BEING HERE NOW
Being Here Now.
There’s been a bit of a
marijuana drought happening around the bay just lately, due to increased border
patrols by the ever vigilant Drug Enforcement Agencies. As well as their normal
routine of checking out suspect vehicles at the frontiers they have also
started boarding interstate tourist coaches with mean and intimidating sniffer
dogs. It’s harvest time on the Northern rivers and the annual migration of weed
smuggling hippies and other get rich quick enthusiasts are traversing our great
nation, in the quest to sell their illegal produce. At last! … Some much welcomed and therapeutic
relief is at hand. After three dry, long
weeks of pulling my dreadlocks out in pure anguish, I have acquired some top
shelf ‘Mexican dancing tobacco’ from a Nimbin pot grower who paid me a visit on
his way through to Sydney. Inspiration
has finally arrived to nourish my idea starved imagination. Having scored some
fresh, sticky, purple buds from ‘The Land of The Rainbows’ I am finally able to
turn the ignition on my psychic engines. I can feel those philosophical turbo
boosters starting to warm up for action and my enthusiasm sensors are tingling
with childlike excitement. The countdown has commenced to the end of my
literary procrastination's.
I’ve been threatening to
write a book for so very long, it must have appeared I was never going to make
a start. A head full of great ideas is
one thing but where in hell and the high heavens do you begin to translate that
infinite myriad of thoughts, memories and wild imaginings into the written
word? Having finally made a start I have
just ignited a Bob Marley sized ‘spliff’ to celebrate the occasion and help me
to compose the second page. Now like a
solar flare of exploding THC molecules all over my brain, waves of pure
inspiration are re-invigorating my sagging neural synapses. Wait a minute. A
fleeting gem of wisdom just became lodged in my cerebral cortex.‘
Because the title and over all theme of this the opening chapter are about my current reality I will describe what is taking place right now. As we speak. In the moment and all the rest of that ‘New Age’ claptrap. At this precise moment in time my face is being veraciously molested by a fur covered creature with lashing claws and sharp, pointed teeth. No I’m not having some kind of weird, hallucinogenic trip. I’m playing with an adorable, bouncing puppy who seems to have appointed me as her personal teething toy. This fluffy, little ball of energy is the dominant female of the litter and she is quite skilled in the art of procuring all of my attention, even when I am, … ‘Ouch!’ trying to tap on these silly plastic keys and roll joints at the same time. Ow! That one hurt. …. Vicious little bitch. Now she is jumping on the keyboard as I try to write. Such childish fun indeed. I am currently playing nursemaid to a litter of five week old pups and acquiring a newfound sympathy for the plight of sleep deprived and exhausted parents. My dog the irrepressible ‘Tootsy’ went and got herself impregnated by some mangy drifter when last we were in the Blue mountains. In a classic display of recycling ingenuity I devised what I thought was an impenetrable chastity belt out of a sawn off pair of jeans and some old buckles and straps from an ancient backpack. I guess it only goes to show …
Because the title and over all theme of this the opening chapter are about my current reality I will describe what is taking place right now. As we speak. In the moment and all the rest of that ‘New Age’ claptrap. At this precise moment in time my face is being veraciously molested by a fur covered creature with lashing claws and sharp, pointed teeth. No I’m not having some kind of weird, hallucinogenic trip. I’m playing with an adorable, bouncing puppy who seems to have appointed me as her personal teething toy. This fluffy, little ball of energy is the dominant female of the litter and she is quite skilled in the art of procuring all of my attention, even when I am, … ‘Ouch!’ trying to tap on these silly plastic keys and roll joints at the same time. Ow! That one hurt. …. Vicious little bitch. Now she is jumping on the keyboard as I try to write. Such childish fun indeed. I am currently playing nursemaid to a litter of five week old pups and acquiring a newfound sympathy for the plight of sleep deprived and exhausted parents. My dog the irrepressible ‘Tootsy’ went and got herself impregnated by some mangy drifter when last we were in the Blue mountains. In a classic display of recycling ingenuity I devised what I thought was an impenetrable chastity belt out of a sawn off pair of jeans and some old buckles and straps from an ancient backpack. I guess it only goes to show …
My most current reality would have to include Young William who just this moment phoned me up to say hello. Will is one of the few remaining friends I have maintained contact with from the old days and he is the key inspirator for the travel journal you are about to read. Will has been pestering me for ages to start compiling my memoirs of the early busking and protest days, so with the rising of the sun this fine September morning I have decided to go hands on with it and look! Hey! Presto … we are already on the second page. Young William is a fellow environmentalist and a true comrade to the movement. When first we met I was a free roaming street performer around Sydney and he was a budding real life, action photographer. In the very early days of mastering photographic skills his principal subject matter was the performances of the inner city busking community and the blood splattered goings on at the environmental frontline. Many a time while we were attending a blockade or a rally William would be there snapping away with his camera and capturing volumes of priceless shots, as the collective passion gathered steam.
