Writing on the Wall

Yesterday after dropping Z at school, PJ and I trained to Melbourne where he had the job of painting the names of forthplaying bands on the wall outside the Prince Bandroom where my sister Emily works. While he chalked and painted and chatted to inquisitive passers by, I read and journalled on a nearby step.

At lunchtime, PJ munched on a sandwich while I ate in a small café. I cried big dollopy tears as I read the paper filled with updates about the continuing fires, the damage caused and the lives forever changed or forever lost.

Today we watched a video clip of a young firefighter reviving a heat-struck koala by letting it drink from a bottle of water. I cried more plump tears as I watched. Because of PJ's water activism and because we limit what we buy that's packaged in plastic, and especially don't buy bottled water, it seemed too tragic and too ironic to be watching footage of this helpless little creature being nursed by the very thing that helped destroy its habitat. 

Trucks burn up the highways transporting resources that are then encased in petroleum-based plastic.

"How much can a koala bear?" We hear the voice of the man filming ask off screen.