5. The South West
Hand waving through hot air out the window. The trees are tall and wise. Mind reflective, disgusted. In Mandurah, Karen had made a comment that the fire within me could come from frustration, like an unmet need.
Hand waving through hot air out the window. The trees are tall and wise. Mind reflective, disgusted. In Mandurah, Karen had made a comment that the fire within me could come from frustration, like an unmet need.
It all felt so calm and mystic. The grime, dusty room, stains on sheets. A boy’s house. When we first crossed paths at the Pearl Farm, there was a reason he felt familiar.
Conversation kept returning to Indig. His work in Ali Carung, where S and I went, where four tribes were thrown together because of Woomera missile landing. Some are dominant mobs, some are quiet. There are complications with skin groups.
Permaculture knows the importance of community. Starting with the home.
This morning, veggie gardening, there was the smell of urine on dirt. What was the reason again? Something about nitrogen? And he doesn’t till the soil. Something about disrupting structure. Back inside, we cleaned.
2:22pm, 4:44 hours remaining on Educated, 18:33 in chapter. It’s Friday the thirteenth. Since they left for Denmark I’ve been lying on my bed, the coolest spot in the house, wearing my blue Nico knickers, hair and pimples. There is no air conditioning. It’s too hot to write. I listen to a book. I call Bruce back. There are flies. Lots of them. I stare at the dirty windows, the wooden roof, the bottles in the mudbrick.
There’s a lizard in the house. Eddie. He went from under the kitchen shelves into my room.
The morning I drove through the tall trees further south to the Denmark markets.
Wow. The community’s collective attitude to waste. The bin fairy telling how my cup is compostable because it contaminates recycling. Formidable Vegetable’s message. People dancing. The positivity.
Down at the water, Tony and I flinch to the water; it isn’t the Kimberley. But we swim. And it’s glorious. And then we play Frisbee, sit on the beach, drink a beer, speak.
The afternoon’s return through the tall trees had warm tones and African tunes.
We weed the garden to the whistle of nature. We discuss sustainable living. No, not sustainable. Alternate. Then my shower was a swim in the dam. The setting reminding me of the scene in Dirty Dancing when they practice the lift.
Why don’t I write my theories here instead of unleashing them with my unintentionally strong tone?
Does Earth need a significant drop in population and policy?
Rebuilding the dam wall in the creek there are blackberries and bull ants and paths through the forest. The smell of saw dust, the saw dust floating on the water. I pour rapid quick. I have cuts and rough hands. There is more talk of environment and isolated greed in the world.
Off grid requires time and effort. Patience. Tony lives the life he believes.
There are fires burning on the other side of the country. A French music friend of Tony’s comes by. He makes a comment that those who could suffer the hardest death won’t just be poor people but those who are not connected to Earth. Like Wall Street people, the people in a grey world without interest in their surroundings. He makes a comment about sharing an article with parents, to gently share ideas. He is right, you can’t ram it down throats. We know we are the minority. Him and Tony play jazz in the back of the house. The fire continues inside me.
We retreat from the heat. I read. We swim at the dam. The trees are tall, the water is warm and then cold. We play frisbee, drink a beer.
Out where the truffles grow, I feel my shoulder muscles with each chop. My throat becomes dry. When it starts raining, I can’t stop smiling. I shiver, lose feeling in my fingertips. In the afternoon, my shoulder muscles are sore and back in the stilted wooden house, I fall into a deep sleep.
Tribe? Intention? Art as activism? Doing something meaningful. After dinner, the six of us played Werewolf, ate apple pie and laughed. Tony and I drunk wine.
When the nights are full and there’s quality in the company, there’s no room for wonder. But in bed I wander. My intention. Increasing consciousness. Positivity. Understanding. Education. A wider world. Simple effective communication.
My body felt tired when working this morning. It kept drizzling and I wanted it over with. I ate a lot of bread with honey and peanut butter and my belly became round and sore.
The boys don’t shower. Whereas me, I’m trying out a menstrual cup.
It kind of has rainforest sounds. A buzz, an eco-system?
I like how Lars is in his world and I am in my world and we potter and we create.
“Our job is not to raise children to face the big bad world but to raise children who make the world not so big and bad.”
Struggling artists: “You don’t get money from the product, you get it from the service.”
Many dystopian views of future. Tony mentions growing Fascism/Nationalism. Will we be controlled by a small few?
Today I was happy in my element weeding and tidying. I think of having my own place. And plant-based food. I want to give conversations and beautiful spaces for other minds to take themselves to fruition.