The birth of the pups is the crescendo to a long standing relationship I have shared through the years with Tootsys genetic bloodline. Her uncle Rufus was the first pup I adopted from litters that were born at ‘Quick Bucks Wrecking yard’ in Port Stephens. That’s where I live. Among the rocky headlands at beautiful Shoal Bay, on the New South Wales, East coast of Australia. Since Rufus I have had three other dogs from that bloodline including Toots but all are no more from one unfortunate event or another. As a companion for Tootsy girl I decided to keep a male dog from one of her previous litters. I named him ‘Husky’ in a mode of wishful thinking that when he matured to full strength he might help to pull my bicycle up some of the steep slopes around the bay. No such luck. All attempts to get him working efficiently with the bike proved futile because he was too easily distracted by other dogs and I couldn’t get him to hold a constant position. In the end I decided that some dogs must have what it takes to haul a load and others haven’t. From that day on Husky has been left at home with Toots to guard my camp whenever I go out. At night however when I go fishing both Hus and Tootsy girl get to bounce along beside me on the way out to the jetty. This generally happens in the wee small hours after the car traffic has subsided and the streets of our village are deserted. On most mornings as the first hint of the new day is approaching the horizon my dogs and I can be found out on the headland jigging for squid and octopus, or casting into the shallows for flathead and silver bream. If I am in luck with the morning catch we will be on our way back home by the time the sun is starting to reflect off the water and the milk delivery van is pulling up at the general store. Apart from the fact I have to get the dogs off the streets before the traffic resumes, the buzzing, biting insects make it no fun to be out there once the sun is up.
Myself an my canine buddies live in one of the last remaining pockets of what was the original fishing village. We share a corner block at the foot of the Tomaree headland with a retired fisherman known as ‘Old Sid’. Sid is eighty seven and he has been living here for sixty odd years. This place he calls home hasn’t changed in character from when it was first built way back when and the rest of Shoal bay has been developed into a modernized coastal suburbia like the Gold coast or Miami beach. Looking upwards to the east out of my back door, I am blessed with the vision of a towering, monolith known as Stephens peak which lies just beyond the dunes. I like to believe I live a perfect and charmed existence, so I consider it a cruel twist of fate that the founding fathers didn’t spell the name of that mountain with a ‘V’ instead. The reason I place so much importance on that big chunk of rock is because it is symbolic of the new peaks of artistic discipline and productivity I have achieved since first I settled in the bay. The creative projects I am involved in besides this newly acquired book writing caper are the development of three albums of original songs I composed and recorded over the last three decades. One of the albums is complimented by a script for an environmentally inspired stage production called ‘Once upon a Planet’. It’s an adventure fantasy about a group of schoolkids who want to do their bit for the environment. They abscond from the schoolyard one day and team up with a convoy of hard core activists who are heading for the frontline. The kids are swept along on a thrill a minute adventure, which brings them to the attention of the world media. Their mission to save the planet triggers a global stock market battle between the growing environment friendly sector and the established markets, as they go head to head for world dominance.
Shoal bay represents significant progress for me as a struggling artist who is trying to plod along in a world governed by pursuit of the almighty dollar. As we approach the new millennium and harder economic times ahead I imagine places like this will become increasingly harder to find. It’s well outside the normal rental market and that’s where I like to live so I am not subject to the scrutiny of others. Old Sid won’t take a cent over twenty dollars a week as rent for the shed I occupy out the back in the courtyard because I cook up his evening meals and help him out with odd jobs around the place. This wonderful arrangement leaves the bulk of my fortnightly pension payments to spend as I see fit and allows the acceptable quota of time to develop my projects free of the normal economic pressures. Most of the musicians and artists I know spend most of their time and energy working day jobs and chasing the dollar just to pay the rent. By the time they get home in the evenings they are too fucked out to be bothered with anything and their art becomes just another memory of younger days when they were free of responsibility. I will do anything not to end up painted into the same kind of corner even if it means living a solo existence for the rest of my days, camping in peoples garages and being devoured by maggots in a paupers grave.
Sid is a remarkable old guy and there’s a lot going on between us beside the fact I am renting a bit of studio space from him. He’s a time hardened old sea captain in the twilight of his years and he is fighting his last battle to ward off senility. I am the younger man in the equation. The deck hand, like a waiting sponge, to absorb his unending catalog of stories from the high seas. I believe our ‘Old salt’ ‘Young salt relationship is the main thing keeping his mind active and it reduces the amount of time he spends slumped in his easy chair, sipping port wine and staring blankly into space. In more sober and reflective moments Sid can impart priceless gems of wisdom from a long life of experience.
