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Articles by Lulu Houdini
On losing one’s say: Sophie Cunningham and the geography of desire
On losing one’s say: Sophie Cunningham and the geography of desire By Peter D Mathews What crime is there in losing one’s way? — Ovid, Metamorphoses, III.142 Sophie Cunningham’s debut novel, Geography (2004), opens with its protagonist Catherine watching a green sea turtle covering its eggs on a beach in Tangalla, Sri Lanka. Her anxiety about the turtle’s unborn young concentrates around her own fears and insecurities: “It is hard, but necessary, to feel hopeful that it will survive” (1–2).
The Disappearance of a.k.a. Victor Mature
The Aguila Azteca creaks out of Nuevo Laredo at twenty-seven minutes after nine. There is that desert in the night and there is this moon shedding silver from what always looks like a horrified face to me no matter what they say about beautiful or green cheese or rabbit (if you are Japanese) and there is a.k.a. Victor Mature. He and I are sealed into a cama matrimonial.
An idiosyncratic archive: Overland 169 & the Wolstonecroft years
The stumps under our floor are teetering and though not the cause it is nevertheless a cause for alarm, the weight of thousands of books we have partially shelved but also stacked in piles of varying consonance impossible to discard. Yet despite this number, it is the handful of books, missing through loans or misfortune, that haunt me.
Tidelines
The tideline ridges—a fingerprint impressed on the land, I am here travelling the lines of my time, Dang, sorry. This is only available to a Meanjin subscriber. But we can fix that. It\’s just $100 for a print subscription, $5 for a monthly digital subscription, and $50 for an annual digital subscription.
Fiction | garramilla/Darwin
We sit in East Point Reserve and look at how the gidjaas, green ants, make globe-like homes out of the leaves — connected edges with fibrous tissue that I later learn is faithful silk. Safe inside. Why isn’t it safe outside? I pick up the plastic around this circular lake cause this is the way I can landcare, care land. Tend to the space and picture that I insert myself into, then stretch my legs out on the grass once we find the right spot. Visitor.
Neilma Sidney Short Story prize winner, Golden Hour
The ginger cat has killed again. All that’s left is a small pinkish organ lying on the carpet—everything else has been eaten. The cat climbs into Faye Bedwell’s lap and urges itself at her, working its hindquarters and pushing its face at her neck, making her dream of a foxtrot on a purple carpet and the pink neck of a dance partner. Her mouth opens with a thrill. The doorbell chimes and the cat springs away. Faye crams her glasses on and heaves out of her chair. It chimes again.
The privilege of common sense
When Oprah Winfrey featured Jeanine Cummins’ American Dirt in her bookclub, it created excitement in the Latinx community. There was a feeling that a spotlight would shine on the plight of migrants. The book had received considerable hype, with novelist Don Winslow comparing it to John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath and famed Chincanx writer Sandra Cisneros calling it ‘the great novel of las Americas’.
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