And another old one: Crash landing

Eyes wired open. Too many energy drinks, that one didn’t seem to work, let’s try another shall we? How many now? There was a man who was made up of rubber bands, high tensile wire and other such things. Essentially, a ticking time-bomb of potential energy. He spoke like a machine gun, but that’s enough about him for now, I don’t want to paint a bad picture of such a good egg.

We were asked, and we said yes. It seemed ridiculous, as naked bodies flailed through uneven, scrubby bush-filled ground, in the middle of the night. Be careful though not to smile on camera, as our Corinthian helmets, bandaged heads, ex-military parachutes and towering wigs were holding us hostage. We agreed to this, I laughed to myself, as flies crammed into gaps in my bandages, Myer Christmas sale, to get to the syrupy fake-blood that cakes my face. Later I discovered that they like real blood even more, as I scratched at the welts and rashes that covered my legs. Never really thought about the whole hayfever thing.

We arrived at midnight, and left as the sun was high over the trees. They in the other car, they awoke just in time to narrowly avoid a crash, life and death can be such frivolous things. Nothing so dire in our car, just the endless traffic jam, the enraged driver, the heat and the sticky itchy feeling.

We are making a story about freedom, escape from ennui, empowerment through choice, namely the choice to throw oneself off a building.

Today we lie on couches, catching precious moments of sleep before the next ridiculous misadventure. We sleep, we recover. This old house is now an infirmary for heart, mind, ankle. I will go in there, try my hand at sleeping, along with the rest of them. I will surely need strength for the next leg.

All just a memory now, that itchy sticky feeling, now just the dull pain of over-scratched ankles. Why do they love to bite into my ankles? Is the blood nicer there? So many more misadventures crammed into two days, one-and-a-half, three, numbers melt in the hot sun.

We were all naked together, midnight and we couldn’t see anything, so it didn’t matter, it was just normal. Natural. Then we came home, beaten. It was still Thursday. How? Off to Laverton, a drive under fire as a barrage of shock revelations rained down.

 - Our convoy was stretched as fast-in-front slow-behind style

 - They took the wrong turn

 - Giant mats came loose and fell out of our ute, somewhere back there

 - We can’t go back for them, Colby doesn’t have a license

 - Now we’re on the wrong road

 - What if someone had an accident?

 - We’ve got to go back there, but in a different car

 - We’re lost

 - What if someone got hurt?

 - Driving without a license, I’d better take over

We never found the mats, no sign of an accident, either. Weary limbs landed at Laverton, an abandoned traffic control tower. Two crash mats left, no time to worry, we’re losing sunlight. At last, we arrived at the crucial moment. Jump. Naked. Our rubber-band man was in top gear. Giant Scotch thistles, we were asked to jump over them (naked), but by this point we knew how to handle our directors. Since that moment when the giant silent Adonis sat hidden in the canola field, lobbing big rocks like mortar shells at startled cameramen. Now it was fun, and what’s more, we were almost there. The last shoot of the long long Thursday.