I want to know how a Songline works. I want to strip naked and enter the parallell Universe of the Dreamtime, where the ancestors live. Their ancestors. Not mine. I have to turn to fellow human beings on the other side of the world in order to know how to sing the land again. Going on a walk-about is the pivotal rite of passage. The doors to the Dreamtime should never be closed again. The passage is open. Swinging doors into the land of no excuses. The land of dream, creation, psychosis. The mystic land which lies all around us.
How do I know that not all land once was sung? Sometimes, in my clearheaded nights of insomnia, I see my ancestors rise from out of the ground even here. Disoriented finns, little people; the conquerors of inland Scandinavia were the lowliest of the lowly. If my Songline exists it was sung by them. My line, which wiped out the original lines of those to whom the land belonged, because they didn't own a sliver of it.
(Utmaning: Ta ut den tredje boken från höger på tredje hyllan i din bokhylla. Slå upp sidan 33. Läs och skriv av den tredje meningen. Slå ihop boken och skriv en helt egen fortsättning. )
Den bok jag hittade var Songlines av Bruce Chatwin.