I am sitting in my seat with my head turned to the left. It rests on the window as I look down. We are at thirty five thousand feet above the ground which is a map transformed into reality. Turbulence makes the plane shake laterally and I can easily imagine pockets of warm and cold air mixing like the different layers I felt while snorkelling on Magnetic Island. These are the layers of reality that are not seen but are certainly felt.
Beneath me the coastal rivers are mud veins that spread sediment across the flat brown landscape. The heart of the country is huge and beats slowly to its own rhythm. A light brown line stretches from horizon to horizon. It is just one of the long roads that cross this country. I wonder what it is like to drive across that desolate place. Maybe there is someone down there driving their car across that vast distance. A rooster tail of dust feathers out behind them which does not trouble the cattle dog that sits in the back. The driver holds the wheel with one hand in the casual twelve o’clock position. He is listening to the rural report on the ABC. If he glanced up he would see me though I am just visible as a contrail. He would see just a light white line that stretches from horizon to horizon.
Now I know this could be seen as daydreaming or idle speculation but somewhere out there is a driver crossing this vast land. As a writer our job can be making the connections that people do not always see. We uncover the layers of reality that are not always seen but are certainly felt. It is not something that we can tell you but we can show you. All sorts of turbulence can shake you day and the day you map out is always transformed by reality. Our hope as writers is that we can show you something you might not have noticed.