In not so sober moments he might be giving me instructions around the place and suddenly break into a sea shanty mid sentence. At other times he will go into a colorful tale like the time he wrestled a giant octopus off the deck of his fishing boat in a storm. The last time Sid went out on a trawler in deep water, he copped a stingray barb right through his left leg and it ended his fishing career. The wound went septic as the result of a dormant bug he contracted in the tropics during world war two. It’s been about twenty years since he received the injury but still unhealing boils and purple infected blotches remain. Every Tuesday a government home carer pops around and he has a couple of fisho mates, but apart from them he has limited contact with people. He was living pretty much like a hermit before I came on the scene and I guess I am the apprentice hermit here to learn all the tricks.
A semi hermetic lifestyle becomes more appealing to me the older I get after more than two decades of baring my soul to the world. The life of any performer can be controlled by public expectation and I was sick of being the life of the party. A raging cocaine habit gave the first warning signs that I was all peopled out and to fully recover I needed to be alone. After two failed attempts at parenting with badly matched partners I had succumbed to depression and lost my old brand of self confidence. A prolonged creative hiatus stripped me of a purposeful function in the world and I was left wallowing in the love tainted backwaters of my own misery. My escape from the world of normal, daily relationships was the first leg of this journey towards a solitary existence. The sweet, unhindered bliss of independence can bring great rewards for those who are centerd enough to cope with it. The man who is not dependent on the affections of a woman and people in general has all the time in the world to ponder the purpose of his own existence. He can reflect on the path he has traveled to get where he is at and he can take time to imagine the place he wants to be. I am a devotee to the concept of creativity and the new title I have given myself is that of an ’Art monk’. In my time as a seeker of the higher philosophies, the most profound universal truth I have stumbled upon is the notion that ‘Art and Creation are One and the Same thing’. The idea that human creativity is in some way linked to the base level, organic processes of life is the most inspiring concept I can possibly imagine and it has become the new bottom line on my spiritual beliefs. Often my creative frenzies are followed by a profound sense of worthlessness where all attempts to get motivated are too daunting a chore to even contemplate. This is normally the time when the call to the water hits me and I load up my pushbike to go fishing. Fishing is the best thing I’ve found to silence my thoughts as it engages me in the simplistic ritual of the hunt. The coastal aborigines had the right idea. Their days were mainly spent out on the water, chasing the catch and just letting the day roll by at it’s own leisurely pace. Once they had caught their tucker they might get a fire going for a tribal cook up and illustrate the hunt on the walls of their cave. Simplicity, no complications, … No chattering monkeys in their brains and no high pressure deadlines to meet.
This property was a fish processing depot back in the heyday of the Australian fishing industry. That was long before there was talk of marine park sanctuaries and depleted fish stocks. The political spin I refer to has seen this once thriving fishery transformed from a productive catch dependent community into just another tourist trap. During the summer months Sid sells bait to the tourists and that’s about the limit of his physical abilities these days. Any poor, unsuspecting customer who has been lured in by the ‘Bait and Ice’ sign is left standing around for ages in the heat and the flies as he takes his own sweet time from the chair to the freezer. As a rule he makes a healthy profit selling block ice and bait to the ‘Touros’. He does however hate the vacationing public with a passion and any suggestion of over pricing will see him bellowing profanities, as he rolls up his shirt sleeves. All offenders are promptly ordered off the property then he has a little chuckle when they are gone . Eighty seven years old. There are duel level holiday apartments incorporated into the front of the property that are rented out through an estate agent during the holiday season. The rest of the year they are occupied by all manner of humanity who are in need of short term accommodation. Between the holiday units and my courtyard there is a classic nineteen fifties caravan sheltered under a rusting corrugated iron structure. This is where the old boy lives. All of the wooden beams around the caravan have cobweb strewn wine bottles and colored glass balls hanging from them in tattered fish net stockings. He has old photographs scattered all around the place of himself from the war days as a younger, uniformed man. They are perched in key positions around his habitat and he has time perished war medals hanging on the wall near the entrance to the cool rooms.
