ON THE HIGH GROUND AND RETURN TO THE STREETLIFE

ON THE HIGH GROUND.

Because we had made such a late start leaving Sandgate it left little time for finding a suitable campsite when Will and I finally arrived in Windsor. The sleepy little riverside settlement I had passed through in days gone by was no more and the waterfront had been transformed into a haven for speedboat enthusiasts.  At every location where I might be able to set up a camp there were private jettys and security fences, besides there were people everywhere.  Will and I took stock of the situation in the fast fading light and it was agreed that a plan B was in order.  He had long since used up his quota of free time away from the homefront and the stress was starting to show.  To settle the vibes and keep our boys club adventure moving right along I allowed Will to convince me I should go back to the mountains with him and rethink my plans.  He and his family lived in a pokey little cottage with no spare room but he said he had some friends at Wentworth Falls who might be able to put me up. 

Will spoke to his friends on the mobile as we drove off into the sunset towards the Blue Mountains.  When he explained the situation I was in they said I could camp in the yard for a few days but I had to keep my dog well away from theirs.  It was after dark when we pulled up in the driveway of the Wentworth Falls property and were greeted by our hosts.  Jenny a woman of about my own age was someone I had met before on previous trips to the mountains and she shared the house with three young guys called Patty, Lewis and Oliver.  I never found out exactly which of the young fellows were her sons but it didn’t really matter because the whole household had a friendly, family vibe about it.  Once in the house our initial chat over coffee and joints was ever so brief as I was intent on getting a shelter established and Will needed to get back to his family.  Hauling Husky and my bedroll by torchlight I was escorted along a short garden track that crossed a small bridge, near a pond.  There was a large rotunda beside the pond which was offered up as my temporary accommodation and after bidding me a good night Lewis went back up to the house.  It was certainly a great place to be but it wasn’t until the morning I was able to appreciate the picturesque setting in which I had landed.  There were giant goldfish in the pond hiding under large, floating lotus leaves and ducks were nuzzling for yabbies on the bank.  It was a full time job getting Husky to relax in the presence of the assorted wildlife but eventually he learned that the fish and the ducks were not on his breakfast menu.

Things were pretty relaxed and casual for the week or so that I camped by the pond and it reminded me of scenes I had passed through on the hippy trail.  Jennys sons were busy most of the time with an internet marketing project and I hardly ever saw them during the day.  Jenny and I smoked countless joints on an outside balcony overlooking the property and exchanged notes on the finer points of everything.  There was no sexual attraction between us so we could just relax into the easy going, platonic flow of the moment. As I sat around chatting in the lazy, sunshine hours I felt I was being welcomed home to a world I lost touch with many moons ago. The unexpected turn of events in Windsor had delivered me to the gates of the great unknown and I celebrated the new path to adventure before me.  I decided the best way to embrace my new list of challenges was to go more than ever with the flow and just try to recognize any opportunities it may bring.  The first opening came when I found I was hanging out to go fishing and the most available option was the Wentworth Falls Lake.  Immediately I loaded up the pushbike trailer with my bedroll, handlines and some basic camping gear then Husky and I set off for the lake.  When we got there I set up a tarp shelter in a patch of thick bushes right near the waters edge.  There were bushwalking tracks on either side of my camp but the scrub was thick enough to conceal us from public view.    The word among the local anglers was that there were trout in the lake but for my whole stay in the area I didn’t catch a single one or see any caught.  I contended myself with buckets full of large yabbies that I harvested from under rocks near the embankments.  A few days after I had settled in near the lake William called me up and said that my load was blocking the driveway at Jennys place.  He said I had to find an alternative storage spot straight away and he would help me to get it there.  The best option I could come up with was the garage of an ex girlfriend called Toni who was living on the outskirts of Katoomba. When I came into the area Toni and I spoke briefly on the phone and it was all very chummy as it usually is when we reconnect.  Once permission was given that I could store my gear in the shed Will took charge of the situation and moved it there in my absence.  When next Will and I were to see each other he was picking me up from the side of the road a little way up from the lake.  We loaded my camping gear and pushbike into the back of his van with Husky and myself in the front.  So as to be close to the bulk of my load I set up a shelter in a stretch of native scrub directly opposite Toni’s house. 