Three layers of compost: green, brown, nitrogen. Moisture important.
The problem with capitalism, Tony tells me, is that somebody always loses out.
I feel flat, uninspired, but everything feels better by dinner time because at dinner time there are different people at the dinner table and I can learn from these people.
And then Jay walks into my life. She’s openly affectionate and appreciative and I love her warmth and life approach.
Christmas Morning. I do some writing. Then, there is a habit I have of going next to the mirror and feeling disgusted by my explosive face. And I do that too.
Lars and I slide to Moons Crossing. It’s a skinny dirt road, a beautiful drive through tall trees. Then we go to Warren River. I’m nearly asleep on the boards, my legs with a little sun. Lars dives in, I take a photo. He says the water is soft. I submerge myself in the soft water via the ladder. I swim, sit on the log.
Back at home we eat, and then Jay and I sit on the balcony going through crafts. I draw on a Mother of Pearl, frame a photo of Bruce, wash my stones and talk of what to make. There is warmth in the house. Green and yellow light. Wood. We potter, pick at food, take a small piece of old acid.
I sit on the toilet, I see Jupiter. There is clarity. We eat sushi. We stand in the kitchen picking at Lars’s apple pie. We topple over laughing. On the couch my legs were yellow; freckles and veins so vivid. I look to the spider webs through the roof and watch a big black spider take his prey. Jay comes over and lays her head on the couch to see the spider. The roof starts to trip me out, it’s like a snakes’ body sliding through. It was Jay who clicked that it’s a wasp’s nest. We’re transfixed. Then we go outside and under the tree we stare at a possum who was as equally curious by us.
At Jay’s van; her cute set up with hot cacao, blankets, a small table, cushions and candles. We smoke a joint and look at the stars. They pop. Everything is clearer. I am strong. Community. Exchange. This shift does not scare me. The world needs healers.
The most spectacular sunset. The whole world glowed pink and orange and yellow and I was overly full on apple pie when thick drops of rain hit the tin roof.
It is such a thing to behold, this meeting of everyone in this house. The crescent moon through the trees.
Jay and I sit on the balcony with her cards. I ask where to give my heart: soulmate relationship. Trust in the process, don’t push it. Be your warm self and it will play out. Next, I ask for a sign: Mother healing. To learn from the relationship with my Mum. To know I am worthy of love.
A New Decade. I get overly superstitious on New Years. I also got too stoned, ate too much, and slept through midnight. But I know this year will be cleaner.
I was half awake when my phone vibrated. We shared nice messages.
From the tree house, I walk. The bugs of the forest crackle and pop. There are cars on the highway, an orange bird. Pathways through green. A fresh outlook, a new chapter.
But then I walk into the house and Tony’s home and he’s tired and he starts accusing me and Jay of not cleaning up, that it’s always Lars doing it. I’m speechless. Two days before Jay and I initiated and performed a big clean. As for Lars, he’s hopeless, sloppy, typical, like past male housemates. I mean, I’ve given him tips on how to properly clean the dishes, giving hints to tidy after himself. Plus, the three of us had a nice thing going without Tony there. But Lars stands there and says nothing, and from that moment I will never respect him again.
Mad with anger, I leave the house and go to Jay’s van.
The second day of the New Decade. I haven’t showered since last year. I have swum. It’s rainy and cosy in the house. Last night there was a dinner party.
I um and I ah and I drive to Margs in Tony’s bus. The road is shadowed by trees, the trees are shadowed by grey clouds. The other side of the country burns.
We slept on the bus and on the way back to Pemby we smoke a joint in the forest. There are rain showers and a sharp light. A country burns. He’s going home. Another love lost.
There are people from Melbourne in the house. The mustard armchair in sunshine. Pimples on my chin like a rash.
A black dog watches me. A woman explains expectations to her son. She does it smoothly. Calmly. We all share food. Sharing food is important.
The women who is calm with her young son tells me she used to write and then she went back and did nursing. But then doing nursing she realised all she was doing was keeping old people alive who should have died a decade before. I like this woman.
The country burns. An early morning freeze. The rooster crows. The sunlight hits the tip of the leaves. This green paradise. I itch my arse and my legs. Cotton mouth. I stay in bed longer than planned. Now I’m here, cold at the table, writing. Time’s moving fast. A revolution? I’m overloaded on cheap bread, honey and PB.
We eat blueberries. I drill holes and saw bamboo. I like the workshop, making. I want to learn to make sourdough and muesli and healthy dinners to share with friends.
