A Solo Performer Seeks Residency

There is some thing about a daily creative practise that makes me really excited… and gung ho!! Like purposeful, structured writing… slightly controlled, punctual, I don’t want to say contained, but I suppose in a sense there is something really lovely about being able to have a plan and ‘stick to it’…

But then I realise it doesn’t quite work like that. And deep down I know this, I know the messy creative side of my mind, that webs in and out of the rational crevices of my grey and white matter.

I think it comes from the Taurus Moon and Sunrising… that need to feel a sense of control, and the enjoyment of that nice and neatly structured day plan. Make to do lists and tick those mother f**kers off, one by one. But my Sagittarius Sun, pulls me spiralling back down to reality, with a “Umm… Jess, you said you’d write morning pages every day, 30 minutes of writing poetry, 30 minutes of sketching, 30 minutes of reading, daily… you have done 30 minutes of nothing… be creative, let it all go a little, run when you wanna run, kiss that stranger on the tram when you wanna kiss that stranger on the tram, no more of these calculated and precise movements”.

I have been doing my morning pages… to be kind to myself… but I need to let the balance of genuine creativity free fall from finger tips, not tie them up schedules and 300 page guidebooks. My poems are not Ikea furniture, lots of little pieces ready to be assembled in order. My creativity is more like a vomit into a bin (the bin being a computer), or maybe to be nicer to myself once again, my creativity is more like a piece of clay, being moulded and played with, by a young woman, who enjoys the tactility of the moist earthy texture beneath her fingertips.

Maybe words will flow freely, maybe inspiration will jump out at me from behind the taxi’s that park outside my studio wind, maybe I need to let it all go a little, allow me to be me, allow my creativity to do it’s own thing. Let the genius do it’s own work. And I can guide softly.

I have recently begun a solo performance residency with the Victoria University… the above are some musings… 

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Gratitude and all things gushy…

It has been a while since I shared upon these screened pages of the interweb. I have recently returned from Bali, Indonesia, where I rested, connected, shared smiles and laughter, made new family and was inspired. This is some thing I wrote while I was there.

It is in these pages that life forgets it’s meaning.

Where simple pleasures mingle with simple pain.

All makes sense and is at peace.

Only so, either way we look we see solitude and friendship in plain pages and inked lines.

Moments pass and the promise of uncertainty entertains us.

Whether feared or failing to see further, we linger, in the single breath of our existence.

Moments paused upon to breathe deep the smells that delight.

A swallow flits above tiled roof lines, eating up those that hover above the lights.

The moon shines through a haze, of smoke or cloud, it is unknown, but the knowledge not needed.

My silence and solitude is greeted with a sigh of relief.

And as the waves lap at the shore line, I smile at all the laughing eyes and grinning teeth that have shared themselves so intimately.

Tears fall fondly of a universal love and I give thanks for all that I have been honoured to hold.

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Days like these – part 2

It’s days like these that having me wanting to scream “fuck the world, and every benign creature that resides within it”

Every molecule of wanting to punch, fist first, deep into the psyche of existence and tell it to wake the fuck up.

A slap won’t do nothing. It’s too far gone.

Given in and greeting every day with a forced and strained smile.

Those tears of yesterday start to fall.

A release that isn’t quite fulfilling.

But to go further would feel wicked, and my integrity holds me back.

A fight of furious bickering begins in my brain, that grey matter and white matter doing what it does best, but I wonder why and it makes it all matters less.

Or more.

It builds and twists and hurts, and I just want it to fucking rest.

When the game is tight, and every ripple of flesh is taut, never at ease, shoulder blades stick out, protruding tense.

Its days like these that wear away enamel,

a constant grinding,




where a snide comment spits venomously of tongue.

And it wasn’t even meant.

Days like these that know nothing but wisdom that is hidden,

Rainy weather that rants inconsistently,

Solemn and forlorn,

but angry.

And the wall feels soft against knuckles edge.



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Days like these

It’s days like these that have me smiling sadly.

