S Sorrensen
Nimbin. Saturday, 9.10pm
I’m at a time in my life when everything is nearly right.
Well, it would have to be. At my age I haven’t really got that much time left to begin a new life.
Given the weird bone growth on my foot, any dreams of a ballet career are, to be honest, unlikely. Even wheelchair ballet is probably a bit much for me given my propensity for road rage.
At this stage, I just have to accept who I am. I’m cool with that.
Like, I will never wander Nimbin with open vest, multi-coloured pants and an Apache spirit necklace, my activated chi sparking insight and fires.
I’ll probably never make a million bucks. (Oh dear, I said ‘probably’. How desperately we do cling.)
As my future shrinks, long-held dreams, in which I have often taken refuge when the here and now got too much, flee like rats along a hawser from a sinking ship. Too late, too late.
I may never write that book, climb Mt Fuji, finish the house, or learn Vietnamese.
I may never see an honest government, a clean river or a solar city.
As my dreams evaporate due to lack of space (a shrinking future will do that), only a hard reality is left. Luckily for me, it’s not half bad, that reality.
Nimbin Hall is packed with people. It’s a Blue Moon Cabaret, one of the great social events in Rainbow Land. I know many of these folk. They come from all walks of life: politics, agriculture, theatre, business, the arts. Not all of them live in or near Nimbin, but this town holds a special place in their hearts. Mine too.
In a circle of purple light, a pretty girl jumps on top of another pretty girl who has jumped on top of a bloke who is not pretty but is pretty strong. A human tower. Applause.
Many of the people here have reached an age where ‘I will be’ is, by mathematical necessity, replaced by ‘I am’. Battles have been fought, wounds tended, scars formed. These days, the medication is sometimes legal.
Ageing has brought an acceptance of death and a consequent elegance of living.
The women are particularly radiant, magnificent in their maturity. Freed from fashion dictatorship but sensitive to sartorial aesthetics, a scarf from Tibet (or even an Apache spirit necklace) magnifies the wearer’s winsomeness.
The smallest circus girl, cute in her youth, climbs up the man and the two women, reaching the human summit. There, with theatrical flair, she opens her arms to the audience. Aw. We smile. We applaud. I head for the bar.
Yes, I’m at a time in my life when everything is nearly right.
But that ‘nearly’ word is a killer.
‘Nearly’ is when the tooth is not quite extracted, the love not quite said, the medicine not quite swallowed, the baby not quite born, the wound not quite sutured, the sentence not quite…
‘Nearly’ hurts. ‘Nearly’ amplifies the pain of not being there yet. ‘Nearly’ laughs at all that’s gone before. ‘Nearly’ makes me sad.
The sadness hovers over me, its shadow only just dimming the light of this hall gathering.
Maybe this shadow is a taste of the void to come. Maybe the sadness has always been with me, like a guardian angel, but only now as she accompanies me into the light of the dreamless dawn can I see her shadow.
Maybe without her I would lack compassion, would not be an artist – would be less human.
The MC walks on stage. The microphone squeaks. Something stirs behind the curtain.
The show goes on.
For four decades The Echo has printed the stories some people loved, some people hated, and some pretended not to read. If you want us to keep telling the truth, the real truth, not the sugar-coated version. We’ll need your support to keep the presses rolling. 
