pacific highways - Midland Typesetters

were customary for his father to be hosting a friend after midnight on the ...... of a shared language. .... Lobsters were once 'cheap as chips', as the English say.
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43 Volume 2

A QUARTERLY OF NEW WRITING & IDEAS

GriffithREVIEW43 Pacific Highways

REVIEW43 Pacific Highways

ESSAY HINEMOANA BAKER Walking meditations BERNARD BECKETT School report DAVID BURTON A Kiwi feast HAMISH CLAYTON The lie of the land KATE DE GOLDI Simply by sailing in a new direction LYNN JENNER Thinking about waves FINLAY MACDONALD Primate city LYNNE McDONALD Cable stations GREGORY O’BRIEN Patterns of migration ROBERTO ONELL To a neighbour I am getting to know ROD ORAM Tectonic Z REBECCA PRIESTLEY Hitching a ride HARRY RICKETTS On masks and migration JOHN SAKER Born to run CARRIE TIFFANY Reading Geoff Cochrane MATT VANCE An A-frame in Antarctica IAN WEDDE O Salutaris LYDIA WEVERS First, build your hut DAMIEN WILKINS We are all Stan Walker ALISON WONG Pure brightness ASHLEIGH YOUNG Sea of trees MEMOIR KATE CAMP Whale Road PAMELA ‘JUDY’ ROSS Place in time PETER SWAIN Fitting into the Pacific LEILANI TAMU The beach BRIAN TURNER Open road KATE WOODS Postcard from Beijing REPORTAGE SALLY BLUNDELL Amending the map STEVE BRAUNIAS On my way to the border GLENN BUSCH Portrait of an artist

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FICTION WILLIAM BRANDT Getting to yes EMILY PERKINS Waiheke Island CK STEAD Anxiety

PICTURE GALLERIES BRUCE FOSTER When the swimmer reaches shore ANNE NOBLE Christchurch Christmas, 2012 ‘Griffith REVIEW is Australia’s leading literary journal.’ – Monocle

QUARTERLY JOURNAL

POETRY JAMES BROWN GEOFF COCHRANE CLIFF FELL DINAH HAWKEN YA-WEN HO BILL MANHIRE GREGORY O’BRIEN VINCENT O’SULLIVAN

Cover design: Text Publishing

More EE eBO O poetr great stor K ies ya PAC IFIC re availab and as a HIGHW le in www free down AYS Vol. .griffi 2 l threv oad at iew.c om

PACIFIC HIGHWAYS CO-EDITED BY JULIANNE SCHULTZ & LLOYD JONES

GriffithREVIEW43 Pacific Highways Volume 2 Co-edited by Julianne Schultz and Lloyd Jones

FICTION

Nocturnal Owen Marshall

WALKING was a solace. The mild exertion, the sense of at least physical progress, the distraction of a changing scene, all a temporary relief from the sad house in which his father lay dying. Night and day occasioned different modes of movement. In the latter he was brisk amongst his fellows, as if he too had purpose and a rendezvous, while in the darkness he tended to mooch, often finding himself turning corners without conscious decision, or standing blankly before a building that had nothing to recommend it. In darkness the town suburbs were insubstantial, each quiet house much like another, their individuality cloaked by silence and lack of definition. Night walking encouraged a mild voyeurism, glimpses of unselfconscious domestic life framed by windows and bathed in soft, yellow light, or flickering in the blue haze of television, as Simon paused unseen. In a front flat an old woman in an apron, clipping the foliage of her pot plants with scissors, and with the solicitude usually reserved for attention to a child. A family laughing soundlessly at the screen, and their gaze directed there rather than at one another. The modern kitchen in which a husband was urgently voluble, and his wife critically immobile, holding a cup and staring into the darkness where Simon stood. The blond girl in the red bathrobe who had a foot on the coffee table to enable her to paint, or file, her toe nails. A bay window with three long-haired cats posed close to the

glass: so still that only the head swivel of the middle one at the last moment of Simon’s passing, proved that they were flesh and blood. The vignettes were like Vermeer paintings, lit from within, at once symbolic yet contained, and strangely uncommunicative. Only once in the night walks did any of the people he observed move from their own world into his own. While on his way home not long before midnight, the pale street lights made plain a man riding in the middle of the otherwise deserted road. He pedalled cautiously, one hand steering and the