A Pigram brother is at the dinner table. He talks about the birds in the morning. How they start and how they change as the light grows.
The country burns. I contemplate the future. Now, at 8am, I go to saw bamboo.
To describe where I am now is to describe a sensation. I see so much green that I can’t fathom fire.
The New Year’s tattoos still on my arms: a whale, a flower, a feather.
Marlie the black dog is in the sunlight of the door watching me. Tony’s iPad makes click sounds as he types.
Create micro-climates.
A new dinner guest; Kamali. The next morning, I pass him in the garden, we admire a sunflower.
Tony talks about teaching kids to fold a flower. But it’s not about the flower, it’s the skills to make the flower.
My interest is not that we need to change our thinking, but how can we change our thinking.
Helen Garner talks about writing about self. People criticise this, but why wouldn’t you write about yourself? It’s the most accurate insight to a human you can give.
I like Kamali’s presence. He tells a story as good as my dad’s. He’s tall and his independent and he’s hippy.
Nearly a full moon. Jay and I spoke a j below and watch the moving clouds. We howl with laughter.
“Mother Teresa wouldn’t go to a protest on war, she’d go to a demonstration on peace.”*
*Actual quote: “I was once asked why I don't participate in anti-war demonstrations. I said that I will never do that, but as soon as you have a pro-peace rally, I'll be there.”
People are afraid of change; they are afraid of the unknown.
I pour a glass of wine and go to the verandah with my book. It’s perfect weather, families arrive, no thought brings me happiness.
The children sit by the fire light. They go around the circle and introduce themselves. Greg stands up and tells us of the full moon, the eclipse and the five planet alignment. Change, hardship, something like that. Saturn is task-master, our limitations. I am my own limitation.
There’s a village of house trucks. My cup turns into a bowl, a breakfast bowl. We sit on a blanket on the grass, Kamali tells me stories: His is the original house truck, full of wood and plants and trinkets and thirty years of learning. He accepts his stereotype of ‘that hippie guy.’ When he came to Australia, he decided he didn’t want to work for someone else and didn’t want to be on the dole. He made it work through crafts and markets. Made enough to buy land.
There is no technology. Children in bare feet run around. When they go through the grass the lotuses fly.
Tony tells me that most people here are self-employed. That they are living the life they believe. They are creators, artists. To them, this is the only path of truth.
The circle of trees. The guitars, the drama, beautiful children natural and free. I talk more with Kamali. He used to take photos, do philosophical writing.
Around the fire, I ask Greg questions, he tells there is no boundary between astronomy and astrology
Two little girls in floral jumpsuits run around in feet bare, they lie under the bamboo structure. The sun sparkles on them. Two little girls in floral jumpsuits run through fields of flying lotuses.
I’m sitting in the shade, cutting the plastic from the cardboard boxes. I consider the world imploding, mother nature hitting at once, events so catastrophic, so large scale, that we restart from the ground up, using our hands and our eyes and our imagination, and we remember connection and community and all that truly matters.
I’m sitting on the toilet looking at the vegetable garden, a flapping bird comes and pecks the window.
There’s something off here. Reality bites. My moods, my irrationality. Tony’s continued, blatant favouritism. Tinted glasses, musical abilities, blind him. I fade into a dark, tight-lipped silence. The condescending tone in Tony’s answers does remind me a little of myself.
Shifting shifting. Everything is shifting shifting. I love this and I don’t love this. I need to leave soon.
I’m sitting on the lawn mower trailer, Jay’s driving. I notice beans growing around the tips of the bamboo. Work has become a chore. Four hours every day, no days off. Why don’t we get days off?
Pulling bamboo roots from dirt I realise I must be careful working long term for another. I get opinionated and fiery and build barriers and burn bridges.
I call Kamali back. I can stay with him in Denmark and help him with the markets and create for as long as I want.
Jay and I go and turn on the pump next to the pond. I pour petrol everywhere. We go to the tree house and smoke a j. There are small birds and high trees and it feels like natural magic.
I might have to pretend to be sad about things. Keep up the reputation, be politically correct, stay on trend. But I won’t always be sad, not everything is sad. It is life. But people think you’re heartless if you say this.
