In regards to transitional seasons and watching it all happen before your eyes: a few weeks ago Uncle Jed and drove Grand Ridge Road in Gippsland from Mirboo North to somewhere along the M1…the map is still in the car. It’s hard to know whether to migrate it to the great map collection, a file drawer full of all variety of maps, or to start a car collection of possible adventures. So we drove and covered all manner of territory – there are some abrupt and diverse changes of landscape along the way.
Gippsland is a stormy place and thus everything is emerald and grey and very visually pleasing. We had a bonnet picnic somewhere up near the Mt Worth State Park, and as we ate sandwiches and talked to the bovines and rotated our orientation to the four unique views we had of that dot on the map, we could hear a thunderstorm rolling over the hills. Thunderstorms are quick motherfuckers – we could tell that we’d be cutting it close for getting out of there before the storm hit. We ended up running from it, but not before we stopped to watch it roll over a valley and take some pretty pictures. It’s a strange concept to see the border of a storm or perhaps of weather in general – to be able to stand for a second with one foot in the rain and one out of it. Because they’re always in motion that border is hard to comprehend – it’s not static, and we all know that repeated adjustment of borders tends to produce anxiety. It’s hard to think of storm as having an edge – and I think often we tend to internally measure weather in terms of time – we know how long it was present in our lives and how long it affected the daily Runnings of Things.
So here’s a picture of the edge of a storm. The weather in Melbourne is: