Luke Macaronas18 September 2017
This story ends with a girl whose hair is too long for her liking. Seven new songs, unwashed swimmers, and a pair of luggage tags for the flight home tomorrow. She has a lump in her throat that’s been there for two months. Everything’s tasted bitter since September.
I found a tube
Half used and congealed in the cap.
I wore it overnight on the pimples I keep picking.
It is only recently that McAllister returned to perform, for the first time since becoming artistic director, in the Australian Ballet’s production of The Merry Widow in Melbourne. On a stage saturated by diamond-studded dresses and scarlet curtains, McAllister appears as Njegus, the bumbling secretary to the ambassador. Pantomimic and slapstick, the fantasy is in full swing—and McAllister knows how to play the game. The audience drinks deeply from his perfectly timed winks and silly walks, revelling in the comedy.
Bhenji Ra stands on stage in a bright red bikini, with gold-sequined flames stretching around her hips and across her chest. A pair of red boots lace up to her knees, as she flicks a red fan in front of her face. She has been dancing—dipping and spinning along the runway—but now is still.
Encountering Justin Shoulder’s Carrion—the shape-shifting “cybernetic demigod” with limbs made of decaying bones and hair made of Apple headphones—is deeply arresting.
Luke Macaronas talks with Benjamin Law about gay voices in journalism and hate-fucking politicians
Luke Macaronas talks to interdisciplinary artist Archie Barry about queer performance in a binary landscape
Luke Macaronas speaks to Jean Tong about writing, upcoming works and her recent ascension to the Australian lesbian canon.
Luke Macaronas on Ash Flanders’ slippery theatre
A boy in a red t-shirt and high-waisted jeans stains my mind. My memories are haunted by Gordie Lachance – his dark eyelashes and silky hair, his faintly freckled skin. If you had asked me even a month ago, I would have told you that I didn’t have a gay childhood. I can’t describe a sense of ‘knowing’, I had no primary school sexual experiences and no childhood boy-crushes; I have no memory of being gay.
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