That keep a grin on my face without falling.

Smile forced and stained with silent and dry tears.

Confusion reigns or rains.

Heavy chest needs cracking open, but how?

An appreciation for company, when I want to be alone.

Never quite quick enough to jump on opportunities rising. Then falling.

Swiftly. Sadly. Surely. Slowly.

But I am awake.

My eyes open.

My heart beating softly.

Summer time comes in drifts and drabs.

If only constant.

As my yearning.

A space left empty, amongst books and dripping candle wax.

Waning. Waiting. Wondering.

Ripples of love’s tide, returning.

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I was interviewed by the Babyfacedassassin!!!

A new post on my Creative Narratives blog…

I was interviewed by the Babyfacedassassin!!!.

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Eye Spy

I spy with my little eye,

This is the story of a little girls cry.

It’s a sad sad tale,

I hope that she can prevail, inhale and let go of all the despair. 

Be prepared, because this will tear,

Your soul, your heart apart.

Even though she is so distant,

We need to fight for her right of existence.


From a Western Arrente family,

She ain’t no balanda,

(Sorry for mixing my lingo, she is linguistically diverse, but it appears by some to be a curse that she ain’t learned in written English verse).

She lives on a town camp, that’s an NT Intervention causality.

They had good intentions they tell me.

She sits amongst squalor, eating tin meat,

With 10 dogs at her feet, her family gets very little of that Australian dollar.


Her cousins sisters and young aunties, all been put on government orders,

Volatile Substance Abusers.

Not that soluble glue, but that intolerable chemical goo,

That head ache inflicting, like leaded petrol sickening.

They treated like drug users, problem juniors.

They blame these at risk youth, misusers, and the abused.

I think we are all to be accused.


The marle kweke, the little girl, only a child, her life not yet unfolded.

Her life, too much hardship, she has seen too much shit, caught between politics, of governments and families, she’s wearing the kicks.

Like windows shattered by bricks, like family dying because they are too sick, like a knife stabbed in her mumma’s leg as quick as a magic trick, inflicted by her father’s swift hand.


This little girl, couldn’t sleep last night,

Her grandfathers were up drinking and fighting until the sun light!

And she felt fright.

The night ended and she wanted to sleep.

But that school bus, arrives at 8.05,

And the driver yells, “marle kweke time to learn and thrive”.

After half an hour of an interaction that involved cursing and coercing,

The little girls on the bus, the other students start to make a fuss, teasing,

She’s crying, her clothes are dirty and her hair unbrushed.

Oh that little girl’s heart is crushed. She wants to fit in, she isn’t that thick skinned.

She isn’t that tough.

Grown up too fast, she is too smart,

And attitude that will out wit and outlast, any older, never so bolder.

The teacher heart never been colder.

The little girl is demeaned, not showered and cleaned.

The teacher only knows how to intervene.


So a government welfare department action started, family interviewed.

The new to the territory, the straight out of Uni, the young social worker,

She departed feeling disheartened.

Not seeing the hardships and disempowerment that all the family suffer,

Not wanting to support and connect, encourage the family to reflect.

No she was the authority; she had a job to do and a government policy to throw at you.

Some legislation to demolish you.

The little girl was taken, placed with a non Indigenous, non western Arrente.

Yes a balanda.

Because apparently they can raise children better, because that little girl will learn English and be able to spell settler, because that little girl won’t be dirty clothed nor have any threat to her.

But she will become a bed wetter, an emotional wreck,

Man that government department has got to have it’s head checked.


The government isn’t helping this young girl with her survival.

And all the young people are suicidal.

We all should be appalled.

Stand up for our Indigenous brothers and sisters,

Not look in on their lives, enthralled.


This sad sad tale is also one of betrayal.

A government apology, nothing but a frail crumb of abused democracy.

What anthropology, keep culture strong and language alive,

Why would the government worry about that mythology.

They just talk in terminology and churn out some policy,

With such intense urgency.

An emergency response, a startled response.


