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Linz Hbf, Waiting for the 🚞 Part of 🚌🚞🚌✈️🚌🚋

S.J wrote and talked with us about aftercare for Rest Area. Kali Rose said the snake I ran over on my e-bike was a good omen, and she’s never going to let that go. I arrive in Vienna, cafés I’d aimed for are closed for lunch so I find myself in Café Jelinek, a bit off Mariahilfestr. neighbourhoods I’ve biked through before. A second breakfast, after our all-’80s singing one in Landgasthaus Rodlhof on 3 hours sleep, raked from the work and hungover, is a big mug of coffee, croissant and honey, bowl of fruit and yoghourt, 4 slices bread with cream cheese, chives, tomatoes, all for 9,50 €. On the plane, easyJet to Schönefeld, they offer me two seats, ’cos I’m mad tall. I fall over myself into it. 4 hours later, a half before midnight and the Danube churning in my lungs, I arrive home. Katrin has left dinner on the table for me. Aftercare all the way.

Linz Hauptbahnhof, Monday 25th September, 10:47
Linz Hauptbahnhof, Monday 25th September, 10:47

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I was flying into Chicago at night Watching the l…

I was flying into Chicago at night
Watching the lake turn the sky into blue-green smoke
The sun was setting to the left of the plane
And the cabin was filled with an unearthly glow
In 27-D, I was behind the wing
Watching landscape roll out like credits on a screen

The earth looked like it was lit from within
Like a poorly assembled electrical ball
As we moved out of the farmlands into the grid
The plan of a city was all that you saw
And all of these people sitting totally still
As the ground raced beneath them, thirty-thousand feet down

It took an hour, maybe a day
But once I really listened the noise just fell away

Stratford-On-Guy, Exile in Guyville, Liz Phair
Flying into Tegel from Brussels yesterday evening, north of Berlin. I sat in 20-F, the sun coming in over my right shoulder, as we cut a giant curve from the Berliner Ring to turn back west, I sang, “… As we moved out of the farmlands into the grid …”.

These lyrics. How she sings them. Just my regular reminder to self that after 24 years Liz Phair's Exile in Guyville is still one of the best albums ever.

Gallery

mel-adl: the detritus of cyclone isobel

An ominous bruised horizon, warnings of thunderstorms and a deadening, electric heat tense to snap, I was hoping for a funpark joyride of a flight with plenty of turbulence punctuated by occasional vertiginous, stomach-voiding drops in altitude. Nothing of the sort. The sky though became progressively shrouded, even at twelve thousand meters, in a vague diaphanous white haze, plunging deeper into a hadean, thuggish gloom, but all the while descending across South Australia, the sun cutting a feeble, jaundiced glaze through sweltering up-wellings of the guttering cyclone Isobel and its conjoined southern ocean trough, it was anticipation disappointed.

Wet when arriving, and stormy with fecund humidity, I continued my series of extraordinarily strange dreams last night, then this morning, dehydrated and woozy dragged myself into class, on a Saturday, with Gala, taught by Gabrielle. So once again, I am with old and very dear friends in Adelaide, and seeing again new ones from Crush and my other adventures in the murder capital below the Tropic of Capricorn.

Before I left Melbourne, I had one last destruction of language and faces at The Wall with Emile, who is off to Europe before I return, and is very happy with his new airport fascination. So here for Emile are some more photographs of runway aprons and other fun impedimenta of economy class.