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Mindy Gill is an award-winning poet and editor. She is the recipient of the Queensland Premier’s Young Writers and Publishers Award, and has received fellowships from the Wheeler Centre Hot Desk Fellowship and the Australian Poetry/NAHR Poetry Fellowship in Taleggio Valley, Italy, amongst others. She lives in Brisbane, where she is Peril Magazine’s Editor-in-Chief.
Any wonder, the cheapest rental car. The first hour I couldn’t figure the handbrake. It turned out to be a second foot break. The wind buffets us out of Wellington but I don’t mind extreme sensations. They calm me down. At least, most of the time, and I am calm until I realise before today I’ve never driven in another country. The delayed shock of this new experience, when I am already partway through the experience, makes me pull over into the next town we pass through, which is every town we pass through. People are kind wherever we go. I don’t know why I expected hostility, especially when it reminds me so much of home, then I wonder if that’s what I expect from home: hostility. I’m so nervous about my driving that when you offer to drive I can’t keep my mouth shut about your driving. The sheer landscape lends a sense of gravity to everything. listen
listen
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Each person carries their own awareness of death and my own awareness seems somewhat more vigilant. The hills fogged with moss so dense and fine they hang in mists of green cloud: death. The sheer blue of every water body we pass, its diamond sharpness: death. The steam rattling solid white sheets of rock that cling to the earth: death. It reeks of it. We glide through country B&Bs and sleep in deathly silences. Bats beat back their wings like someone outside shaking out a wet sheet. The extremities of beauty make me nervous. I begin to question my sense of reality.
On the third day we don’t start until noon. We drink espressos from porcelain cups and order complicated, extravagant breakfasts. How slowly Desert Road arrives, then all at once. The greenery flattening to wiry scrub that stretches into every distance. The powerlines that draw the eye beyond where the eye can see. The unbelievable sky. Volcanos glossed with ice. They turn grainy in the violet sand blown back against the windshield. Nothing here is intermediary. There are signs for wild horses everywhere and I become desperate to see them. Our time is completely our own. How easy it is to go anywhere we want. I look for trodden paths in snow grasses, mistaking brute shapes for what they aren’t.
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This is a test caption
test quote looks like this and uigwqduk iuqwgkjw wkqbf kuwbkwuqbk bqwkf bwk wqk ubfkwuqjbfkbukqwbf kqwfbkjbqwfb
On the third day we don’t start until noon. We drink espressos from porcelain cups and order complicated, extravagant breakfasts. How slowly Desert Road arrives, then all at once. The greenery flattening to wiry scrub that stretches into every distance. The powerlines that draw the eye beyond where the eye can see. The unbelievable sky. Volcanos glossed with ice. They turn grainy in the violet sand blown back against the windshield. Nothing here is intermediary. There are signs for wild horses everywhere and I become desperate to see them. Our time is completely our own. How easy it is to go anywhere we want. I look for trodden paths in snow grasses, mistaking brute shapes for what they aren’t.