Shoal bay is undergoing a regrettable boom in local development since the once friendly and inviting little drinking hole down on the corner started metamorphosing into a full blown Surfers Paradise style resort. It’s all happening directly across the road from where we live and our once tranquil little village has been afflicted by the same degree of banging, grinding, haul ass noise you might expect to find in the construction sites of any large city. The first stage of the operation was to demolish all of the classic nineteen fifties and sixties beach houses at the rear of the old pub to make way for the new multi million dollar resort. This was all taking place as I was in the early stages of converting a dusty old shed into a live in recording studio, so I started taking advantage of the situation to my own ends. There were large piles of sturdy hardwood beams left sitting around in unfenced areas of the building site, so I started doing moonlight runs to gather up as much as I could. I viewed the free timber as compensation for all of the unwanted noise pollution spilling into the neighborhood from first light to dusk every day of the god damned week. Included in my compensation package I managed to get away with six enormous plastic tarpaulins that were used for covering assorted equipment and the like. I also scored enough plyboard sheets to completely seal the shed, but I had to go through a cyclone wire fence with bolt cutters to get them. The Weis corporation will always be remembered as a worthwhile sponsor in my quest to live outside of the mainstream rental market and spread the word about environmental sustainability.
Since I acquired the building materials I have converted a dusty old shed filled with the remnants of a life on the water into a fully lined and water proofed recording studio come writers retreat. ‘The Crab Pot Lodge’ as I have christened my home is mostly obscured from view of the surrounding holiday flats by a high metal fence and a row of mature palm trees. In the courtyard area I have used hardwood beams and a couple of large tarps to create an outside kitchen area. The shelter is covered with shadecloth I scored from the resort and it offers a pleasant view of the side street leading up to Stephens peak. At the height of the tourist season I might be sitting in my outside kitchen preparing chilli octopus or basting a silver bream and I get to watch bikini clad, young babes skipping by on their way down to the beach. Compared to other less inviting places I have lived the Crab pot Lodge is a dream house located in paradise. As daily renovations continue it’s getting so cosy that I find myself having mini panic attacks at how comfortable it’s all getting. I’m so afraid of becoming just another fat and self satisfied wanker who is too lazy and contented to go out in search of the next adventure. Jesus I’ve even started getting into gardening for the first time in my life and that’s a past time that can anchor a man to the same place for a lifetime.
The gardening thing is my new obsession and I am embracing the art of green thumbing with the enthusiasm of a giant slug, devouring the fronds of a marijuana seedling. In the last few weeks the courtyard has become home to a number of newly constructed garden plots which line the back fence. Disused wooden pallets form the basic framework of the plots and cement filled chicken wire has created the deep soil filled cavities between them. The plots stand about waist high which means the minimum amount of bending for my tired old back as I am pottering in the dirt. I consider my new gardening interests a ‘Hands on’ therapy workshop that not only keeps me fit but it has great psychological value. It relates to my childhood experience and is directly connected to the primal scene thing ‘Arthur Janov’ explored in his writings. My mother as you will discover in later chapters was an unstable and violent bitch who made my life hell as a child. As best I can deduct my primal scene occurred in a garden setting as a nine or ten year old child. I had been instructed to remove weeds from a flower bed which I was doing when out of the blue I received a sally winder in the back of the head. This was followed by the old bags usual rantings as she bellowed out all over the neighborhood I had missed a couple of weeds. The good Doctor would conclude that this was the point at which I could endure no more humiliation or pain and split off as an escape mechanism into an alternative reality. Whatever the case once I had isolated the cause for my aversion to gardening I became an overnight horticultural zealot. By the end of my first spring season there was food in abundance growing all over the courtyard. Corn as tall as myself, tomatoes and pumpkins climbing all over the place and a herb garden that wouldn’t falter in productivity. My ongoing cement sculpturing experimentation's manifested a fishpond which had an big old cast iron bath as it’s base. Floating lotus flowers adorned the cool water of the pond and it was to become my most treasured refuge in the stinking heat of summer.
One morning as I was Cheerfully pulling weeds among the coriander I noticed that a rogue pumpkin had started climbing towards the roof of my dwelling. Across the angle of the roof there is a wooden platform which is home to stacks of disused fish tubs. As I scanned the scene I took note that the area could not be viewed from any of the upper story holiday units surrounding our property. I grabbed a ladder and climbed up for a better look and once on the platform the idea to create a roof garden took shape among my thoughts. I had fifty marijuana seedlings sprouting in my outside kitchen waiting for the day when I could transfer them to a new location, but if I played my cards right I might be able to pull off a mini crop right where I was living. The maturing plants could be concealed from view in large spaces between the pumpkin shrouded fish tubs. They would receive heaps of direct sunlight on the roof and I would have a valid reason for being up there with a hose due to the existence of the roof garden. My strategy paid off nicely and I managed to bring sixteen plants to maturity by the end of the harvest season. None of the neighborhood were any the wiser about my little operation and for the entire winter that followed I was spared having to race off looking for a pot dealer. The final cured product was almost equal in potency to any of the buds I had been scoring around the bay and I saved a shit load of cash in the meantime.
