Category: writing

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When Nick Comes to Town 

Soft winking clouds against a background of the sunniest midmorning blue waved hello at me as I trotted over to Jakominiplatz. It was a Saturday morning of electricity; dirndl-clad Austrians waltzed to a Accordionist as I passed the Rathaus, the Hauptplatz didgeridoo man was chucking away at his absolute finest, little austrian children spun around in awkward elongated circles to the group of four … Read More When Nick Comes to Town 

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An Adventure Featuring Hammocks And Old Austrian Gents

I love rain. Its ability to generate an instantaneously cozier environment, the aesthetic of sitting up against a mighty window, a mug of creamy steaming coffee between two slightly chilled hands, sitting cross legged, shoeless; the patter of the rain against the glass a perfect acoustic companion to the book you have sitting on your lap.  It’s pleasant to be inside and dry when … Read More An Adventure Featuring Hammocks And Old Austrian Gents

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From Such Great Heights

I gently rock back and forth to the tune of the slurping river Mur as it swishes its way amongst the rocks and the ducks beside me. My hammock, slung between two perfectly distanced trees, is of a breathable material; the caressing wind nudging into the pores of the fabric and hugging my naked wiggling toes in blissful circulation. From my 270-degree window I … Read More From Such Great Heights

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Mapping the Self

Yes, it’s quite functional to wear Hunter wellies in a rainstorm; but why is that I take to the streets in my black gloss boots in times of sunshine and crispy breeze? In my boots am I a Scottish gardener, taking long, steady strides along the heather and potatoes, the lip of my boots generating a gentle suctioning noise against my calf, the thick, … Read More Mapping the Self

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So Many Questions

My left hand rests on the thin stem of the wide-lipped wine glass containing a comfortable amount of 2014 Chianti Classico; the fingers of my right hand stretch across the hard keyboard, the clicks and chinks of which ooze palpably throughout my small Austrian room transforming me into the screenwriter that Ewan McGregor plays in Moulin Rouge. 1940’s crime and noir jazz shyly slinks … Read More So Many Questions