The Good @py
Written by Kane Daniel — 1st October 2015

Illustration by Max Blackmore

We’re moving. I know, we’re all moving. Planes flying above our heads, feet striding into ponds of muck, the lusty stirrings of a million mid-morning erections and vulval plumpings. Down to the electromagnetic orbits of sub-elemental units we pretend to understand, we’re all moving all the time. It’s exhausting.

Clearly, not every relocation of mass needs to be documented—you can never ever know where I go when I have one of my ‘episodes’—but there are special kinds of movements that need to be lodged in the historical record. Journeys through which we commune, that exist like notes scratched into the margins of a shared history. Marks upon which we place a finger and say, ‘Yes, this right here tells us what it is to be human.’ Like the movement of a plucky band of clear-eyed dreamers, stout-hearted schemers and indomitable word seamers about 25 metres west along Johnston Street, Collingwood. Come, take my shaking, clammy hand won’t you? Let me press my lips to the back of yours and let the clearness of your eyes slow my panicked heart as I tell you about such a voyage. One that, when it is complete, will be like the fulfilment of a prophecy that was never foretold. Let me tell you about The Good Copy moving offices.

Before I do, I must tell you that the hermitishness of hermit crabs is overstated. They are, in fact, known to form a kind of ad-hoc social network (though not the internet kind—that’d be crazy), forming chains of shells ascending in size, each one gifted to a smaller crustacean like a chitinous hand-me-down when outgrown by its previous inhabitant. So it is with The Good Copy and the Magic Johnston cultural complex. Not a rebuff, a necessity which begets a gift. Our memories of MJ will always look like a particularly sublime passage in a Terrence Malick movie. Golden hues and the best cast around. We will draw upon the friendships made there almost as much as the arcane blood magic objects made of feathers and scraps of skin I have hidden in its walls.

When, soon, we move, it will not be abetted by golden zeppelins that break through the clouds like magnificent air whales as imagined by Ayn Rand in Atlas Shrugged II: Hey, It’s Me, John Galt. Nor will our travail be aided by an army of undead like the Dead Men of Dunharrow summoned by Aragorn to fight in the Battle of Pelennor Fields. No, we will move our desks, coffee machine and sundry style guides ourselves. It’s, like, basically next door. Not such a big deal really. There we will work forever more. Beyond the limits of time, casting nets of curiosity into the ocean of creativity and catching metaphors that are, hopefully, better than this one.

So … yeah. We’re moving. Come say hi. Or don’t. I’m not here to tell you how to live your life. Or am I?

Illustration by Max Blackmore. This piece appears in print in The Good Copy Gazette issue two, which is currently available for the princely sum of $2 from our shop.