Skip to main content

Arterial road

My little reflection on Punt Road was published today by The Punt Road Project. That's a treat. The project has been collecting stories, musing, ragings and reflections on that big north-south road which plays such a part in Melbourne's life. 


The famous clock on the silo, 'high on the hill...'






I gave it a bit of a push too:


Here's the text:

Punt Road is not just a major arterial. For a time, it was for me a lifeline to my mind, an artery to my heart. It got my blood pumping, my mind whirring, my heart singing.

I lived a decade in the north, but each month crossed town for a southside bookclub, born of bayside friends. I had one baby, and then another, and Punt Road was my escape route from the intimate, beautiful yet terrifying world of full time parenting.

Words swam as I shifted gears down the multi lane, glistening dark road. Across town, across grid. The rhythm of road and drums, bass beat, music loud, my hands drumming on the steering wheel, I swept across a world to read between the lines.

That highway was a bridge, a way out, a conduit to reconnect with the world of words, the spaces of the mind, the things beyond reality. That arterial road gave me a blood transfusion, with its pumping streams, and even with its blockages. It promised me more. Punt Road, you saved my sanity!



For more reflections and stories see Punt Road Project 

Here is Kylie Northover's story in The Age which first put me onto this project.





















Comments

Popular posts from this blog

The Waiting

Morning walk.  I wake too late to do my nature writing workshop so I decide to get out into nature instead! Head off at about 7 am, sustained on half a cup of hot water with lemon, a banana and a snack KitKat. Make it to the backbeach in time to see the gold coming up from behind the sand dunes, flowering light from the lighthouse. Tiny black and white wren on the rocks, the Plover family just foraging. A heavy gull takes off when I approach. It flies past me, sits and waits, and flies back as it senses I’m no danger. I take photos and slow-mo videos. I can hardly make out the flying birds as they rise into the dark clouds.  I keep stopping to look at things. At one point I lie with my back in the sand on the edge of the dunes. All around the waves continue coming in and the birds call. What would I do without this?  At the lighthouse, Galahs wheel and screech, their pink bellies exposed as they fly above me. A couple fall behind, screeching ‘wait for me, wait f...

Coming of Age

The bricks were always cold underneath my bum. Cold and hard. I could feel their sharp edges. In the nights we sat and talked, my brother and I and the neighbourhood boys. The smells of sour smoke and saliva on one, body odour on another, and menace on the other. The fluorescent globes hummed from the train station platform across the road, and the street lights pooled at the corner. Inside was out of bounds to these boys, so we met on our side stairs. The frosted glass door between us and our home. These were the kids we didn’t trust, the boys from the wrong side of the tracks. Where were their parents? Absent fathers, unsighted mothers, these boys roamed the streets and set me on edge. The attraction to the dirt, to the smell of one’s mouth...I can still feel it now. It was an urge, but not an infatuation.  The hearts of these boys remained hidden. It was as if they walked in costumes, played their parts, and kept their distance. One day, my mum greeted me at...

Not smiling, wanking

The bricks were always cold underneath my bum. Cold and hard. I could feel their sharp edges. In the nights we sat and talked. The smells of sour smoke and saliva on one, body odour on another, and menace on the other. The fluorescent globes hummed from the station platform, and the street lights pooled at the corner. Inside was out of bounds to these boys, so we met on our side stairs. The frosted glass door between us and our home. Outside; offside: the limits to friendships. These were the kids we didn’t trust, the boys from the wrong side of the tracks. Where were their parents? Absent fathers, unsighted mothers, these boys roamed the streets and set me on edge. The attraction to the dirt, to the smell of one’s mouth...I can still feel it now. It was an urge, but not an infatuation.  The hearts of these boys remained hidden. It was as if they walked in costumes, played their parts, and kept their distance. We weren’t allowed to welcome them in. One day, my m...