The way home

Last week I mentioned a story to Paul Bevan about the Georgian woman who, while scavenging for copper cut off the internet to the whole of Armenia. Of course, this kind of thing is gold for storytellers and Paul asked if this was was something I would file away for future use...

So yes and no. It's the idea that I take note of rather than the action or event.
Small but clearly interesting action - Big consequence. Woopsies. That is the delicious bit.

But it's not just these things that trigger a scene or character, I can get it from moving through the city. Tonight I rode home just on dark. Balmy autumn evening. The harbour a mirror and Newcastle was shining until I hit the bike track at Throsby Creek and everything went dark. Curtains were still not drawn although the lights were on (a handful of stories in one frame). The Mullet were throwing themselves about and a Sudanese football team glowed under the lights at the scabby park near Tighes Hill Tafe. Up and over the railway line with a snaked coal train resting underneath. Past John Scolleys workshop where he was still sanding away and the smell of resin slapped me as I picked up speed down the laneway that runs along Newcastle Surf Design.  Every time I reach Litchfield Park I hesitate. It's dark down there and the stormwater drain just might hold more than water at low tide. There's the fightclub on the corner and the open space of the park (sometimes more gothic to me than any deserted expanse of wilderness) has the potential for misadventure.

But this is Mayfield: Home of the Brave right? I have to do it.

So these are the reasons I can never spend time in a gym. I can't do it. I have no time. No scavenging time. I need to get my blood moving outside where stuff happens. That smell of resin? It's already a little worm of an idea. That sensorial trigger is so powerful for me. That Proustian memory.
That's the stuff for me.