The real world goes like this: Southeast Sydney pieced between bay and bush and city.
In the city jigsaw, there are many other pieces like it on the map, with the same pattern of criss-cross roads and no distinguishing feature – at least to the casual-glance – other than the thick yellow line marking out the A3. This road tracks from Mona Vale and the northern beaches, pushes through the middle of the city and unravels into something less urban out the lower end. Those who are holiday-bound or the commuter travelling along it, may not notice any special beauty. That’s okay because city roads are often things we want to get off. Having lived along it for months not years, it’s the truth that I only know the stretch near my house that undulates like a cartoon ribbon road: crest and dip, crest and dip.
It’s here, travelling north, where Penshurst and Hurstville meet, that there’s a high point that feels closer to the sky than anywhere else in the city. As you approach the climb, there is a pine to your left, shaped like an upwards arrow. A gap between its topmost and lower branches gives the tree a kind of neck so that its head becomes the arrow point and the body a raggy shaft. It juts out over the road at an angle, leans away from the gums next to it. (Has some bigger hand reached from On High to place it as a signal for anyone who cares to notice?)
Pass the pine and you reach the crest. This is a railway bridge but you don’t notice: from this point you feel as if you can see the city limits. In the day, the yellow-brick steeple of the church exults in its blue backdrop. At night, the traffic disappears into a glow of headlights for three or more kilometres into the distance and the air is soft.
The world and sky stand still for a moment and the universe is very large.
Then over the hill a right-hand turning lane leads into a street and another street and home. This is the real world, immense and ordinary.
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