driving across the nullarbor, flatness and aridity and expanse of blueness, but anyone can tell you that. soccer at a petrol station in the middle of nowhere, kicking up dusty redness. this is the middle of nowhere! pebbly rocks and a squashed goanna getting sidetracked one a straight road, stretched straight. rainbow on the way in, rainbow on the way out, right in front of us like a portal to a seemingly futile arch of earth. arch of sky. arch of colour. rising of hazy purple at six am and then finding oneself looking over the edge of the world into that hugeness where the whales stroll by at times when heading south, the extreme south of the planet. and giggling dizziness at the thought of falling, at the evernew realization of being a minuscule grain of sand in the universe.
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softly stolen away under the cover of darkness, carefully avoiding the spaces too small. first the lights.the neon. the others racing around writing their own stories. sometimes one sometimes two, little flashes leaving trails. the air grows thin, atmosphere returning to infinity shimmers momentarily before my eyes. intermissions broken as the machines roar. blinded later by a million combinations, needed to replace something forgotten. the slow track south. the bent trees and the dust. closer. a swirl within. now tracking the progress of one other. closer.
mister james is that you?
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