1 we’re phantasmagoric & over fed square (post eco parking post an ill-thought dumplings ploy & the odour of spilling soy) even to interiors breasting a ship’s plushie aspect, mounting layer upon player so as to ply a drink with waving departure one small glass. the slops still a veritable ambrosia toes rocking above head level still, you sleep. a big steam breakfast the instinct to knowingness, else timelessness, it’s all appropriate. only one image lures you past alternate fog (westerly): a ponderous sea dragon growing without effort. (mottled pink & supreme in having time-to-think) it’s so unlike us all, so worthy of permanent capture, meditative study. with such fitful poise I’d grace any maccas carpark. 2 another fist of views means, erratically, you’re au fait with the ice danger – ‘views’ lack speed indicators, all twists & turns simply set to parallel all things, all the time. I think in bytes. you know, inspired, irate, worried, inspired… we crest a township to find a cottage & drag the strip. come on! observe this stodgy boat ramp & kids ranting lysergic fishing lore. (oh, later: the ethics of fish & chips vs. local ale) slabs of information dot each pier even through our coverage blackspot. electric-blanket-land stirs a temporary love affair, & this adam sandler movie set amidst ‘coastlines’, only half dismaying in its todayness, its watchability. get into the straightest of passages: tercentennial ferry to a site of industry / brunch over the car & re-pack the run off. rod slam & scooter blitz into the back of a good showering – ample views of life, hills, unscrupulous poetry to an audience fighting back dadaist southern life (hence the flagrant repetition) shipping news vernacular like, starboard over, & over, this simply matters or doesn’t. one comment is the renaissance (check out my website!) but stake a base removal from the bar as effective, for kicks, then beat the life out of a skate park. scour an Indian restaurant for cricket memorabilia, or even candy coated fennel seeds & the taste of your bed’s silly refusal of feet… a noisome cat is far better than the ache, parsed as perpetual. our chocolate coated lives: words exist for this process: to ooze through when hot, our skins a foil, all presupposed to hide a bitter patent of the colour purple (as it seems in purple dreams). the blonde girl assures us / me / of her addictions. no less confident with such things impending. but cut from her to botany / musical play equipment / the ways we name living things / science / the arousal of suspicion… I photograph Violet to isolate her as a growing thing, txt it via pizza hut one mind on the powerful & loud faux-teens. it’s a delight & absolute. a proud gourmet variety of people kept in the cellar. there is always tv. Hobart began with a block, two couples kissing, frozen out the window by my glance. this place of love, public beauty. suppose this. 3 memories of killing can only be stomached with food. food again destroying your silly faith in Capitalism (you plan to order the t-shirt) everything feeling less systematic than it should. former towns are pretty & uniformly un-guarded suffice to say I’d play up the history of a place – as if active agency were involved – but only if the mental gap were appropriate. (like a 19th century pick axe to the skull it’s barbaric but expected, though always worth putting your hand up for, a tactile reworking of ‘stickiness’, an intellectual act of baravado). Bryant taking to tourists so recently though, this blooms disquiet. the recent ghosts are marginalized. predictable. a tour through the genuine reality of the solitary wing & I wish the group away, I feel, quickly, what a sense of real feeling could be (how you hate the others) 4 not bored with the scent of huon pine. repacking in ever looser segments, clothes like the blots of wildlife preserved out there. we spot-fish illegally, again, parade past the eco-toilet, again, just as ever-boggled as starfish on the bay. like at the caravan park convenience store – nobody wants what you have… with that we rejoice. spiffy little carved train carriages, all soon noted, even in the hazy laugh-pod of first class. endless booze clarifies the mist. I’m carrying a sassafras twig all day, by touch mentally rechecking the memories, two by two, placing the odour as a pivotal future crutch. rememberance of scents past. this sprung beach at nightfall, defies watering down. we are shadows glazed in gold-pink, captured by the correct aperture, & we are at times worth the danger. rainforest blues / countless photo ops. you’d pan for gold perpetually, given the time. I give you mine & wind the bus home all things a question of credit. 5 the hedge maze is the permission we all need to run to flail (kids make friends / I don’t) it casts into relief the world I wanted to love (should have been a product of rigour) it doesn’t follow, but alcoholism is studiously observed. I’ll observe anything involving a boat. stumbling past dubious deeds & the desire to meditate, the lack of such follow through. all you do is have the ability to know this. service with a beep. armrest reading light. the blackened essence of travel. me pitching it at you.