Diversion

After rearranging ourselves (belongings included) and cleaning out the corners of what was left over, it is a matter of driving south. This was not scheduled. Driving. And all that it means - the capsule, the light beneath clouds, the stopover with unpredictable food. We lift and turn large metal rings at a harbour. Again I see the truck that calls itself a train. Children strapped to harnesses bounce double-height into the fish-n-chip air. We are offered a charter flight. Decline, since it is not travelling far enough.

A diversion does not necessarily mean anything. But one can make it mean as much, or a little, as one wants. The remaining 35 kilometres are easy.

And now there is paltry rain, neglible sun and a coldness due to an unforeseen need for fleecy clothing. An Australian Summer. We make an improvised Thai Salad. We watch and educate ourselves with television. I learn that I can win money by texting how many presents the blonde Christmas-Elf-Woman is nursing between her thighs. We discover cross-marketing becoming virulent.

Jack Black sings with children after a meal with the doors wide open. We watch wattle birds and the way they swing around branches to reach the sweet.

Eggs feature on the resort breakfast menu. And peanut butter toast with tomatoes and salt and pepper. I haven't yet had the chance to don my swimsuit. I wear, however, a ridiculous hat - as always - and I wake each morning with storm clouds in my kidneys.

I tell people that we are waiting. We are travelling by remaining in the one position. We are doing that kind of movement that is the most difficult. Far away protesters chew on the consequences of their convictions. Rice paddy workers pause and stare into a different sky of light. Australians are left stranded - "11 hours without water". I wonder about red coats and steps echoing on a European street. Nothing is decided.

It's always like this. But when you are moving-not-moving, it's easier to notice.