For most of the time that I have been here Sid and I have done our running around in a beat up old Ford Falcon sedan that he has lovingly named the ‘Golden Oldie. I can’t fathom how he is still able to hold a licence but I guess until he runs some poor bastard over he is still considered a bonifide road user by the authorities. If only they knew what I know. The mad old fart is the greatest exponent of road rage I have ever encountered and I say about twenty ‘Hail Mary’s’ under my breath every time I have to jump in the car with him. It’s a matter of mutual dependence where I have to place my life in his hands so I can achieve what I have to do and in turn I do all his running around like paying bills and getting supplies in. Just recently the car came up for renewed registration and as expected it didn’t pass the mechanical inspection. Sid simply shrugged it off as a minor inconvenience and within a week we were tearing around in a well kept Volvo station wagon that he picked up from a mate in the car game. It was a real bargain at the price he got it for and I drew a modicum of comfort from the knowledge they are rated as one of the safest cars in the world. The reason I am on disability support is due to the fact I was run down by a hit and run driver in my youth. One of my greatest fears is the thought that I might end my days in some orthopedic ward due to the carelessness of another person. I gnash at the bit when I am a passenger with the most skilled of drivers but with old Sid it’s a thousand times worse. I was spared any further anguish late one afternoon when Sid failed to return from a war veteran’s reunion at the RSL. He was dropped off at home well after sundown by a couple of his fisho cronies, amid tales of a totaled car, abuse towards hospital staff and the risk of prosecution by the police. It came as a welcomed relief that he wasn’t seriously injured or worse, but more so that my own chances of survival had been greatly increased.
The wreck of the Volvo was promptly scooped up by our old mate ‘Quick Bucks’ from out at the wrecking yard for a mere two hundred dollars. I guess it’s quite obvious that’s how the money grabbing son of a bitch got his nickname. After Sids licence was revoked by the authorities it pretty much signaled the beginning of the end for him. As dangerous as he was to himself and others on the road the ability to drive a car was his last chance at any kind of mobility or freedom. When it was taken away he became like a once majestic old sea eagle whose wings have been clipped. He had died in spirit if not in the flesh and he seemed to give up on everything at once. At a greatly increased rate he declined into a withdrawn state of semi catatonic oblivion. Gone were the sea shanties on sunny drunken afternoons and fish dinners garnished with good cheer. Gone was everything but the memories I held and still hold, of golden moments shared with my sea captain. And the echo of the old boy grunting ‘Bound for South Australia’ through his wine stained whiskers.
Bon Voyage Sid.
The birth of the pups is the crescendo to a long standing relationship I have shared through the years with Tootsys genetic bloodline. Her uncle Rufus was the first pup I adopted from litters that were born at ‘Quick Bucks Wrecking yard’ in Port Stephens. That’s where I live. Among the rocky headlands at beautiful Shoal Bay, on the New South Wales, East coast of Australia. Since Rufus I have had three other dogs from that bloodline including Toots but all are no more from one unfortunate event or another. As a companion for Tootsy girl I decided to keep a male dog from one of her previous litters. I named him ‘Husky’ in a mode of wishful thinking that when he matured to full strength he might help to pull my bicycle up some of the steep slopes around the bay. No such luck. All attempts to get him working efficiently with the bike proved futile because he was too easily distracted by other dogs and I couldn’t get him to hold a constant position. In the end I decided that some dogs must have what it takes to haul a load and others haven’t. From that day on Husky has been left at home with Toots to guard my camp whenever I go out. At night however when I go fishing both Hus and Tootsy girl get to bounce along beside me on the way out to the jetty. This generally happens in the wee small hours after the car traffic has subsided and the streets of our village are deserted. On most mornings as the first hint of the new day is approaching the horizon my dogs and I can be found out on the headland jigging for squid and octopus, or casting into the shallows for flathead and silver bream. If I am in luck with the morning catch we will be on our way back home by the time the sun is starting to reflect off the water and the milk delivery van is pulling up at the general store. Apart from the fact I have to get the dogs off the streets before the traffic resumes, the buzzing, biting insects make it no fun to be out there once the sun is up.