A deterrent you see, coz all the government can do is look at old policies and make them current.

They want land, for mines and dumps, for development,

It’s an embarrassment; our government isn’t very intelligent,

 And the majority of Australians think the topic is irrelevant.

Well fuck that…


I spy with little my eye,

I don’t want to see that little girl cry.


© Jessie Giles 2010

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She wanted to fit her life in a suitcase,

up and go at any moment,

of time, or whim, or wonder,

or window of opportunity.


But the baggage would only ever pile up high,

filling every crack and crease, lined face,

until the suitcases ceased existence,

and a life of boxes began to spill over.


The landlord would tell her to move on,

and the process began of packing,

pulling out clothes,

folding stories,

throwing out whispers of moments past,

wanted forgotten.


Like that dress she wore on the first date,

with that man,

that man who hurt her heart,

only enough to want to run.


Or the small vase,

cracked like her heart.


The dusty note books piled high,

packed low,


scared to be opened,

for what would spring from there,

those pages.


She found the long lost precious,

a small stone of pinky hues.


A pressed flower,

paper thin,

colour dulled,

but remained to remind,

of the sweet smell of spring.


She sorted piles,

of memories,


times, passed, to be kept.


And things to give on,

move on,

give in.


She threw trauma to the wind,

or in the bin.

Torn wears,

she had not any more cares.


She thought on the process of packing,

if I don’t need these things,



why would I ever?

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Why I left Facebook…

I recently left Facebook (about 20 hours ago) and it has been one of the most liberating experiences.

I write about it here

Why I left Facebook….

I am not judging those who wish to stay, but just sharing why my internal dialogue has lead me to seek more face to face contact.

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telling stories

I just read a quote that made me feel real good. It goes “narrative can act as a place to try out new possibilities and models for living”.


Sharing, or learning, or hearing or reading stories, whether with others, or on our own, or in our own brain, can help us to unpack things, to try things out before putting stuff into practice, to know how it feels to be some thing we are not; not yet; never; once; maybe; will be.


We can ease into it, tasting the salty water before we let it swallow us whole.


It fascinates me, fixes me slightly bewitched.


Why? When? Where? The world is a fucking wonder box and I want you to tell me all about it.


I want to hear each tick of time bomb gone right and gone wrong.


I want your spit to hit my nose, gross and awkward, but with jest in your eyes and some thing, some thing that rides all the loose ends, stitched together.


And words. Words, they become too much and too many, to intricate and to heavy, and I get sucked right in.


Weaving those webs, whittle away at those old bones, mark stone or skin or etch deep the scars.


Those narratives of things past and those things present, those questions and fixtures.


Intertwining themes and pleasantries, anger, discomfort, didactical tactics, to trigger heart strings and yearnings, change provisions and postulate obscenities.


That place where language hits dendrites and excites electro-currents to charge to their destination, potential. That trigger of a response.


Sigh of relief or awkward agitation.


That moment you are told to conjure up a feeling of discomfort, and. Own. That. Shit.


Own it, feel it, name it, put texture and colour and smell to it, describe in intricate detail each curved or sharp or pointy edge, breath deep its stench and realise you can mould it. YOU own it.


And we can come together in complete and utter awe and respect, for who we have been, who we are, who you are, who I am. Where we jigsaw our pieces together to make us. Where we manipulate and mould that clay supple and delve finger nails into the firm folds of time.


Fiction tells tales, told stories, ties together so majestically that future.


Those short circuits of pulsating vivacity that sends shivers up spins and circumvent that which we inspire, rending it complete.


And even if only in our minds eye, where our senses betray us and humanity renders us speechless.


Where you becomes me and we become human, we allow neuronal firing to take us to places we ain’t ever been before, to places we wish to go and where we become caught up in the sinuously elaborate genesis of life.




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a new blog

I have started a new blog… another blog… a blog which encompasses all those which are my passions… if you like my poetry, check out my other blog… 

Empathetic Narratives

Do tell what you think, feel, see, understand… 

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