Blow up the pokies; the years will condemn

Now not everyone likes The Whitlams, in fact I'm pretty sure I don't like them but if you're thinking about the geography of sound and I'm thinking about the geography of sound, then I don't think I can entirely ignore them, not even if I want to.

I was crossing borders today driving out of the city until I could see the flat hum of the horizon. Dropping in on Superman at his Mum's house I drank a hasty cup of tea at Emu Plains, conscious all the while of a container full of chocolate pastries waiting in the car for Rita's oven. I'm no pastry chef and my hands were still sore from rubbing the skin from hot hazelnuts straight out of my oven. I was worried something might happen to them in the car so that when I baked them in Rita's oven the middles would run out and the pastry shells burn to a crisp. No such in-car-pastry-disaster occurred and Rita pulled them brown and ready from the oven about an hour later but I've lost my train of thought.

I was sitting in the mountains, glass of sarsaparilla in hand, chewing on a triumphant chocolate pastry. No, that's not it either. I was driving down the mountains back towards Emu Plains wondering why the horizon was now behind me when it occurred to me it might be slightly bonkers of me to promise Superman I would help him with his odd project that afternoon. You see how I am tired and threads of thought float past each other without hook or knot or woven shape.

This evening Superman and I visited the Olympia Milkbar. I failed to adequately explain the legend, I failed to build in Superman's mind the right blend of curiousity and sorrow. I failed to explain that he should enter with silent reverence because it is everything that needs to be remembered. A cabinet of lest we forget. I am determined to try again, soon.

I dropped Superman at Central Station then headed back through the city to Newtown and Spencer waiting at the island cafe. We drank coffee and hot chocolate. We walked south for pastizzis walking the middle length of Newtown. From Newtown to Newtown crossing atmosphere and memories. Half way through my chilli con carne pastizzi I noticed the conversation was wide open, my words were making sense and I was interested, in everything.

Spencer and I have been talking about the geography of sound. We've talking about locating self through memories of landscape, the effect of place on our work, the people that have turned centuries and lived here throwing bricks and songs and words into our landscape, the one we're sitting in right now.

I'm thinking about the landscape of today and how different parts of me live in Emu Plains, The Blue Mountains, Springwood, Central Station and scattered walking ghosts in Newtown. I'm thinking about the geography of sound and the rain shadows of words. I'm thinking I might need a compass.