JAZZ
When I was nineteen, I met this girl and her birthday was the same day as mine. She had acne scars on her left cheek, a quite hard, unfriendly-looking face, short, cropped hair with rats’ tails at the back. Her name was Megan. Megan Cartwright. She worked at the supermarket as a packer. Customer service wasn’t her thing, but she told me she sort of zoned out when it came to the aisle-stacking and packing, thinking about art and films a lot, picturing her sketches before she did them.
She did pencil sketches of people, places and objects, everything really. Always in pencil; black pencil. They were outrageously good but she wasn’t fussed about trying to sell them or exhibit them or anything. I met her at the Valhalla Cinema in Glebe. I was there watching that David Lynch film, Wild a
