On the way down I ponder the vacuity/vanity of trying to keep hold of a moth when a light is on. It takes a long time to let go. Will I forgive, will I forget, what is desirable, and what does one ever do?
Thinking these confusing thoughts I am getting out of my comfort zone. A used rectangle trampoline is sitting in the bush, underneath a wattle tree.
Train voyage carries some of my memories.
Saint Mathurin. La Bohalle. La Daguenière. Angers.
Angers. La daguenière. La Bohalle. Saint Mathurin.
In Gisborne, New Zealand, my friends awoke to an earthquake earlier today. They probably still worry about a tsunami. In Gisborne, Victoria, our train journey ends. A replacement coach awaits.
A red sign on the freeway reads WRONG WAY GO BACK, and I wonder if I should heed that message.
Dry artichoke flowers light up the roadsides, sprouting everywhere. We enter the suburbs. Melbourne a few towers on the horizon.
Water gardens. Footscray. Melbourne.
I experienced two separations over the last twelve months, and feel now a bit rattled, experiencing maybe a mild form of PTSD. I initiated both of them, feeling bereft of choices. Not all stories are equal but their repercussions can sometimes merge.
“Is our stop the next stop?”, Jean keeps asking me. WRONG WAY GO BACK, the red signs keep showing. This landscape is so ugly.
A few taxis, a few sirenes. The cheese sticks. The big wheel. A lot of cranes picking a lot of shipping containers. We’re entering Melbourne. I feel grateful for the journey.