Camouflage and the race toward the End
All this has been provided – and I will use it, to adorn form and lock-pick time travel – subvert it’s original meaning and slip between the cracks, spinning in circles toward the stars.
Heavy machinery, designed by workers for the cause, now in our hands. We have the power – and with that comes the courage.
Fear not the end, for we have faced it again and again and again.
In there is our wisdom.
In there is the fuel.
My apprenticeship rebellion began as the twentieth century sighed her last breaths. Heavy with promise, a problem child was spawned, the DNA of high hopes and progress morphed and began killing its makers. But we are not there yet.
Underage, I buy a machine. Three on the tree, 60 in first. An XT, not a Holden, that would come later. Simple folk fall into the binary code of Holden or Ford. I have never been simple.
Inside the body of a beast a girl can find herself.
Inside the shell of a muscle a girl sees how fast she is going. Just over the Westgate, citybound – 120. The car in front said so, and the lights and the siren sound. Stop at the bottom of the ramp. In an out of body experience the girl, let’s call her Fanny, has no fear. That part of her is smart, and had already run to the bushes, and watches and waits.
Fanny talks to the nice police. Tells them what they want to hear. No, she didn’t know she’d been speeding, Oh from way back there?
The blue ink sky swirls down around Fanny’s head, threading into the future where it is discovered that there is no licence, that she is underage, that she is one of the Free Ones. They’ll lock her up, for sure.
Pushing the sky away Fanny stays put, still breathing as the police walk around the car. Fanny glances over toward the bushes, and sees only leaves.
The police inform her the car is unroadworthy, the tail lights have blue diamond inserts, hot, customised, illegal.
Nothing is mentioned of the cop car engine, the 17inch tyres or the mere absence of a licence.
The car is to stay here, over night. It can be retrieved on the morrow. Saying too much I say, But how will I get home?
As the words leave my body I look toward the bushes and contemplate a night there – the world has splintered, and shards of endless possibilities unfurl.
The bushes, the car, the sky.
There is no time and I am outside of it all. I am free.