Dreamstuff

'Dreamstuff' was the word that came to me right on dusk as I swept fast through the corners past Packapunyal, then into the hills above Tooborac, hunched '70s racer-style in a cocoon in my old-fashioned motorcycle clothes - sheepskin and leather, flannelette and wool - which protected me from the bitterly cold air swirling all around. In this state I entered some kind of 'zone' - the road felt abstract. Perhaps it was that in my mind I had Cream's White Room on repeat, more likely it was the strangeness of being so exposed yet so protected from the cold. Where normally I would slow for fear of night-time animals, tonight I opened it up, the single big piston making thunder through the exhaust. And me floating along with it but from above, or to the side, in a zone, on a trip.





That was how the day ended. Earlier I wove through an old road by streams and rocks, all alone.