Myself an my canine buddies live in one of the last remaining pockets of what was the original fishing village. We share a corner block at the foot of the Tomaree headland with a retired fisherman known as ‘Old Sid’. Sid is eighty seven and he has been living here for sixty odd years. This place he calls home hasn’t changed in character from when it was first built way back when and the rest of Shoal bay has been developed into a modernized coastal suburbia like the Gold coast or Miami beach. Looking upwards to the east out of my back door, I am blessed with the vision of a towering, monolith known as Stephens peak which lies just beyond the dunes. I like to believe I live a perfect and charmed existence, so I consider it a cruel twist of fate that the founding fathers didn’t spell the name of that mountain with a ‘V’ instead. The reason I place so much importance on that big chunk of rock is because it is symbolic of the new peaks of artistic discipline and productivity I have achieved since first I settled in the bay. The creative projects I am involved in besides this newly acquired book writing caper are the development of three albums of original songs I composed and recorded over the last three decades. One of the albums is complimented by a script for an environmentally inspired stage production called ‘Once upon a Planet’. It’s an adventure fantasy about a group of schoolkids who want to do their bit for the environment. They abscond from the schoolyard one day and team up with a convoy of hard core activists who are heading for the frontline. The kids are swept along on a thrill a minute adventure, which brings them to the attention of the world media. Their mission to save the planet triggers a global stock market battle between the growing environment friendly sector and the established markets, as they go head to head for world dominance.
Shoal bay represents significant progress for me as a struggling artist who is trying to plod along in a world governed by pursuit of the almighty dollar. As we approach the new millennium and harder economic times ahead I imagine places like this will become increasingly harder to find. It’s well outside the normal rental market and that’s where I like to live so I am not subject to the scrutiny of others. Old Sid won’t take a cent over twenty dollars a week as rent for the shed I occupy out the back in the courtyard because I cook up his evening meals and help him out with odd jobs around the place. This wonderful arrangement leaves the bulk of my fortnightly pension payments to spend as I see fit and allows the acceptable quota of time to develop my projects free of the normal economic pressures. Most of the musicians and artists I know spend most of their time and energy working day jobs and chasing the dollar just to pay the rent. By the time they get home in the evenings they are too fucked out to be bothered with anything and their art becomes just another memory of younger days when they were free of responsibility. I will do anything not to end up painted into the same kind of corner even if it means living a solo existence for the rest of my days, camping in peoples garages and being devoured by maggots in a paupers grave.
Fishing on the Tomaree headland Jetty.
Sid is a remarkable old guy and there’s a lot going on between us beside the fact I am renting a bit of studio space from him. He’s a time hardened old sea captain in the twilight of his years and he is fighting his last battle to ward off senility. I am the younger man in the equation. The deck hand, like a waiting sponge, to absorb his unending catalog of stories from the high seas. I believe our ‘Old salt’ ‘Young salt relationship is the main thing keeping his mind active and it reduces the amount of time he spends slumped in his easy chair, sipping port wine and staring blankly into space. In more sober and reflective moments Sid can impart priceless gems of wisdom from a long life of experience.
In not so sober moments he might be giving me instructions around the place and suddenly break into a sea shanty mid sentence. At other times he will go into a colorful tale like the time he wrestled a giant octopus off the deck of his fishing boat in a storm. The last time Sid went out on a trawler in deep water, he copped a stingray barb right through his left leg and it ended his fishing career. The wound went septic as the result of a dormant bug he contracted in the tropics during world war two. It’s been about twenty years since he received the injury but still unhealing boils and purple infected blotches remain. Every Tuesday a government home carer pops around and he has a couple of fisho mates, but apart from them he has limited contact with people. He was living pretty much like a hermit before I came on the scene and I guess I am the apprentice hermit here to learn all the tricks.
A semi hermetic lifestyle becomes more appealing to me the older I get after more than two decades of baring my soul to the world. The life of any performer can be controlled by public expectation and I was sick of being the life of the party. A raging cocaine habit gave the first warning signs that I was all peopled out and to fully recover I needed to be alone. After two failed attempts at parenting with badly matched partners I had succumbed to depression and lost my old brand of self confidence. A prolonged creative hiatus stripped me of a purposeful function in the world and I was left wallowing in the love tainted backwaters of my own misery. My escape from the world of normal, daily relationships was the first leg of this journey towards a solitary existence. The sweet, unhindered bliss of independence can bring great rewards for those who are centerd enough to cope with it. The man who is not dependent on the affections of a woman and people in general has all the time in the world to ponder the purpose of his own existence. He can reflect on the path he has traveled to get where he is at and he can take time to imagine the place he wants to be. I am a devotee to the concept of creativity and the new title I have given myself is that of an ’Art monk’. In my time as a seeker of the higher philosophies, the most profound universal truth I have stumbled upon is the notion that ‘Art and Creation are One and the Same thing’. The idea that human creativity is in some way linked to the base level, organic processes of life is the most inspiring concept I can possibly imagine and it has become the new bottom line on my spiritual beliefs. Often my creative frenzies are followed by a profound sense of worthlessness where all attempts to get motivated are too daunting a chore to even contemplate. This is normally the time when the call to the water hits me and I load up my pushbike to go fishing. Fishing is the best thing I’ve found to silence my thoughts as it engages me in the simplistic ritual of the hunt. The coastal aborigines had the right idea. Their days were mainly spent out on the water, chasing the catch and just letting the day roll by at it’s own leisurely pace. Once they had caught their tucker they might get a fire going for a tribal cook up and illustrate the hunt on the walls of their cave. Simplicity, no complications, … No chattering monkeys in their brains and no high pressure deadlines to meet.
