if plainly self-destructive,” “Not it’s Jo argues, but to no avail. weighed anchor and set sail. Stanley’s [329] 15/8 She keeps an eye out on the water, amazed at just how far getting: he’s the heart, and each aorta, city’s each leaking vein in its bloodletting. The Hawkesbury, the Parramatta, the finish line of a regatta, Rushcutters, Rose and Double Bays where toddlers and romantics graze, Woolloomooloo and Garden Island and Neutral Bay and Kirribilli. His random, willy-nilly; journey’s spot him now and then, and smile, and she’ll watching his hobbled, doubled gait hope that he be out too late. won’t [330] 16/8 The working stiffs unfold their papers with swift and synchronised precision between apartments and skyscrapers, spreading before Jo in a vision of strange, identical broadsheets, as if to the streets they’d taken in polite protest, waving placards promoting Packers, Hewlett Packards, switching with almost perfect timing to hold up soap stars and stock sages. The choral whispering of pages, regular as the town hall’s chiming, can almost make her tap her feet along the business beat. ferries’ [331] 17/8 Freeway apartments hurtle by, providing interrupted views of lives lived low and hearts held high. As they flick on the evening news the same moon-faces peer at Glenn— the same austere and balding men, the same enunciating girls— connected like a string of pearls, bathing a thousand meals and cuddles with one blue light, one urgent tune, kaleidoscopic like the moon reflected in a thousand puddles. Great blocks of life on either side,
“Not if it’s plainly self-destructive,” Jo argues, but to no avail. Stanley’s weighed anchor and set sail. [329] 15/8 She keeps an eye out on the water, amazed at just how far he’s getting: the city’s heart, and each aorta, each leaking vein in its bloodletting. The Hawkesbury, the Parramatta, the finish line of a regatta, Rushcutters, Rose and Double Bays where toddlers and romantics graze, Woolloomooloo and Garden Island and Neutral Bay and Kirribilli. His journey’s random, willy-nilly; she’ll spot him now and then, and smile, and watching his hobbled, doubled gait hope that he won’t be out too late. [330] 16/8 The working stiffs unfold their papers with swift and synchronised precision between apartments and skyscrapers, spreading before Jo in a vision of strange, identical broadsheets, as if they’d taken to the streets in polite protest, waving placards promoting Packers, Hewlett Packards, switching with almost perfect timing to hold up soap stars and stock sages. The choral whispering of pages, regular as the town hall’s chiming, can almost make her tap her feet along the ferries’ business beat. [331] 17/8 Freeway apartments hurtle by, providing interrupted views of lives lived low and hearts held high. As they flick on the evening news the same moon-faces peer at Glenn— the same austere and balding men, the same enunciating girls— connected like a string of pearls, bathing a thousand meals and cuddles with one blue light, one urgent tune, kaleidoscopic like the moon reflected in a thousand puddles. Great blocks of life on either side,
equinox.docx