Nicole Holyer

Category: Uncategorized

  • Intention

    Intention

    Christmas and New Years has been and gone, taking its own time, setting its own schedule of dinners and drinks with old friends and new, and visits with family. I’ve had a particularly good time. I’m sun blitzed and happy, feeling loved, and am swimming in the good vibes as much as I can. (I’m…

  • These tiny purple flowers

    These tiny purple flowers

    I picked some lavender just now from the pot on my balcony. Planting it was another of my post-Tuscany promises; there’s a note in my phone that reads: Buy a lavender bush and plant it. I’m pretty sure I wrote it after a long and slightly boozy lunch with my writing crew, and I promised…

  • Whole

    Whole

    I arrived at this place at the edge of things; my profession, my health, my loves. It’s not that they weren’t mine; I could see them, touch them, pull them out of the place they rest when I’m not using them. It took conscious effort, a will to say: Yes. This is what I need…

  • On silence, disappointment and crime

    I am tucked up warm at my desk, a cardigan thrown over an optimistic spring wrap dress, socks with multicoloured spots on them warming my feet. Nina Simone is playing in the next room, there’s a small tumbler of red wine to my right. It’s a gloomy Sydney Sunday. The gloom is appropriate. I needed…

  • Over land and sea

    I’m on another plane, flying across water. My bag is the small yellow overnighter, not the big shiny red number I bought in Florence. This is a work trip. I’m going to Tasmania. Not so long ago, I was on a different plane, a much larger one with much more space, booze on tap, real…

  • Supersense

    She scans the water from the headland. In these waves just two weeks ago a surfer was attacked. It was all over the news. Sam Blaney, five time world champion, pulled from the cloudy water by his mate, blood streaming down the sand like some awful oil slick. The wound was so ragged and deep,…

  • Body as landscape

    I can describe my body, its white, mottled exterior, dented by accidents and surgery, strong in places, soft in others. The toenails, decorated pink, by a sweet, sweet woman who fed me tea and closed the shop door against the Sydney winter’s cold as my chest heaved and coughed with flu. The knees, scared and…

  • When did you become you?

    There’s a story my mum likes to tell about me as a child. I would have been three, four years old; big enough to walk, old enough to talk and open doors. In the mornings I used to wake early. My dad did, too. The train he caught to work each day left at six-thirty…

  • Where are you from?

    Where are you from?

    This is the excerpt for your very first post.