Missives from the Future: 2025 (Jonno Revanche)
In adelaide, it's 2025, and the efforts to distill compliancy into commonplace mindsets have been pulled off. Ten years previously it held the title of the unemployment state - don't even worry about the festival state. slap that truism on the bottom of your number plates, and see how many of those wine tourists enthusiastically flood in.
It makes sense that I see Adelaide's future as being one where automobiles tell lies. Where they have, in essence, developed tautologies, and biographies. Where they appear in ghostly ways. Forget about being a horse whisperer, it’s all too 2007. All the factories have closed down, but they haven’t turned into punk warehouses quite yet, and 10 years is just enough time to turn that kiss-off into a concrete thing. The graveyard of Kaurna people is here, in its ambient way, and of other dead people unrecognised, and the indices of a Snowtown schematic. The ghost train used to be the main CBD attraction. It was a nightclub, but then again maybe it was an indoors theme park. In his car my uncle told me about it, over the rattle of a malfunctioning stereo. There's something in that. There's something about feeling my 3-D printed heart beating up against my ribcage like a protest when I remember things that I haven't remembered in at least 5 years. The scar still feels fresh. It still needs time to grow into a story.
I am calling you from the long stretches that makes the northern suburbs more pristine. I still breathe in the expansiveness of it, where I know the sky lets in more than it denies. The duly scented new buildings hide all the functions, cogs, musculature, male odour and feminine callouses that once defined this place. In one warehouse for tools that somehow isn’t Bunnings, I step slowly across perfectly slick linoleum, and my fingers brush against steel cerulean surfaces only for so long, dragging across them in a necessarily methodical way. Pine-o-clean scents always send weird signals to the brain - I never know whether it's telling me to speed up, or angle my speedometer down. Because all these streets don't have new cars on them anymore. The surface of this place makes immediate paradoxes.
Two doors down, the sweet buffers of a bakers delight fingerbun meets your lips, and it's a consolation for something. In this future I'm talking to you from my second membrane. I'm wiping the dusting from your mouth, watching you laugh. Fleetwood mac is playing from somewhere overhead, saying I want to be with you everywhere.
This story was written by Jonno Revanche.