It's in my nature to say hello to people. I say 'g'day' to passers-by in the street who catch my eye; to cashiers at the servo who ask me if I'd like a drink with that.
I know a secret cave. Only a couple of other people know it. We’re friends. Friends of the Cave. A long time ago we swore an oath of secrecy, ritually cutting our palms with the Sacred Cave Knife, mixing our blood, like stoned Sioux, to seal the vow.
‘Find the diamonds in the shit,’ the driver says to me. We jump the speed bump as we exit the university. The Subaru doesn’t really ‘jump’ the bump – it doesn’t get air – but the car does rise up on its toes before slumping back heavily onto its hydraulic heels, like a sumo wrestler.
Lorikeets may not be able to post selfies to Lorichat, change the climate, bomb babies or elect a toilet brush to presidency but they are able to live with others. That's a neat trick.
Two lorikeets fly out of the sun, which hovers over the neighbour’s roof, and land in a grevillea near where I’m sitting. Their abrupt arrival startles me (I was thinking about that giant crack in the antarctic ice shelf) and... Read More →
‘What are you doing this weekend?’ ‘I’m going to MardiGrass.’ ‘Oh...’ MardiGrass – the very word elicits fear and loathing. If it comes up in conversation over latte at a Lismore cafe, people blink, look at their watch and leave.
It’s dawn. It’s Anzac Day. That seems appropriate. The sun is still struggling behind the eastern hill, but the wallabies are already sitting on their tails, tummies facing the hill in anticipation of the warming rays. I’m sad, despite the happy wildlife.
What is this feeling? Why am I wheeling myself over to the kitchen to make another banana sandwich when I’ve already eaten eight, and I’m definitely not hungry? Why do I have the radio on, filling my brain with waffle? What is wrong with me?
Charles MacFarland, Ewingsdale S Sorrensen wrote a rather clever article attacking ‘corporate collusion’ for advancing the Adani coal mine and thus worsening global warming. I agree with everything he says, but I think we can spread the net of guilt a... Read More →
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.
So, when the time comes, I want to be prepared. I hope you are too.When the time comes, it will come rolling in like a dark wave over these green hills. The bird calls will be replaced by the roar of engines, the wail of sirens, and the blat-blat of gunfire.
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.
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.
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 →