darwin museum

the lesser labiaboxsaurus croc dines strictly on the ladies.

grace darling

the body knows

"some say the soul informs the body. but what if we were to imagine for a moment that the body informs the soul, helps it adapt to mundane life: parses, translates, gives the blank page, the ink and the pen with which the soul can write upon our lives?

"suppose the body is a god in its own right, a teacher, a mentor, a certified guide? then what?

"is it wise to spend a lifetime chastising this teacher who has so much to give and teach? do we wish to spend a lifetime allowing others to detract from our bodies, judge them, find them wanting? are we strong enough to refute the party line and listen deep, listen true to the body as a powerful and holy being?

"... in the wild psyche, body is understood as a being in its own right, one who loves us, depends on us, one to whom we are sometimes mother, and who sometimes is mother to us."


i started to tell mum about this passage in women who run with the wolves and she cut me off. oh, i never read that at the time. it seemed too fashionable. but if it's any good maybe i'll read it after you.

if i'd read this in 1992, it might have saved me a lot of fuss.

town bikes

tram stop

What i want ... more than anything ... is for you ... to fuck off.

ok fair enough, bleeding man lying on the footpath in the foetal position with your head rigid as though there's a pillow underneath. i did plough in thinking some dudes were kicking you round. they left, i tried to nudge you upright. white hair, torn forehead and knee.

those eyes, i know them. you were young and hot and funny or spiritual or something other magnetic. now a bit old and still drunk and watching to see what i'll do next. night.

also it's christmas and people are a bit nuts. yelling into phones while crossing the road. generally, with or without family, equally nuts.

i hope you get home. maybe prop yourself up against a wall.

town bikes

blue light limbo

i brush past her at the dessert table as she mentions the womyn's collective. must be one of R's friends from uni - post feral, shaved head. cute. trying to stay positive about this whole man-wife wedding caper.

later, in the line for limbo, she leans back to me. i can do this. i've been to enough blue light discos, yeah? she says. it hardly matters cos lolli will kick all our arses – i've seen her limbo under a coffee table before – but i like that she's taken her shoes off.

growing up lesbian in the goddamn suburbs. bummer, but she got there. here.

my spine hurts.

litchfield in the wet

Wangi Falls is really hammering over that rockface, the rockpool full to overflowing. there's a big sign, says WANGI CLOSED. shitballs, thwarted mission. but it's still an awesome sight. the creek is flooded and the salties have moved in.

we picnic on the grass in 90% humidity, smashing a couple of gluten-free wraps and promising to write to Freedom Foods to ask why they call them wraps if they won't. watch backpackers pile off a tourist truck after their guide. he's a tough nut who wants a durry and a chance with one of the European girls in short shorts, but they're all bothered by the heat, busy with their SLRs and water bladders.

we get going before the salties catch wind of toddler flesh. motivated also by the idea of a frosty fruit or calypo or even – if it's all they've got – a plain lemon icypole.

Monsoon cafe and caravan park (no cats)

Something calls from the tall trees, lush green itself maybe. on the verandah, a backpacker with his back to me, eating. he puts his elbow on the table and turns to study me. judges me to be of no interest. returns to his baked beans.

sliding door. i find the frosty fruits, try to pay the concierge, get ushered to another counter, next to the bain marie, in front of the door through to the deep fryers. everything festooned with christmas decorations.

"Have you come from Wangi?" asks the cashier, hot and German.

"Yep."

"Was it busy there?"

"Ah, it's closed, so ..."

"Ya, we know, but was it busy?"

"Kind of. There were a few of those ... tourist things ..." I say, trailing off, counting out coins.

"Cars?" he asks.

"Ah, yep." embarassed that Mr Dictionary has abandoned me again. "Ok, see ya."

"Ya."

We take the dirt road back to darwin past Berri Springs, 4WDing thru a rushing river listening to The Wiggles.

eldorado

my toenails are full of festival mud, my head holds the peace that comes from waking up in the bush and brushing my teeth while staring up at trees and sky. a weekend of finding my forest feet, floating down the river, heckling hippies from the chai tent.

i pull into the carpark to find a ute in my spot, but i can't find my post-it notes anywhere in the family wagon. probably best. i take a deep breath and summon an affirmation:

i'm not the crazy lady with many cats, bathing in a wheelbarrow out the back and striking young whippersnappers with her umbrella. not yet. i can handle this without infringing anyone's human rights. surely.

the ute has a mobile number on the back. i dial it, only a bit surly.

me: mr anglesea landscaping design co, i just got home from camping to find your ute in my spot etc.

father: oh that's my son. I'll call him now and get him out.

son: action. car moved.

being nice kinda helped. sometimes it's easier to go with the rapids instead of fighting the flow.

darebin council ute