Indi Jennings

I am drilling a hold into a log, and lining it with a cardboard straw--- for a bee that exists without a hive.

Some of the signs along the trail in the Brisbane ranges have nothing left but the echo of a text-box, I look at them for information and receive an intricate weatherbeaten map of lichen and bird shit.

Stony creek cuts through the sandstone peaks and travels down and underneath the railway. A vast, folded bed of rock once broke in two here, now levelled the plains continue to slowly sink.
When a freight train speeds past me on the embankment the gravel shifts under my boots and I grab onto the cardoon to steady myself, its thorns piercing a layer of glove and then through several layers of skin.

Pulling out these weeds is like wrestling with a snapping dog.

Sharp teeth wrap around your arm as you try to pull a splinter out of her paw, after gently soaking it in a mixture of dettol and rakija.

The boot of my car is now full of plants that wont ever reproduce.

Before turning the key in the ignition, I remove my gloves and lick my wounds.