Lately I’ve had my head down working on a second draft of the new novel, which is coming together nicely (still a long way to go). It’s such a luxury to be able to work at my own pace. This book might end up being entirely written at home on Kaurna Yarta, as circumstances have prevented much adventuring this year. If so, it will be the first time I’ve managed to stay in one place throughout the process, and not move countries/cities in the middle of a project. It’s been quite good to bury myself in this one.

Two of my favourite local artists, Laura Wills and Will Cheesman, recently invited me to contribute to their public artwork, Rain, which celebrates the rain moth. Their incredible work is installed on Osmond Terrace in Norwood and is best visited in the evening when the lighting components are at their most magical. I wrote a fable about the moth which you can read or listen to here, along with more details about the work. A real honour to be brought into this project, to get to think with abantiades atripalpis and with other artists, including Laura, Will and Violet Buckskin.

The rain moths emerge in autumn and live above ground for a single day. The vast majority of their life cycle is spent underground in tunnels, where they grow and feed on the roots of trees. In flight, adult females can lay about 40,000 eggs, making them the most fertile of the non-social insects.

Researching the rain moths made me think about art and activism and the long growth periods that happen below the surface in both these fields. The work is mostly what you don’t see, what isn’t celebrated or made into a public spectacle. It’s no less valuable for that.

I reflected on this principle recently while reading Max Easton’s new novel, Now, Autonomy. The book focuses on a group of punks who are trying to get a DIY venue up in Sydney. In the process they stumble across the story of the Midnight Star, a squatted social centre in Homebush that really existed, that lasted a miraculous 8 or 9 months in 2002.

Dug this old pic out of the archives. Proof of a past life, and proof of continuity too.

I remember writing about it at the time; I was always concerned about putting what we were doing on record somewhere, knowing how transient and contested these temporary autonomous spaces were. You can still find my larval byline attached to the project if you look carefully.

I like to think that I am more at peace with the ephemeral now, but I have to say I enjoyed the uncanny sensation of reading some of this history transformed into fiction. You just never know what you are making, who you’ll connect with, and what will emerge from that dark, rich soil.