* Lush, plants growing everywhere, caught in a dripping world of strange shapes, these things, dank, beautiful. And then: born again. Baby, I always take the long way home, sang Tom Waits, and if he looked for answers, now he was frightened of inconsequential things: of Alex saying he always lost interest because their English wasn't good enough for a decent level of communication, intimacy, as playful, as fun and as handsome as they might be. I'd move them in holus bolus and worry about the consequences later, he said; and Alex said: yes, I used to do that. These simple things haunted him now, as if there was nothing left to worry about but boredom. Boredom can be good, at least it's not crisis, one of his many old chief's of staff Madonna King had said. She went on to have children and a successful career in radio in Brisbane; he went on to do the same old, to stay on general news, to feel the years passing and the weight gathering, surrounded by a whole new generation of young reporters and photographers; to become, in effect, a living fossil, a voice of conscience from a demonic past, demented in the dawn, truthful by day, odd carriages of justice, the synapse for the city's stories, told without spin, accomplished in fine form, one stunt after another towering in upon themselves.
The Garden of Eden
The Garden of Eden
The Garden of Eden
* Lush, plants growing everywhere, caught in a dripping world of strange shapes, these things, dank, beautiful. And then: born again. Baby, I always take the long way home, sang Tom Waits, and if he looked for answers, now he was frightened of inconsequential things: of Alex saying he always lost interest because their English wasn't good enough for a decent level of communication, intimacy, as playful, as fun and as handsome as they might be. I'd move them in holus bolus and worry about the consequences later, he said; and Alex said: yes, I used to do that. These simple things haunted him now, as if there was nothing left to worry about but boredom. Boredom can be good, at least it's not crisis, one of his many old chief's of staff Madonna King had said. She went on to have children and a successful career in radio in Brisbane; he went on to do the same old, to stay on general news, to feel the years passing and the weight gathering, surrounded by a whole new generation of young reporters and photographers; to become, in effect, a living fossil, a voice of conscience from a demonic past, demented in the dawn, truthful by day, odd carriages of justice, the synapse for the city's stories, told without spin, accomplished in fine form, one stunt after another towering in upon themselves.