Leaving on Cup Day
Sydney International Airport – 14.14, November 1, Cup Day.
Are airports spiritual places; I saw the ghost of Jack Kerouac collide with a Virgin hostess just this morning. The Republican Party would have liked a snapshot for their files, I’m sure.
Yellow and black lines circle white arrows and the pilots seem to ignore them all – their machines too big to worry with thin lines on tarmac 20 feet below.
I leave my country for the first time as an adult in 2 hours and 43 minutes; I have placed a bet on a horse’s name I won’t recall until it wins. We would all like to see Makybe win, drunken nights could be filled with reminiscing her mighty trifecta rather than the dim sepia images of Phar Lap lapping the Flemington field 75 years ago.
I am not nervous, I am curious, I am not frightened, I am in love, I am not a body, I am a soul.
Amongst the hurlygirdyburdy of Sir Charles Kingsford Smith Airport – I find myself wondering about the people who work here. It is a purgatory, filled with McDonalds and Irish pubs and bottle shops urging you come be an alcoholic with us, you need five litres of red wine and two magnums of champagne and we haven’t even begun to mention the beer – all of it tax free! The staff of this heavy breathing callosus must stare out at the fields of departure gates wondering when it might be their turn to leave – I don’t feel any shame. I am patriotic.
Are airports spiritual places; I saw the ghost of Jack Kerouac collide with a Virgin hostess just this morning. The Republican Party would have liked a snapshot for their files, I’m sure.
Yellow and black lines circle white arrows and the pilots seem to ignore them all – their machines too big to worry with thin lines on tarmac 20 feet below.
I leave my country for the first time as an adult in 2 hours and 43 minutes; I have placed a bet on a horse’s name I won’t recall until it wins. We would all like to see Makybe win, drunken nights could be filled with reminiscing her mighty trifecta rather than the dim sepia images of Phar Lap lapping the Flemington field 75 years ago.
I am not nervous, I am curious, I am not frightened, I am in love, I am not a body, I am a soul.
Amongst the hurlygirdyburdy of Sir Charles Kingsford Smith Airport – I find myself wondering about the people who work here. It is a purgatory, filled with McDonalds and Irish pubs and bottle shops urging you come be an alcoholic with us, you need five litres of red wine and two magnums of champagne and we haven’t even begun to mention the beer – all of it tax free! The staff of this heavy breathing callosus must stare out at the fields of departure gates wondering when it might be their turn to leave – I don’t feel any shame. I am patriotic.
posted by Peter Veness at 3:59 pm
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