We’ve been kissing the edges of a few one-horse towns for a few days now, and it feels like a game of cat-and-mouse with my own sense of waywardness.
We obnoxiously clank our oversized suitcases into an undersized old miner’s hut wedged between fluorescent fields of canola. We light a fire and play scissors-paper-rock for bedrooms. I grab the key and drive. I’m looking for some sense of history before the sun goes down, or in the very least, outwardness. I find ducks and geese at the creek. Nothing to feed them with.
The regional art centre has closed for the day, and all the crumbling heritage buildings are actually just people’s homes and they are all going about their lives and not inviting me in for a tea (!).
I’m looking for something historic while they move past me.
I take a carrot up to the Shetland ponies at the end of the street. They are frustrated at my diffidence.
We film a final scene for Tom’s film on his phone in the back shed under a sliver of a crescent moon and the clear sky is brisk, icy. We rush back in and eat soup.
I am swallowed by a sinking mattress in a silent town ensconced in canola and sheep for miles on all sides.
I don’t entirely know where I am. In fact, I entirely don’t know where I am.