Outside, the rain comes down in symphonic crescendi on the tin roof of my shack in the clouds. Inside, it's Granddaughter's turn. We're playing musical round robin. She, her father, her grandmother and me are taking turns playing a favourite song, in whatever medium you want.
My garden. Thursday, sunset. I gazed out upon a tree, It grows where I spat the seed, As I ate the fruit, and peed.
Lismore. Tuesday, 4.35pm: I've made a Christmas resolution. Yes, I know, you're supposed to make a resolution on New Year's Eve, but I gave that up years ago. It was always the same.
The gig is going well. When stand-up is going well it feels great. And I'm not just talking about for the audience; I'm talking about for me.
The little girl, ceremonial paint on her face, feathers around her arms, looks up at the people beside her to see what they're doing – and flaps her arms like a bird flying. She is flying energetically when, on a cue from the didgeridoo, the other dancers stop flapping, form a circle and, arms outstretched, glide on the wind.
The world is vibrating at an ever-increasing pitch. The vibration is now audible. Can you hear it? I can. It whines in my ear as I stroll the foreshore at Pelican Waters.
Look, these are strange times. There are ominous signs. The goldfish died this week. Actually, I don't even know if they died. They just disappeared. Four of them. One day after I put them in the garden pond, there was no trace of them. It was like Twilight Zone.
Societies have always been built on beliefs. The Maoris believed in tattoos and tapu. Aboriginal people believed in maintaining country. Egyptians believed in Isis (the goddess, not the thug club). The British believed in their superior civilisation…
When I was a kid, tough men were wiry blokes with bodies shaped by hard physical work. Under blue singlets were stomachs as hard as a droughted paddock, flat as a factory floor. They weren't big men, but they were tough, with weathered skin and dirty nails.
I like the old country halls. These boxy stupas from times past honour community, when community was what you called a group of people living and working together, not a retirement village or a social media movement.
I have done many things in my life that have given me exquisite pleasure. Some I can even mention.
There's a frog in my shower. It's not a big green frog; it's a small speckled grey-with-green-flecks-on-its-flanks frog. Google calls it a Peron's Tree Frog, but I'm not sure. I call it S's Shower Frog.
ACT 1 Scene 1: A modern kitchen. Outside the window are dead redgums and an open cut coal mine. Government (Gov) is sitting at a table eating breakfast (three eggs and bacon). He wears a suit. People (Peeps) is standing by the stove. She wears an apron.
The Wilsons River is brown, solid and muscular, shouldering its way through parts of Lismore it's not supposed to go in. And the peak of the flood was yesterday, while I was nestled in my shack in the clouds, flooded in by a tributary, listening to the drumming rain and Harry Belafonte.
I'm not into structured meditation. I tried it, long ago, but it didn't work out. Sitting crosslegged with a straight back – hands resting on my knees, thumb and forefinger pressed together, eyes partially closed – was one of the most boring things I have ever done.
There are some clouds, so I won't see the sun pop like an inflamed bubble out of the ocean. But, in compensation, I'm getting this textured igneous smudge across the horizon as dawn breaks like an egg.
S Sorrensen Byron. Tuesday, 10.24am It’s hot. Unseasonally hot. Even in the shade of the Beach Hotel’s rather elaborate roofing, I’m sweating. Walking didn’t help. I didn’t want to walk, but in this town it’s easier to get an intuitive... Read More →
On my left is the Polite Service team. They're Nimbin's finest: hairy, helpful, and committed to the public good. Sure, their uniform is a bit haphazard this year – some aren't even wearing the 'Polite' cap – and one wonders if bare feet can get the traction required for the Tug of Drug War.
On the street there are people holding flags, and remembering wasted lives. Lest we forget. But Australia loves war; we're constantly at war. A war on anything: Syria, terrorism, drugs. Never mind the losing.
Whatever happened to strolling? You know strolling: walking at a leisurely pace, dressed in clothes not made from oil, and taking time to say hello and enjoy the scenery.
It is my favourite animal in Currumbin Wildlife Sanctuary. But it is also the one that makes me the saddest.
I've had enough of these buggers. I'm not normally an angry man, but today as I sip coffee at the cafe, I feel my anger rising like a warming ocean. Rich people in power. How did it get to this?
Supposedly, we live in a rational world. Rationality is logic. Logic is the basis of science. And this is the scientific age.
I like trains. Most people do. (Okay, state politicans don't like trains, except if they carry coal, but, then again, many politicians don't like anything that makes lives, other than their own, better.)
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.