This property was a fish processing depot back in the heyday of the Australian fishing industry. That was long before there was talk of marine park sanctuaries and depleted fish stocks. The political spin I refer to has seen this once thriving fishery transformed from a productive catch dependent community into just another tourist trap. During the summer months Sid sells bait to the tourists and that’s about the limit of his physical abilities these days. Any poor, unsuspecting customer who has been lured in by the ‘Bait and Ice’ sign is left standing around for ages in the heat and the flies as he takes his own sweet time from the chair to the freezer. As a rule he makes a healthy profit selling block ice and bait to the ‘Touros’. He does however hate the vacationing public with a passion and any suggestion of over pricing will see him bellowing profanities, as he rolls up his shirt sleeves. All offenders are promptly ordered off the property then he has a little chuckle when they are gone . Eighty seven years old. There are duel level holiday apartments incorporated into the front of the property that are rented out through an estate agent during the holiday season. The rest of the year they are occupied by all manner of humanity who are in need of short term accommodation. Between the holiday units and my courtyard there is a classic nineteen fifties caravan sheltered under a rusting corrugated iron structure. This is where the old boy lives. All of the wooden beams around the caravan have cobweb strewn wine bottles and colored glass balls hanging from them in tattered fish net stockings. He has old photographs scattered all around the place of himself from the war days as a younger, uniformed man. They are perched in key positions around his habitat and he has time perished war medals hanging on the wall near the entrance to the cool rooms.
Shoal bay is undergoing a regrettable boom in local development since the once friendly and inviting little drinking hole down on the corner started metamorphosing into a full blown Surfers Paradise style resort. It’s all happening directly across the road from where we live and our once tranquil little village has been afflicted by the same degree of banging, grinding, haul ass noise you might expect to find in the construction sites of any large city. The first stage of the operation was to demolish all of the classic nineteen fifties and sixties beach houses at the rear of the old pub to make way for the new multi million dollar resort. This was all taking place as I was in the early stages of converting a dusty old shed into a live in recording studio, so I started taking advantage of the situation to my own ends. There were large piles of sturdy hardwood beams left sitting around in unfenced areas of the building site, so I started doing moonlight runs to gather up as much as I could. I viewed the free timber as compensation for all of the unwanted noise pollution spilling into the neighborhood from first light to dusk every day of the god damned week. Included in my compensation package I managed to get away with six enormous plastic tarpaulins that were used for covering assorted equipment and the like. I also scored enough plyboard sheets to completely seal the shed, but I had to go through a cyclone wire fence with bolt cutters to get them. The Weis corporation will always be remembered as a worthwhile sponsor in my quest to live outside of the mainstream rental market and spread the word about environmental sustainability.
‘I love being a recycling enthusiast living in a disposable society’
Since I acquired the building materials I have converted a dusty old shed filled with the remnants of a life on the water into a fully lined and water proofed recording studio come writers retreat. ‘The Crab Pot Lodge’ as I have christened my home is mostly obscured from view of the surrounding holiday flats by a high metal fence and a row of mature palm trees. In the courtyard area I have used hardwood beams and a couple of large tarps to create an outside kitchen area. The shelter is covered with shadecloth I scored from the resort and it offers a pleasant view of the side street leading up to Stephens peak. At the height of the tourist season I might be sitting in my outside kitchen preparing chilli octopus or basting a silver bream and I get to watch bikini clad, young babes skipping by on their way down to the beach. Compared to other less inviting places I have lived the Crab pot Lodge is a dream house located in paradise. As daily renovations continue it’s getting so cosy that I find myself having mini panic attacks at how comfortable it’s all getting. I’m so afraid of becoming just another fat and self satisfied wanker who is too lazy and contented to go out in search of the next adventure. Jesus I’ve even started getting into gardening for the first time in my life and that’s a past time that can anchor a man to the same place for a lifetime.
