Even Mum can’t remember when they brought the trailer or how they got it in. It’s way up the back paddock on blocks and the gums are so dense you can’t even see the road from there. Dad reckons the gums must have popped up after – that they cut a road through the bush and now it’s grown over. I don’t reckon gums grow that fast. They’re like our own Stone Henge, the Kaley family’s Easter Island. A whole train carriage languishing in the dirt, rusting. The doors have been ripped off, but the sheep won’t even go in there when it’s raining. One of them did once, but it got stuck between the seats and died. I wired the skull over the doorway. I moved out there for a bit, after I read ‘Into the Wild’. Alexander Supertramp’s desire for solitude and authentic experience really resonated with me I guess. The wind whipping through the doors used to get so feverish it sounded like someone screaming. The roof leaks, and my mattress got mouldy real fast so I moved back up to the house after about a month. Somewhere in there my copy of ‘Into the Wild’ is peeling and bloated with water.
Recording on my phone of the man in line behind me at Lentil as Anything, Abbotsford Convent.
‘Distinction awaits, believe me! And see the electric storm that happened Sunday night, after St Vincents lied about the blood test results – this incredible electric storm. I started to recover, I felt it – bang – the lightning starts. What is the cross made of? Love and suffering! Not love and violent lies, and violent collusion. And all the bullshit under the sun. Truth, not lies. The cross – you’re just sanctifying your own violence. Nothing more! Look, he knows it! They’ll say ‘No, no, no’ and then ‘Yeah’ cos they know it’s crap. The whole thing is a filthy, toxic lie. And they will go to hell for it, the whole lot of them. Extinction! A filthy, toxic lie. He doesn’t know what to do. He knows it’s the truth. It’ s a filthy, toxic lie. He’s with America. I bought his low country’s crap, it’s not low country at all, it’s America. What’s a murder between friends? Or a hundred murders?’