Black Postcards. Launched via a series of coffees and false breakfasts out through the door marked ‘Bus’, we sped heavy-eyed and dusty through the landscape of festive consumption, through an extra-chill border crossing where they hardly even looked at us as we entered their damn country loaded with explosives and rabies. Back to the country that feels like such a less violent and dangerous place than the other one, but which isn’t so shit-hot like it pretends to be.
We crossed what was once farmland, now the sprawliest sprawl that ever sprawled a sprawl across the land. We saw the limitless opportunities to buy cars and trucks, sell cars and trucks, have cars and trucks repaired or cleaned, buy fuel for cars and trucks, find pieces for cars and trucks for when they fall off or break or stop working as they’re supposed to, and eventually put your cars and trucks out to die in fields of rusting leaking toxic heaps of rubbish, so that they can fulfill their destiny of polluting everything during their working lives and even on beyond the grave.
We flew on an airplane for about twenty-five minutes, over some of the most beautiful land I know. Torn to shreds and fucked over with power lines and other scars, but just amazing. I want to live here when I see that. I also want to live forever, but I’ll settle for less.
For the first time, on getting back to town I noticed feeling that sense of relief at being back that means ‘being back home’. This town is stupidly lovely, although a weird place on many levels. It feels like a good place.
And the first thing I do when I get back? Race off to a meeting, of course. Cripes.