The emotions! Yesterday I couldn’t comprehend losing the feel-good feelings. And now I can’t stop sobbing. I feel frustrated and alone. Annoyed by how much I’m affected by other people. He told me there’s ease with others. He kept telling me it’s a reflection of me. He told me I’m creating a narrative in my head. I told him he said the same about Jay. I told him the truth of cleaning when he’s not there. He recalls the episode, his bad memory giving a fabricated version of events. I told him that, that it’s wrong, that’s not what happened. What you have a perfect memory, he mimicked. No, but a different memory to yours. A better memory for these trivial moments. A woman’s memory.
An important lesson: don’t waste energy cleaning when he can’t see you doing it. I know this too late.
I leave, driving South through the tall karri trees and shadowed roads.
Kamali’s camp is an overgrown wonderland. There is no house. The toilet needs to be emptied. There is no shower, there’s an outdoor bath. There are trinkets and there are stories. And there’s Kamali, such a good character, with his bare feet, hobbled over demeanour, eagerness to share his skills. But I feel like I often feel with new places; a little defensive, imagine I won’t stay long.
It’s the community of Denmark. A small town. Three alternative schools. Interconnectedness. A natural way of living. The speckled stone coastline. The beekeeper through the window. Cruising with Kamali.
Around the fire there are neighbours, a German boy on guitar, a joint, red wine, Kamali and me giggling.
Yesterday, a Wednesday, I get into the zone and my thumb creeks. I made lots of rings.
The caravan is cosy. Voices of the bush and rain.
I need a shower today.
A vegan who smashes sugar.
Lights Beach. Kamali naked. There’s rocks and bare sand, no people. An overcast day, low light. The water isn’t as cold as I thought.
“Do you have a problem with nudity?”
“I’m not academic.”
“Gypsies can’t camp out on blocks.”
I had woken earlier for the toilet, going to pee in the bushes, the rain of last night glistening in the sunshine on the fence of the veggie garden outside the caravan. A spider web. A new day. I lay in bed until 9am, staring to the gum trees outside my window. I carry a heavy energy. I feel this, I’ve carried it for a long time. I get out of bed to press a pimple. Let it go, nobody cares.
We clamber over grey rocks speckled with red. Rocky is like a mountain goat. I am slowest. My feet hurt. I watch Kamali in his wetsuit in the water. He collects abalone. The day had started without a spark and now I’m amongst a budding community, with moments shared.
There’s a kangaroo through my caravan window. The morning is bright and the sounds of the forest rife. I drink black coffee. I see Kamali in his truck and he tells me he’s sad and I give him a hug.
I have come to cherish the way we put food on the table and there are always different people. Last night brought a gorgeous French couple; beautiful by nature, beautiful by appearance, beautiful by music. They played for us under the fairy lights in Kamali’s fairy garden. There was a fire and people swaying. Marc and Henrick danced.
I actively work to calm my ego, not boast, smile at people.
We can judge the rest of society but that makes everyone one of the same. We all judge.
I wake to someone going past my window. I think it’s Kamali. I reply to a message. I sit up and through the window are two kangaroos next to the strawberry patch. I go to them. One stares, hops away. The other is farther down the path, we take longer to inspect each other, there’s a joey in her pouch, the head sticks out and it is big. The morning is misty. I go back and make a coffee out the front of my caravan. Kamali waters the garden in his black and white onesie.
A week with no shower. I really need a wash. We pee in the trees.
If I stop washing my hair will it stop being greasy?
Another night, another nine of us for dinner.
Lights Beach. Twenty-five degrees. I need this swim. The water is warmer than I expected. I let it wash over my naked top. I wash salt through my hair and under my arms. I slip my hand down my bathers. I do that thing where I go and lie on my towel and close my eyes. I open them and stare at rocks. I turn to my back and let the sun hit my boobs. I smile to the blue sky.
Over at the BBQ they play doof music. Kamali, Eloise, Marc and I sit together. Kira comes and tells us we’re a clique. Eloise and I find our way to a cigarette around the front of the verandah. Marc comes, Kamali comes, Kira comes. We realise this and laugh. We go home and sit under the stars of the umbrella. Kira comes and we realise it’s the same crew again. Kamali looks up and says, “Wow, the stars are so perfect tonight.” It’s the fairy lights of the umbrella, I tell him. We keep laughing and talking and go to Google something but no one has a phone on them.
I’ve been smiling more at people and smiling more at people feels good, even if it gives me crow’s feet.
This morning as Kamali and I sat on the white plastic chairs in his garden, we joked about Who knows what we’ll be doing this time in a year. Sitting, somewhere.
It rains on and off and we sit in the workshop. Linda and Lyra are there. Lyra makes me want to have children. Henrick comes and plays the guitar. Eloise, Kamali and I cook abalone and salad for lunch. We eat it with lots of laughs.
