way to go roberto

16.08.94 > NEW YORK CITY > 2.05PM

In Central Park I sat on the bleachers at a baseball diamond, ate a hot-dog and smoked. A softball jock eyed me suspiciously, glancing sideways, directing bold muscular hand claps towards his team mates.
‘Come on now Roberto, kick that bat out of there!’
Clap, clap, clap…
‘You move it man, you fuckin’ dropped it.’
The hand clapper walked around the side of the batting cage, muttering ‘Asshole…’ to himself, and picked up the bat from the chalk line.

keno ray

12.11.94  > SPOKANE WASHINGTON TO BUTTE MONTANA > 6.21PM

The great Greyhound wheeled away from Washington State, beating out a track across the Idaho Panhandle. Wintering conifers lined the interstate, a colonnade of verdant piny fingers. Up from behind the bus, storm clouds chased and caught us in a silent snowy shroud, dappling the highway in falling light, banking the roadsides, freezing the morning, delicately crowning the fir forest boughs. Hours on hours, wheels on time…we crossed into Montana.

riding the dog

In early 1994 I had a job in an architects’ office and room in an old house in Hobart, Tasmania. I was 24. When winter rolled around I quit my job, sold my car, moved out of the old house and took off for America. I’m tempted to say ‘lit out’ for America here, which sounds more American. But that’s a trap. My journey – four months riding Greyhound buses around the US – was Australian in its outlook, as much as it was American in its landscapes.