Aubade: After ‘Call’, Artstate Wagga Wagga

Sunlight tows itself into the Bunnings carpark, as though eager
For Saturday morning chores, the accompanying magpies roll

melodies like marbles or the throaty song of two-stroke starting
up on the edges of someone’s sleep. This early, colours are clear

and simple: the green algaed channel, the red of the Bunnings hammer,
slashes of graffiti in election sharpie black, and that sky overhead

just cruising with Riverina blue. And then there’s Hope’s car,
resting on its mags, all four side doors flung open, receiving day

like sheer gift, drinking in the grace of courtesy trailers with their
generously jangling chains. Hope’s boot is raised in wide-mouthed won-

-der. The speaker box fills all space like a stone the builders have rejected.
Tradies flow past in streams of sanctioned productivity, moving toward

the glories of renovations or a new build. But then the sound begins,
as though broadcast from another universe. A pedalling cello un-

consciously levels the day into existence; the voice opens up sky
with its perfect fifths. Birds sense a shift, flying by in experimental paths.

What world calls out to the maker and the made? What asym-
metries of voice and string take us back into ourselves? Performed

rubato, the intervals cast back and return. The roundabouts
throw vehicles into artificial lanes. But everything still draws us

skywards following the light, the breath, the tensioned string that
rises, the car speaker vibrating and turning desires into prayers.

Note: I was the only audience member for this Saturday morning call. At least, I was the only audience member who had specifically arrived in the space of the Bunnings Carpark for the Artstate event. The car was driven by a woman named Hope. Its speakers were large and conspicuous. The aubade seemed to offer itself as a fitting poetic response to that experience.