It’s a stormy day. There’s wind and rain and I stay in bed until 8am and then make coffee in the caravan.
Elvis plays on cassette. We stop and eat honey ice-cream. We go to a big empty beach. I collect firewood. We buy veggies from a property and I pat a donkey. It bites Eloise.
Kamali is lighting the bath, there’s smoke surrounding him, he’s telling me about Life of Pi. I see myself emerging from a bath water. I’m older. In India. As I write this, noises of loud motors come to me. When I hear them it’s familiar. A crash.
Today, I left my phone uncharged. I don’t want to work for the man again, I want community.
In the IGA she is leaning over the cheese section. I walk up laughing that I’d been calling her name when looking for the chicken wings. She holds out the cheese to me: “I think I’m going to get this.”
I tilt my head to the price tag on the side. “It’s $25?”
“Nah, I’ll…” and she clicks the side of her mouth a few times.
I tell her I’m not doing that with her.
She asks for my hat. I tip my head forward so she can take it herself.
I tell her C’mon, I get paranoid with this stuff. That’s not cool to Kamali.
“Oh you’re straight, are ya?” she insults.
She’s young.
She goes to my car alone holding my hat over her chest.
She tells me she doesn’t talk about stuff, it’s not her style. She says things like, You’re an air conditioning sort of girl. Or, you don’t swim as much as us do ya? She is quick to assume, her mind flicking faster than instinct.
She has lots of energy. “Don’t force it, come for a walk,” she says to me. Don’t do that to me, I tell her. She goes for a walk and I go to my caravan and write.
With her, it’s a battle for the biggest hippie. She’s 24. Arrogance is almost a trait of that age. I understand.
She gets really loud and attention seeking at night and it’s too much for me.
At Rockcliffe, Marc dances alone. Eloise joins. Mia and I sit on the hill and talk, we’re both 31. As the crowd grows, we go. I close my eyes and move.
It’s a Sunday morning. Eloise plays the flute in the distance.
I tell Eloise I miss Melbourne, the people of Melbourne. “You’re not happy where you are?” she asks. No I am, I tell her, but I’m not running away anymore.
I thought it was bark. I pressed my breaks, the car skidded and swerved over the loose gravel. I tried to take a wheel either side of it, but when I looked back the snake was gone. I drive down roads, go to Lights Beach but do not swim.
Two weeks no shower, lots of swims.
Trust and truth, Kamali tells me. Trust and truth.
Aimee came into the situation. She’s leggy and doesn’t speak much, so I don’t speak much either.
Ecstatic dance released emotions and I realise I wanted to dance like that forever.
I talk with Mia about style and merging worlds. I don’t fit into a stereotype.
From Ocean Beach, I have an outdoor shower at Mia’s. I am grateful for her conversation.
Something’s off, it’s me.
Yesterday, February 8th or 9th of something, I entered the community in a dark mood. At the busy bee we helped a little, but I ate more blackberries than I did work.
I woke in the night. The full moon was through my caravan window. It was bright, clouds cleared the way. The wind was hard. I’m treading water. I’m wide awake. I’d had a strange dream.
The river water is salty, warm, we fall from the rope swing. The kids are in a happy place. The East Coast is flooded. In a way I hope much of the white world is taken and we can return to nature.
Last night another nice evening sharing dinner with nine.
My face is sunburnt. I do handstands, glaze a bowl. Everyone’s working. Plans give me excitement, but they take from the moment.
Yesterday morning swimming with Mia, we continue to challenge stereotypes. Fuck stereotypes.
This caravan gives me such good sleeps and I have realised how awesome it is to have three windows surrounding my bed: In the night, the waning moon first appears behind the bed, giving me a sense of time, just like the start of my trip. When I wake again it’s through the side window. At light’s break the sky is topaz and the gumtrees are vivid, the moon so yellow. I have dirty feet and a dirty body. I don’t feel like moving.
Like Jay, Linda mentions our bodies going through seasons. Right now, with period, is the time of hibernation. Its a hot day reading and writing.
Tina and her travelling Charly. When we speak, she looks me in the eye.
I take my time to make coffee with milk for Kamali and me. It always feels good to do good for others and I will practice this more.
Kamali’s stories intertwine: “oh yeah yeah yeah, that’s right…” He’s talking of time with South African gypsies on a horse and cart.
There are all these beautiful women working on their cars, their home.
