wonder the aborigines had never developed much of a civilization like other primitive peoples.
Man had spread his highways, his parking lots, his civic centers and shopping malls across the face of the planet. Everywhere the land had accepted the insult in silence. Except here. Here the land fought back, fought every incursion, every attempt to domesticate it. Not with violence, but with ennui. It wore you out, just as it wore out the roads.
There was a reason why people here kept tight to their few cities, clung to the cool southern coasts. Up here, in the north, in the great center, the Dreamtime still held sway, still dictated the pace of life and decay, of people and of roads. It sucked the drive out of a man, and if one wasn’t careful, the life.
He understood the drinking now, the intensity and the frequency of it. It held the land at bay, kept it out of a man’s mind, kept him from thinking too much about the vast open empty spaces. Prevented them from invading one’s spirit and taking over.
God, he was tired.
His shirt was soaked through. He pulled it over his head, threw it up into the truck.
“Yeah, sure,” he mumbled, accepting a hand up. “I’d like a beer.”
Someone could pick up the car later. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now, except getting to the pub.
The truck drove off. Once more the shiny new section of road was silent and empty. A beetle struggled out from beneath a bush, to be snatched up by a silent, watching magpie. Already the black sheen of the newly laid asphalt was fading, turning to a tired gray.
A foot-long crack appeared in the southbound lanes. Soon it would widen.
BETCHA CAN’T EAT JUST ONE
When I was growing up, two of my favorite foods
were Hostess Cupcakes and Twinkies. I’d put them in
the fridge and eat them cold. That way, the chocolate on
the cupcakes didn’t melt so fast, and the cream centers
had more of the flavor and consistency of ice cream. I
never gave these gustatory affectations a second thought.
After all, food was food, and if your body could digest it,
then how bad could it be for you? Really.
It was only much later that I encountered the significant body of deprecation that hovers about these gooey
concoctions like hard lumps of sarcasm orbiting a soft,
chewy, defenseless center. I foreswore my childhood
addiction and moved on to more healthful, nourishing victuals—like cappuccino mousse, super-premium ice
creams, and 77 percent dark chocolate. There are times,
though, when I look back fondly at lost childhood pleasures like Twinkies and Ho Hos. Innocent pleasures all.
Aren’t they?
“Can I help you find something, sir?”
Moke glanced sharply at the checkout clerk. He was more nervous than usual these days, with the Study so near completion. Always having to watch his step. Never knew when they might be watching.
“You cannot. I can find everything by myself, when I want to. I simply choose to proceed at my own pace.” He offered up a smug smile. “I’ve found a great deal already, and am in the process of finding more all the time.”
She eyed him uncertainly. Lately, the majority of the people she found wandering in this aisle wanted to know the location of the new Adolescent Altered Killer Gerbil Cookies, the latest kid food and comic sensation. This customer was different. For one thing, he was bigger. And he seemed not so much lost as preoccupied.
That’s when she noted the microcassette recorder he was carrying in lieu of a shopping bag. “You from the Health Department or sump’in? You want I should get the night manager?”
“No. If I was from the Health Department I’d already have shut down this unholy establishment—and every one like it, until they agreed to change their policies. I’m not in a position to do that—yet.” The widening of his humorless grin failed to enlighten the baffled clerk. Or to reassure her.
It was one in the morning—near closing time for this particular market. A few amnesiatic
Man had spread his highways, his parking lots, his civic centers and shopping malls across the face of the planet. Everywhere the land had accepted the insult in silence. Except here. Here the land fought back, fought every incursion, every attempt to domesticate it. Not with violence, but with ennui. It wore you out, just as it wore out the roads.
There was a reason why people here kept tight to their few cities, clung to the cool southern coasts. Up here, in the north, in the great center, the Dreamtime still held sway, still dictated the pace of life and decay, of people and of roads. It sucked the drive out of a man, and if one wasn’t careful, the life.
He understood the drinking now, the intensity and the frequency of it. It held the land at bay, kept it out of a man’s mind, kept him from thinking too much about the vast open empty spaces. Prevented them from invading one’s spirit and taking over.
God, he was tired.
His shirt was soaked through. He pulled it over his head, threw it up into the truck.
“Yeah, sure,” he mumbled, accepting a hand up. “I’d like a beer.”
Someone could pick up the car later. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now, except getting to the pub.
The truck drove off. Once more the shiny new section of road was silent and empty. A beetle struggled out from beneath a bush, to be snatched up by a silent, watching magpie. Already the black sheen of the newly laid asphalt was fading, turning to a tired gray.
A foot-long crack appeared in the southbound lanes. Soon it would widen.
BETCHA CAN’T EAT JUST ONE
When I was growing up, two of my favorite foods
were Hostess Cupcakes and Twinkies. I’d put them in
the fridge and eat them cold. That way, the chocolate on
the cupcakes didn’t melt so fast, and the cream centers
had more of the flavor and consistency of ice cream. I
never gave these gustatory affectations a second thought.
After all, food was food, and if your body could digest it,
then how bad could it be for you? Really.
It was only much later that I encountered the significant body of deprecation that hovers about these gooey
concoctions like hard lumps of sarcasm orbiting a soft,
chewy, defenseless center. I foreswore my childhood
addiction and moved on to more healthful, nourishing victuals—like cappuccino mousse, super-premium ice
creams, and 77 percent dark chocolate. There are times,
though, when I look back fondly at lost childhood pleasures like Twinkies and Ho Hos. Innocent pleasures all.
Aren’t they?
“Can I help you find something, sir?”
Moke glanced sharply at the checkout clerk. He was more nervous than usual these days, with the Study so near completion. Always having to watch his step. Never knew when they might be watching.
“You cannot. I can find everything by myself, when I want to. I simply choose to proceed at my own pace.” He offered up a smug smile. “I’ve found a great deal already, and am in the process of finding more all the time.”
She eyed him uncertainly. Lately, the majority of the people she found wandering in this aisle wanted to know the location of the new Adolescent Altered Killer Gerbil Cookies, the latest kid food and comic sensation. This customer was different. For one thing, he was bigger. And he seemed not so much lost as preoccupied.
That’s when she noted the microcassette recorder he was carrying in lieu of a shopping bag. “You from the Health Department or sump’in? You want I should get the night manager?”
“No. If I was from the Health Department I’d already have shut down this unholy establishment—and every one like it, until they agreed to change their policies. I’m not in a position to do that—yet.” The widening of his humorless grin failed to enlighten the baffled clerk. Or to reassure her.
It was one in the morning—near closing time for this particular market. A few amnesiatic
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