S Sorrensen
Larnook. Tuesday, 7.25pm
I feel pretty good.
Okay, I’m currently breaking a six-week alcohol fast with a glass of Angove organic shiraz; that may account for a flush of happiness. But I do believe a general feeling of wellbeing is returning, like autumnal sunsets, to add light and colour to what has been a rather drab summer of my discontent. Bloody break-ups.
The singer has a voice that is breathy and wet. Its intimacy beckons me. I bend towards it. Yes, an intimate voice, but not a small one. It easily drowns out the patter of rain on the tarp above me.
Her fingers are deft, sliding bar chords up and down the fretboard of her guitar. The electronic tuner clamped to the guitar’s machine head winks green as she sways. Her smile is bigger than my angst, brighter than the moon, warmer than my cold heart.
Yep, I feel pretty good.
Wine is a wonderful thing. Forgiving people who nail you is tricky, but I reckon turning water into wine was Jesus’s best trick. Feeding the five thousand on the hill with a few fish and five loaves was also a cool stunt. But, that just makes me think Jesus was a woman; women do that sort of thing all the time.
However, turning water into wine – that’s a miracle you can celebrate. Till dawn. Though I suspect it all got out of hand with the whole Red Sea thing…
I’m feeling pretty good.
Sure, there’s still a gaping hole in my world; a hole that a certain she used to nicely fill, each curve fitted snugly like a jigsaw piece in the puzzle of my life, but hey, she’s gone – and that’s that.
That’s that.
There are other people here at the gig. (Good. Otherwise I would be embarrassed for the singer. And the donation tin would be as empty as tomorrow.)
The people here are forest dwellers. A community under the cliffs, at the end of the world. (Near Nimbin.) There are older couples with grey hair and home brew. There is an older single man, wearing the same Hawaiian shirt that a long-gone significant other gave him before she had had enough and split. His eyes flash red with hurt and self-medication.
There are younger couples with trendy shaved bits on the side of their heads, and nappy bags. There are kids. One little girl with ringlets has a pet rat. She wants me to pat it. No thanks.
Tomorrow, I’m off on a road trip. I have a few days free from work obligations. I really should stay at home and cut the grass, change the sheets… But, I like to drive. And the sheets have memories.
I have a Superoo, a CD of Mozart’s finest hits and a carton of coconut water conveniently packaged in rip-pull cans. (Why didn’t God think of that? No machete required.) I’m ready to roll.
Oh dear, the rat jumped ship. It is nosing into the armpit of a young boy. The boy laughs as the rat tickles him. The girl is distraught. It’s her rat. She loves it. She holds her hands out to it, wanting it back, but – you know – it’s a big world. Yep.
I’m heading south, into tomorrow, into the unknown. I like road trips. You move on, air-conditioned wind in your face, not sure what’s going to happen next.
Okay, I know there’ll be roadwork congestion south of Coffs, but I know a back way… Apart from that, I’m not sure what will happen next. I’m ready.
Except I reckon I’ll turn my coconut water into wine. Yum.
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