“People are dying – it is no metaphor – for lack of something real to carry home when day is done.”
From Herzog, by Saul Bellow (1915-2005)

I’m Paul, a writer from Melbourne, Australia. I write about life as I find it; about life as I experience it. I’m not Herzog – anxious, grieving, broken and brooding, hiding alone in a country house, writing crazy letters to family, friends, strangers and the dead – but I do share Herzog’s view that many people are tired, harassed and hungry for something real to carry home when the working day is done. I hope to offer something real. 

Letter to a nomad

Long-term travel can be rewarding. The hard part is coming home and making sense of it. That, too, is a form of travel.

Letter to a writer

So you cannot make a living from your writing; you can make a life. Every word, another footprint. Every piece, another breath.

In the huddle

I leave the fence when the siren rings to step across the heavy field and gather at the edges of the Spotswood huddle.

Saltwater dreaming

He swims. Almost every morning and usually before sunrise. In any season. In any weather. And never in a wetsuit. Strange and wonderful.