The young Iraqi man fails to pot the six. A camera flashes and his near miss is on its way to Kurdistan or Osaka or Beijing. The ball was there for the sinking, lying just inches from …
The Japanese girl jumps to her feet, exactly the way she was shown on the beach, and stands up on the surfboard. With a slight wobble as she balances, she sets herself with knees bent and arms spread low.
This really is my favourite watering hole, set among the regenerating hills on the unfashionable side of Lismore, the bush shop squats on a low rise and squints across the valley at Mount Billen.
My place. Wednesday, 10.50pm I can't move. I'm paralysed. Every time I try to get up, or even roll over, a sharp pain races from my spine and shoots around my ribs. This is not good.
One of those storms that have been cruising out of Queensland like bikies looking for trouble has parked offshore – exactly where the sun is rising behind it.
Surfers Paradise: You can buy a key-ring boomerang, or a dot-painting stubbie holder. But you don't see many blackfellas around here. Or hippies. The Kombis have headed south because there's nowhere to park, let alone camp.
I'm taking a Subaru Outback for a test spin and it's motoring along nicely. Sure, the engine sounds like a dozen sewing machines at full tilt, but that, apparently, is the Subaru sound.
A beautiful woman told me the other night after a few glasses of Côtes du Rhône that I was cynical and negative. Can you believe that? Jeez. Have you ever tried to be cynical and positive?
At Currumbin there is a rocky outcrop that juts into the Pacific. The waves crash against it but the spray doesn't reach me. I'm safe. I'm always safe.
Dungog. Friday, 9pm. The woman is in bliss. Smiling and with eyes closed, the spirit moves her across the dancefloor. It's Friday night, the band is pumping its way through Mustang Sally, and the young woman is dressed to the nines.
There seems to be a new rule in Nimbin. I find this disturbing because since the Aquarius Festival Nimbin doesn’t really do rules. In the 1970s, even clothes were optional.
Lismore pumps. Don't laugh. Just a few minutes ago, a car skidded its wheels all the way down Brunswick Street as far as the caravan park. Then, only a minute later, I heard a police siren. Action city.
Lately, I've had to keep an eye on the gauge. Over the last couple of months, Morrison has been guzzling more water than petrol – and that's saying a lot.
Designed by K-Mart and built by robots, modern caravans will kill your spirit faster than a politician's speech. Their interiors look like Barbie's house – flawless, brand new and vomitive.
Today, I'm wearing a toga. Well, it's not really a toga. It's a sarong, which I have draped over one shoulder as well as around my waist, but I'm in a Roman frame of mind since the election, so... it's a toga.
Dunoon. Friday, 9.40am ‘Follow me,’ the English teacher says to his students. And they do. They follow him down a concrete path to the Dunoon Public School assembly area. His students are second-year university students from Japan. The English teacher... Read More →
There is a time of year which, when combined (shaken not stirred) with a certain section of road at a certain early morning hour, creates a mist as thick as an Irish White Russian.
S Sorrensen Sandon River. Saturday, 11.30am I wish Tony and Kevin were here. I wish they were sitting next to me. If they were, they’d see something I bet they hadn’t seen in a long time. They’d see thousands of... Read More →
S Sorrensen My place. Tuesday, 4.30pm It doesn’t happen often – a clean-out and rearrangement of my shack under the cliffs. Actually, this is the first major rearrangement of the shack since this building was born 28 years ago. It’s... Read More →
S Sorrensen Moffat Beach, Caloundra, Qld. Tuesday, 1.30pm He is still. This is unusual. People just aren’t still anymore. Like boiling water, we bubble and toil. Everyone is engaged in activity. We fear the quiet; what we may hear. We... Read More →
S Sorrensen Near Nimbin. Monday, 6.45pm On the road. A bag of clothes in the back. JJ Cale pumping loud through the van stereo. The engine purring like an emphysemic cat. On the road. This morning I woke up... Read More →
S Sorrensen Byron. Saturday, 1.20pm The decimal point is drunk. It’s turning round and round, flashing yellow streamers and yellow cans of Fourex Gold (which is like a beer) and loudly singing, ‘No CSG. No CSG!’ Most unbecoming for a... Read More →
‘We’re living, eating and breathing this stuff… How is this acceptable?’ S Sorrensen Tara, Qld. Saturday, 5.10pm A tear is forming. It flashes in the late afternoon sun as she leans into the microphone. She’s not a stage professional, as... Read More →
S Sorrensen My place. Monday, 4.15pm What do you take into war? Something to hurt your opponents with, I reckon. That would be a good start. I’m packing my van, Morrison, for combat. We’re off; off to the northern wildlands... Read More →
S Sorrensen Lismore. Tuesday, 1.35pm I like Lismore when it floods. The river breaks its banks and the town breaks its normal reserve. There’s a buzz on the street you can hear above the rain drumming on the cafe umbrellas.... Read More →