I had taken the back way, a long and descending trek down Jubilee Tce and around Mt Coot-tha towards Ipswich on the journey home. For as long as I remember country radio had never been my taste, but today it would all seem too fitting.
After a short trip around Ipswich heading north when I should have been trekking south I was quickly on my way again.
Through the hills and far away, King Crimson’s neuroses flickered between each white strip on the road.
Whatever did happen to the world?
Taller walls and stronger cages…
It was somewhere around Karara I noticed something was desperately wrong. Temperature gauges on over-load, a smell of burning oil and fumes from the roadside were too strong.
My chariot, my beast of a billion backs could not possibly be in tune with my eagerness, my goddamn influential nature!
After a brief stop off at a rest area, I noticed nothing had changed.
My car was obviously going through some kind of performance anxiety that no words or prayer from me could sedate.
Inglewood I will stop, Inglewood, water, breeze. She’ll be right.
At the garage, my car looked more like a doobie than an automobile.
The word on Inglewood’s dusty desolate main street is a young fella is heading to Melbourne with a fucked alternator, radiator and fan belt.
I guess they’re right, the best laid plans of mice and men are destined always to be initial failures.
Hopefully soon the sound of perseverance will blare from my car speakers yet again.
Keep the faith…
Inglewood Pop (+1)