Cyclops

FRIDAY:
It begins with a one-eyed tail-light struggling along the freeway, our white 2-door chasing its cycloptic red glow northwards. To Newcastle. We are indebted to Mel, goddess of hostels, who checks us into my favourite room and lets us all have member's rates on the flash of a card. We pace the aisles of a jumbled Bi-Lo until closing time, then mix words in a bag of Scrabble. My score doubles hers.

SATURDAY:
Misplaced steps around the streets of Newcastle to find WEA. High-ceilinged classrooms and a soporific mix of boys who lounge in plastic chairs as if waiting for us to answer the question 'what is experimental writing?' We don't know, who does?

Lunching with the masses at the Juicy Beans Cafe. An internet relationship plays for its 15 minutes of relative fame, as we munch on pide and sip sweet mocha from white china cups. Applause and exeunt to TAFE, to TAFE, to find a first-time author. There's nothing new in the room, just old acquaintances and an uninspiring exchange. She cannot place the willowy young writer in her memory.

Cheap chocolate freckles, in handfuls, then stop. The nasty sweetness subsides like etchings under a palimpsest, overwritten by a triumvirate of readers who project words to the back of the gallery. Buy, buy, buy. $10 gone, and the zine fair to go.

He's Nick and he's nice but he disappears in a flutter of a flier thrust in my hand. We use the media without communicating. We act without activism. What has the world come to? Baby boomers who care, wearing Crocs and enunciating their opinion to a pre-converted room. I have my say too, so we get back to business - how to harvest interest without selling our soul..?

Quick quality food with a capital K, no chicken too tasty for this little miss. As Solo streams down over salty lips, I pause at the thought of a teenage memory, eating the same meal all those months ago. I was different then, and so was he.

He chants a little ditty about Darren Costello, a cute hippie rhyme that solicits a laugh. There are warblers and dreamers and drummers and a window that frames the world walking by. Who is watching who?

A cup of green tea and another victory on the Scrabble board as the Scrabble queen blames her tiles.

SUNDAY:
Breakfast on the beach: toasted but soggy bagels and a latte to go. My pink-lashed shoulders shrug into town hall where a crisis takes place: biodiversity comes off the agenda as the activists form and reform in a political dance meant for one. The panel is propped up by a handsome young man called James. He speaks for wildlife, not for politics. I want to walk with him to the Wild Country.

Call of the zines, but all is not fair - a budget in my pocket and so much to buy. Crumpled numbers swapp'd for words crumpled into shape by faceless authors. Smile into the sunlight as the day turns into a dark and seedy night. Sex, violence, depravity - and that's just between the covers of a book. The hangover is The Poets Breakfast, furious and witty in a beer-soaked blur. We make love to the sofa in the corner and listen to the wordsmiths speak in tongues. Sublime.

Bi-Lo, burritos and beer. Enough said.

The edge of the world is lit by a beacon, a flashy tall thing with a hill up its arse. We meander out to a point beyond the light, where white water eats away at the concrete blocks that have tumbled into the sea. The Stockton Bridge smiles a smile of even lights and the glow to the north is a mystery.

Five voices debate 'Love, Actually', New Zealand and reality television. A block of Cadbury Crunchie goes missing in the meantime. I drink another cup of tea.

MONDAY:
A one-armed tan manifests itself at Hornsby station. My backpack is full of zines and I still own a block of Cadbury, though I've lost my bottle of water. I eat fake arrowroots instead and pay for two months' worth of train travel. There is a load of laundry waiting for me when I get home.