Travel is one of those liminal events that leads to contemplation outside of the self. In the interstitial space between point A and point B anything is possible; everything is indeterminate. You arrive at your destination and life coalesces into solidity. My entire flight, Schroedinger’s cat was not a theory: the cat, stowed in the cargo hold where I could not check on her, was both alive and dead, all at once and in every way. She is, of course, just fine. She has discovered her litter and eaten smoked trout (spoiled!) and is prowling the apartment, staying close to the walls.
My head swims with jetlag. At some point later, I will write about my last days in Melbourne, and specifically about the Centre Pompidou video art exhibition at ACMI which was amazing.