This young girl tribe learning from older men. In the old men, it feels, to me, that they have conviction; they have an idea and go for it. We can learn from this, yes we can.
One week left in Denmark. Down and dirty, feet so dusty. I dive topless into Lights Beach. I like the pattern of my undies. I swim and the arch of my back is satisfying. I hold my breath for longer than I ever have, even when I tried to see how easy it is to die in the bath as a teenager. When I surface, I’m panting and I can’t touch the bottom. The more I swim the better my back feels. A lady watches me. My hair is short, Kim cut it off. I wonder about my abilities. The anxieties to perfection. My own pressure.
I’ve come back to a thought I had with the pearl farm: listen.
Feeling so blue. Skin frustrations. No motivation. What do I want to put out into the world?
At lights, sarcasm and free swims with Mia. The underwater sound is heavy. Everything has been slow, everything has been happening fast.
Be a lady, they said.
I go to pee in the bushes and scare the kangaroos. They stare.
I talk to Bruce on the phone: “Hey Bruce, how are you?” Lonely, he tells me.
Kamali and I are standing in the veggie garden talking about a possible spot for the shower and laughing our heads off. Kamali: “I’m immune to everything besides internet and those email things.”
My last night. Kamali and me on the back of the truck, God gives us light on the gum tree. What’s an artist, we wonder.
A warm, stormy morning. There is drumming coming from the yurt. There are dark clouds, sunshine through tall trees. Something is blowing in with the wind. A new baby. I get in my new car, and I drive.
I shower at Nannup. I look in the mirror and want to cry. The pimple rash all over my face and all over my body. I notice other girls who also struggle with this. Why? Why do we get this? What do we have in common?
The redhead at the pub said I could choose my boyfriend, because the truth is many guys are shy.
A blown tyre, a public holiday. Nothing I can do but wait it out. In Esperance it’s cold and windy. I see dodgy people. It’s the slowest day in the history of the life of Sarah.
It’s not simple. The windy bay, the bland YHA.
The bleakness. The emptiness. The howling wind. A dog barks. What now? Society implodes, the system collapses. People start afresh. It’s hard to be hard. But take it, take that hippy shit. Believe in compassion, believe in death.
The sweet relief of two new tyres. Five hundred bucks!
Weary and eager. The real test, going home, nearly a year later.
I AM FURIOUS. GOOGLE MAPS. I CAN DO THIS ROCKY ROAD BUT I DON’T WANT TO. I SCREAM UNTIL MY THROAT IS SORE. I HATE YOU. This neverending road. I scream; ENOUGH! ENOUGH! I’m so angry, so so angry, there are no words to put to my anger. Never have I cried and screamed so much. I crash around so hard I lose a headlight. Bouncing over the rocks, another outburst of screaming and sobbing coincides with my blinkers and windscreen wipers bumping on from the impact. Something surely must be broken. I had to choose a mindset to get me out. Fury, determination, hours and hours of it. Burnt out land, the rocks, no other cars, no person. Alison and I 4WD through the sand. In too deep to go back. Will this ever end? When it does, I see the sign: Road Closed.
The intermittent rain. The yellow light on a purple sky. The Nullarbor. The end of a rainbow disappears into a hole in the clouds. A wet swag, a seatbelt buckle in my back. 4am driving. Half hour swag nap at sunrise. Long facial hairs in mirror. Yesterday’s ordeal must have aged me, the anger and stress heightening my testosterone.
The colours towards Mildura. The sharp light of sunset rain. The spraying water from the trucks onto my windscreen wipers at full speed. It’s dark. The squeals of delight coming into Victoria. To the 100 sign slowing me into Mildura.
3000 people in world dead and already it’s an epidemic. What about hunger? Greed? Aren’t they a disease? The media gets into our minds. People believe it. I’m fiery. Calm your horses, Sarah. Learn, or practice, or remember to listen. And stretch.
BREAKING NEWS: Two dead. ???
We talk about history like fifty years is a long time. It’s not. How soft we’ve become in a mere generation. I believe in compassion. Proper compassion. I believe we deserve all that is coming.
I’m more afraid of judgement, hatred and loneliness than I am of death.
It’s International Women’s Day and Gabrielle does an article about women and the emphasis on money. Yes, I think, because this money world is a world created by man. And in this world, money is life, money is this world, money is everything, this world is made by man.
Mindful movements. Always in a hurry. To nowhere.
Now, back in Melbourne, there’s a heaviness to me. I feel…lost. Where do I go now?
To the odd, I’m straight. To the straight, I’m odd.
