I believe that any moment we will be choking on our own industrial exhaust, barely surviving in a land so dry and hot from a changed climate that the bottom of open-cut coal mines will be the coolest place to manage your portfolio while the newly poor eke out a subsistence by harvesting coal with their teeth.
When I get home, I must send off that email – oh, and I have two phone calls to make. (Really should have done them yesterday.) And then dinner. Got to buy some more rice at the – Wow!
The G20 Summit is a gathering of fools. Come on. Can you really believe that constant economic growth on a wee planet is an answer to anything except the question 'What is the surest way to destroy human civilisation and take down most species with it?'
This is a not-so-delicious irony: the young man on the Rock Valley Hall stage is acting the part of a soldier leaving for war. One hundred years ago the Rock Valley Hall was built by locals. Also, one hundred years ago young men from this area were sucked into a foreign conflict.
I'm impressed that there are some kids fishing just upriver from me. I would have thought the ever-shortening attention span that contemporary culture cultivates would have made fishing a most unattractive option for a kid on school holidays.
It's a perfect day here under the cliffs at the end of the world. The birds are going nuts as the sun pokes its head above the hill and goes 'Boo!' – a hungover forest blinking in the light, the valley chicks shrieking.
When I'm walking around the university, I'm always scanning the trees. Most people are scanning their phones.
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.
There's a crowd of about 400 people in the park reluctantly forming a circle and holding hands, following directions from a woman near the amphitheatre stage.
Lismore used to have a huge koala population. But upon the arrival of aggressive agrarian types, koalas were shot for their skins. Or for sport. Or just because.
I came to Nimbin in the early 80s, a refugee from north Queensland where the police had taken to shooting hippies. Keen to try something new, I started working. The Rainbow Cafe had been empty for some months so my north Queensland family and I took over the lease.
The collective human personality has always been violent, sure, but once upon a time there was limit, when a man went down, the fight was done.
I live in a shack under the cliffs. I built it myself when I was a young fella. I'm proud of that. I am not a builder by trade (or by any stretch of the imagination) but I just couldn't come at the idea that I needed to go into debt to have a home.
I live on a community. I hope it doesn't get invaded. I hope it is never unlucky enough to have a resource under its fertile soil (like CSG). Or some religious nut with a book and corporate backing doesn't decide that this land is his, given to him by God.
Well, any chance of my resuming my triple jump career is well and truly ended. Okay, when I say 'resuming', I really mean 'starting' – I never actually had a triple jump career. But still, it's terribly sad that now I definitely can't have a triple jump career if I decided to. Hmm... painkillers kicking in.
Byron. Saturday 8.30pm. It's a numbers game. Two glasses of Ginger Necktar (no added vodka, I'm driving) have disappeared like refugees at sea. Where did they go? Squiggly noise from my stomach is a clue.
I knew I was a different sort of kid. I never felt part of the mob. Other kids would nudge each other and point me out. The teacher would look at me as if I had spat on the flag or shrugged away the caring caress of a Christian Brother.
Look, I’m a big fan of Jesus (the Jewish radical, not the Spanish soccer player). I still dig his message of social reform and human compassion, despite my having been brought up in Catholic weirdness, and despite having to suffer the phlegm of born-again naffness that desperation sometimes coughs up. But I’m a bit over it.
Wooyung. Friday, 12.25pm. Just south of Pottsville, where the Tweed Coast Road turns away from the coast and heads inland to the Pacific Highway, is a long stretch of beach, less touched by the wheeze of espresso and more still echoing to the ancient songs of the Midjungbal people.
Is there anything more beautiful than a 1962 Holden EK Special Station Wagon? Especially when it’s painted the pale blue of a perfect day and its chrome is so polished I am momentarily blinded as I negotiate my Subaru through crowded Coolangatta.
Winter has come. I’m not ready. I haven’t even got any firewood. And I still have a curtain across the main doorway, which creates a pretty serious draft situation. It’s on my list though – ‘Ring firewood woman’ and ‘Fix door’– but I haven’t done it.
'The big picture is pretty bloody obvious to me,' the Feisty One says. A finger plucks at the violin on the table. A scratchy note hangs like a quote mark starting a new sentence.
‘I think it’s really presumptuous of people to say the world is f***ed, when this is the only reality we have. How can it be f***ed?’ I ask.
Her dad walks next to her, his shoulders stooped under an invisible weight. He smiles but it's a melancholy one. The future is uncertain. And the future is all we have for the kids. The pair disappears into the general store.
These are the end days of this civilisation. The signs are here: packs of police wander the streets looking for drug dealing; mobile ATMs facilitate drug dealing; and a zombie beat pulses, like the ticking of a bomb, from a shop doorway.