse. There. Done. Name’s signed off. Gov’ment’s not takin’ any cash from me this year. Vibratin’ in my pants. ‘nother phone call from idiot offspring. Wastin’ credit. Unawar’f how much she wastes. ‘Mum? Can you buy me some take-away?’ Wants fat’n pastry. As’f she weren’t chubby enough. The other day I saw her pluggin’ her baby’s gob with chips. Kid’s gonna be a fatty. Hasn’t a hope. That’s if’t isn’t stupid already. Think it might ‘ave issues. Prob’ly downs. Doesn’t respond. Uncurious. Eyes don’t follow. I told’er she should take ‘im to the doctor. She doesn’t wanna know ‘bout it though. Doesn’t want my advice. But if she’d listen’d to my tips in the first place she wouldn’t have to go see a doctor at all. The arrogance. To go through with it. To have the kid, keep the kid, parasite’f a parasite’f a parasite. Whole nation’f parasites. Was hopin’ I’d be able to save a bit for… can’t call it retirement. Fallin’ ungracefully into the state’s hammock. These girls servin’ chips’n burgers act like I haven’t been in here three times this week. ‘Sausage roll, burger’n chips.’ Reckons she deserves a ‘please.’ If she only knew, her expression wouldn’t be so scrunched. She prob’ly reckons her not-quite-Macca’s is fancy. Prob’ly reckons the Queen’f England’d eat here. I’m not gonna wait. Had enough queues and would-be queens for a lifetime. The bottle-o next-door. More my speed. Move past swank from foreign countries to the local boxes. Carryin’ ‘em round gets you funny looks, but people can stare all they want. $9.95 for thirty standards is as good as it gets in this country. Plus, it’s my namesake: Grace Estate. ‘Can you not drink that in here, thanks.’ The bottle-o kid acts like it’s a suggestion, not demand. Thinks he’s fancy, too, recommendin’ expensive shit from places he’s never been to housewives with fancy prams and designer dog breeds that take magical shits. No, Grace Estates is the honest teat we should all be sippin’ from. ‘You can’t bring that in here,’ says burger girl. Whatever happened to respect for elders? I grunt and growl, like a non-fancy dog with non-fancy shits. Snatch my paid-for food and leave. Huff, huff, huff. Stomp off, scare any audience. Let me drink my box wine in the street in peace. It’s a free country. Votes aren’t in yet. My neighbours are makin’ faces. ‘Your kid is…’ Growl, scowl, howl. Gnash teeth. Display your shiny Grace Estates bladder. Let’m know you’re unafraid. ‘I’ll call the…’ ‘Call whoever you want, mate! Call all your police, your security, your bloody body corporate!’ Laugh to seem crazy, seem crazy to scare. I’m such a great actress. Cate bloody Blanchett. Now they’re mutterin’. Like I care what they think. Go vote if you want to make a change. I’m not your local rep. I’m not in charge of anything. Deffo not your happiness, mate. Deffo not my idiot daughter. ‘Pong, that reeks!’ Can’t face ‘er. Not today. ‘I’m not dealin’ with this, hey.’ She’s rollin’ naked on the floor. Throw take-away at her, like a barnyard animal. ‘Here’s ya chippies, Sea-Gulla.’ She’s offended but not offended enough to turn down food. Never says no. Not to idiot boys who fly off to Bali. Not to havin’ babies. ‘Toldya not to have it.’ Need to go on record. Need to repeat this, teach her to say no. To fatty food, to more kids, more mistakes. She’s prob’ly at the trough now, scoffin’. Can’t face ‘er. Not today. So just keep walkin’. Follow hot air to beach. The doctor source. Past the train station. Across the tracks. Slurping my lexia. Did you know? Your pour could be more than you think. Gov’ment’s tryin’ to warn me to stop sippin’. Some light reading on the Grace Estates box. One wineglass represents a typical serving (150mL) which averages 1.4 standard drinks. There’s no standard. Just a bunch of idiots makin’ bad decisions. To reduce risk of alcohol-related disease and injury, it is recommended not to imbibe more than 2 standard drinks in one day. What if I want to increase my risk? How many am I s’posed to slurp then? The bladder is light. Mine is full. Should’ve bought more. Wind scatters sand. Can feel grains scratching eyeballs. Find an area marked off for dune preservation. Wish they preserved me like they preserve sand and flowers. Responsible drinking is about… There’s no about. … balancing enjoyment with potential risks… No enjoyment. All risk. …and harm that may arise especially if you go beyond low risk drinking levels. I’m there. Where I wanna be. Sleepin’ as the sun goes down on a private beach. Beauty of a day. Bit chilly though. So dig. Grab fistfuls of protected sand with grubby, freckled hands. Nails are yellow, stained, infected. This sand dune more protected than my fingers. Make a mess of the beach. Be a non-fancy dog with non-fancy shits. Dig, dig, dig. Bury from cold. Easy-peasy grave. While cold snaps pass. While Gulla stuffs ‘er face. While the country votes. Lie here. Dig, dig, dig. Don’t worry ‘bout skin flaking off fingers, or grains lodged under nails, or the hardness of the ground. Don’t worry ‘bout this big, yellowed bone. Don’t question if it’s from fish, or dog, or man, or cow. Chuck it with the other fistfuls. The dead aren’t your responsibility. Dig, dig, dig. Job to do. Clean drunk fun. Balance enjoyment with potential risk. Fine achievement. Feels good. More’n I’ve done all year. Lie in the cold sand. Bury yourself. Shovel legs with swipes. Excavate chunks onto chest. Form peaks. Giant sand bosoms. Seal limbs and neck. Be a root vegetable. Protected by local gov’ment. Nothin’ but a head stickin’ out. The emptied bladder of lexia takes full effect, makes its way to mine. Connected to country. Golden soil. No wealth for no toil. Listen to waves as I nod off, as new gov’ment congeals, as bladders are emptied, as I’m emptied of ev’rything.