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.

It’s very hard to occupy space. You can have a lot of space at your disposal and still not be able to breathe. A big room. How to make it take all that breath and give it back again?
Sometimes notes help. Not written ones, but rather notes like bubbles. Space-using bubbles – fat, spherish pillows. They are actually just membranes with a different sort of space inside. Eyeballs of not-much. Looking blindly at everything, and with such a clear perspective. You could polish up a bubble if it weren’t for it being so damn silent.
When things are quiet, you need the molecules of air to be sensitive to tiny shuntings.
 I push some air towards you.
You push some back. And its arrival is like a tickling. Not a thumping.
I am a sad, little one tonight.
And I am holding my breath beneath a big ache of sky. Blue hurts sometimes (I’ve said this already a long time ago.)
But it’s a good colour for blondes, with enough black mixed in. It makes us look healthy. It makes our skin shine like peaches.
Vanity or greed, I wanted to say to the puffy man. It’s all vice. Which one do you want?
Vanity or greed.
I am so fond of summer fruit. But I know that sometimes it’s potatoes and simply your best effort with beetroot.
We are heading somewhere, where the apt adjective is industrial.
That’s what they say. And we invite everyone. But really, I fantasise blonde wood, and green lamps, and plate glass to catch my reflection as the night comes down.
I want to drown in the black-and-white.
And to feel that strange floating when the linear forms loops, and paper moves beneath the edge of a hand like a ticker-tape.
Colours. One must write in colour. Even if it’s mostly black.