Jeanelle Hurst and Russel Lake
...In the breaker's yard a testudo of abandoned cars lay together in the ever-changing light, their outlines shifting as if some time-wind were blowing across them. Strips of rusting chrome leaked into the overheated air, patches of intact cellulose bled away into the crown of light that covered the yard. The spurs of deformed metal, the triangles of fractured glass, were signals that had lain unread for years in this shabby grass, ciphers translated by Vaughan and myself as we sat with our arms around each other in the centre of the electric storm moving across our retinas...
A drive through the inner city area of Brisbane these days yields many unexpected pleasures. A sticker on a bin in Edward Street lays bear the soul of the media spectacle, denouncing the passive contemplation of 'Twin Pointlessness'; infantile, but no less valid for that. Further on, down Charlotte Street, another sticker: a geometric male head clad in a construction helmet, cerebral machinery exposed within. Over the bridge into Melbourne Street, an hysterical and funny poster reveals the horrors of wage-slavery. Then, past the state government vehicle with the 666 number-plate, onwards to Upper Roma Street, on the edge of a sprawling parking lot, where some wholly appropriate car hulks describe a map of desires denied in the urban environment
...Around me the interior of the car glowed like a magician's bower, the light within the compartment becoming darker and brighter as I moved my eyes. The instrument dials irradiated my skin with their luminous needles and numerals. The carapace of the instrument binnacle, the inclined planes of the dashboard panel, the metal sills of the radio and ashtrays gleamed around me