The gardening thing is my new obsession and I am embracing the art of green thumbing with the enthusiasm of a giant slug, devouring the fronds of a marijuana seedling. In the last few weeks the courtyard has become home to a number of newly constructed garden plots which line the back fence. Disused wooden pallets form the basic framework of the plots and cement filled chicken wire has created the deep soil filled cavities between them. The plots stand about waist high which means the minimum amount of bending for my tired old back as I am pottering in the dirt. I consider my new gardening interests a ‘Hands on’ therapy workshop that not only keeps me fit but it has great psychological value. It relates to my childhood experience and is directly connected to the primal scene thing ‘Arthur Janov’ explored in his writings. My mother as you will discover in later chapters was an unstable and violent bitch who made my life hell as a child. As best I can deduct my primal scene occurred in a garden setting as a nine or ten year old child. I had been instructed to remove weeds from a flower bed which I was doing when out of the blue I received a sally winder in the back of the head. This was followed by the old bags usual rantings as she bellowed out all over the neighborhood I had missed a couple of weeds. The good Doctor would conclude that this was the point at which I could endure no more humiliation or pain and split off as an escape mechanism into an alternative reality. Whatever the case once I had isolated the cause for my aversion to gardening I became an overnight horticultural zealot. By the end of my first spring season there was food in abundance growing all over the courtyard. Corn as tall as myself, tomatoes and pumpkins climbing all over the place and a herb garden that wouldn’t falter in productivity. My ongoing cement sculpturing experimentation's manifested a fishpond which had an big old cast iron bath as it’s base. Floating lotus flowers adorned the cool water of the pond and it was to become my most treasured refuge in the stinking heat of summer.
One morning as I was Cheerfully pulling weeds among the coriander I noticed that a rogue pumpkin had started climbing towards the roof of my dwelling. Across the angle of the roof there is a wooden platform which is home to stacks of disused fish tubs. As I scanned the scene I took note that the area could not be viewed from any of the upper story holiday units surrounding our property. I grabbed a ladder and climbed up for a better look and once on the platform the idea to create a roof garden took shape among my thoughts. I had fifty marijuana seedlings sprouting in my outside kitchen waiting for the day when I could transfer them to a new location, but if I played my cards right I might be able to pull off a mini crop right where I was living. The maturing plants could be concealed from view in large spaces between the pumpkin shrouded fish tubs. They would receive heaps of direct sunlight on the roof and I would have a valid reason for being up there with a hose due to the existence of the roof garden. My strategy paid off nicely and I managed to bring sixteen plants to maturity by the end of the harvest season. None of the neighborhood were any the wiser about my little operation and for the entire winter that followed I was spared having to race off looking for a pot dealer. The final cured product was almost equal in potency to any of the buds I had been scoring around the bay and I saved a shit load of cash in the meantime.
For most of the time that I have been here Sid and I have done our running around in a beat up old Ford Falcon sedan that he has lovingly named the ‘Golden Oldie. I can’t fathom how he is still able to hold a licence but I guess until he runs some poor bastard over he is still considered a bonifide road user by the authorities. If only they knew what I know. The mad old fart is the greatest exponent of road rage I have ever encountered and I say about twenty ‘Hail Mary’s’ under my breath every time I have to jump in the car with him. It’s a matter of mutual dependence where I have to place my life in his hands so I can achieve what I have to do and in turn I do all his running around like paying bills and getting supplies in. Just recently the car came up for renewed registration and as expected it didn’t pass the mechanical inspection. Sid simply shrugged it off as a minor inconvenience and within a week we were tearing around in a well kept Volvo station wagon that he picked up from a mate in the car game. It was a real bargain at the price he got it for and I drew a modicum of comfort from the knowledge they are rated as one of the safest cars in the world. The reason I am on disability support is due to the fact I was run down by a hit and run driver in my youth. One of my greatest fears is the thought that I might end my days in some orthopedic ward due to the carelessness of another person. I gnash at the bit when I am a passenger with the most skilled of drivers but with old Sid it’s a thousand times worse. I was spared any further anguish late one afternoon when Sid failed to return from a war veteran’s reunion at the RSL. He was dropped off at home well after sundown by a couple of his fisho cronies, amid tales of a totaled car, abuse towards hospital staff and the risk of prosecution by the police. It came as a welcomed relief that he wasn’t seriously injured or worse, but more so that my own chances of survival had been greatly increased.
The wreck of the Volvo was promptly scooped up by our old mate ‘Quick Bucks’ from out at the wrecking yard for a mere two hundred dollars. I guess it’s quite obvious that’s how the money grabbing son of a bitch got his nickname. After Sids licence was revoked by the authorities it pretty much signaled the beginning of the end for him. As dangerous as he was to himself and others on the road the ability to drive a car was his last chance at any kind of mobility or freedom. When it was taken away he became like a once majestic old sea eagle whose wings have been clipped. He had died in spirit if not in the flesh and he seemed to give up on everything at once. At a greatly increased rate he declined into a withdrawn state of semi catatonic oblivion. Gone were the sea shanties on sunny drunken afternoons and fish dinners garnished with good cheer. Gone was everything but the memories I held and still hold, of golden moments shared with my sea captain. And the echo of the old boy grunting ‘Bound for South Australia’ through his wine stained whiskers.
Bon Voyage Sid.
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