                                                                                                                         

                                                                  Toni Tarlou

Among our normal flirtatious banter Toni and I attempted to reignite the old flame but my boat and all the other stuff cluttering up her shed was an obstacle.  She hinted that she felt like a mere convenience as I nuzzled my face into her bare chest on the living room couch and it left me with an irretrievable soft on.  The vibes from then on were mixed but mostly strained so I made a special effort to keep the fuck out of her way.  In any case I had to get working on a permanent home for my self and my dog which meant a fleeting sexual fling was a luxury I couldn’t afford.  I should have seen it coming and kept things strictly business but you don’t think of things like that when Mr. Happy is trying to climb out of your pants. My first big break came when I was having a cold one in Katoomba at the beer garden of the Carrington Hotel.  I got speaking with the owner of a feisty young female ridgeback that Husky took a shine to.  His name was Arn and as well as being an interesting bloke I was to learn he was the proprietor of a local antique store.  His business was situated in the grounds of a disused hardware depot directly across from the Katoomba railway station.  As the dogs barked and played Arn listened intently to the events leading up to my arrival in the mountains and he was quick to offer assistance.  He said there was a section of his property that he assigned to guests and I was welcome to use it for a couple of weeks.  My new host and I drank Coopers ale and further exchanged road stories as the beer garden filled up with a varied assortment of mountain folk and travelers.  Arn was tribally connected to the most bohemian of those in attendance and it wasn’t long before I was introduced to the local pot dealer. 

There was a group of teenage flower children strumming guitars and singing at the tables and for a couple of hours I was imursed in a mood of carefree oblivion. Being welcomed into Arns guest house was the most perfect thing that could have happened at that particular time.  It was right in the center of town and it provided the ideal base camp from which I could explore the area.  The main building of the old hardware depot was nestled between the railway station and the blackberry covered walls of a main road overpass.  It was filled to the rafters with valuable antiques and collectibles that Arn had accumulated and I was soon to nickname the place ‘Retro Heaven’.  He said the antique business was only a temporary thing and he eventually intended to finance the establishment of a free energy depot for the mountains.  I said I thought it was a great idea in this the age of global warming and we raised our glasses to toast the free alternatives of the world.  Arn was involved in a messy on off relationship with a nasty little bitch who I took an instant dislike to on our first meeting.  She looked right down her nose at me from the word go and I can only put it down to the fact she thought I was some kind of threat to her control.  In the evenings on the front porch of the showroom I shared what advice I could with Arn but the best I could come up with is “A bachelor is someone who didn’t make the same mistake Once’.  My new host and male bonding partner it seems was definitely a troubled soul but amid expressions of despair and hopelessness I still managed to get him to chuckle. At the lowest abyss of the realities Arn had confided in me I was to learn the details of his most pressing dilemma. The girlfriend had apparently been his saving angel when he was suicidal and locked away in a lunatic asylum.  On his release from incarceration he had revised his will assigning all of his wealth and worldly possessions to her.  He was now regretful of that action as he believed she was conspiring to get him back in a padded cell.  He agreed it might be wise to rewrite his will when I suggested he could set up a trust fund for his alternative energy ideas.

From the first moment we arrived on the mountain slopes of Katoomba Hus and I went into a new mode of combined transit. He had done more than enough initial training pulling a load and now I needed him to assist me up the hillsides on the bike.  I constructed a lightweight harness for him out of buckles and straps and as I did it occurred to me that we had arrived at the very situation which  inspired me to name him ‘Husky’ in the first place.  Once attached to the pushbike frame the new harness drew all of the power from the center of his back and the system proved highly effective. He was so bloody strong that even when I was loaded up with supplies it didn’t slow him down.  We soon became a local attraction around Katoomba and people in cars could be seen smiling as we passed.  On one of our many exploratory excursions around the township Hus and I came upon a disused workers cottage out along the old Bathurst road.  Apparently it had been sitting there empty since they finished building the new highway and I was really surprised that nobody had moved in. It was situated in a fenced off nature strip between two main roads and it looked perfectly suited to my needs. My time as Arns guest was well and truly up and I detected a hint of relief when I told him I had found a new place.  I had coped reasonably well with the fact my new friend was a depressive but the vibes coming from his girlfriend were too unpleasant to be around.  On the morning of the following day Arn and I picked up the boat and everything else from out of Tonis shed and loaded them into his car trailer. Toni invited us to stay for dinner which we did and the background music was a CD of romantic songs I had given her way back when.  It was a pleasant enough parting scene for her and I even though it was dominated by Arns emotional problems. 

In the time I stayed there the workers hut was to prove the most significant and practical campsite I had occupied since being on the yacht.  It was situated on the only stretch of flat land in the whole Katoomba area and I had really landed on my feet as it relates to pushbike travel. Hauling batteries and getting supplies in was no great obstacle as Hus and I did our daily runs into town.  In the first couple of days after our arrival I had a deal worked out with the owner of a backpackers hostel that I could run a battery charger and take showers when needed at a moderate fee. In a daily ritual of riding over to the Flying Fox and replacing flattened batteries with fully charged ones I had enough energy to power the hut for all my assorted needs. The hostel was called the Flying Fox and it was like a little piece of Byron Bay perched on the blue tinged mountain escarpment.  There were always young travelers hanging around in the outside barbecue shelter where I charged my batteries and all of them wanted to score some pot. Most of the kids were guitar players and spontaneous jam sessions were common place day and night. I had unlimited opportunities to let loose and they all seemed to approve of what I was coming out with. Singing with the young travelers was fun but more importantly it got me back into the swing of being a performer. Other than boosting my income with numerous pot transactions the backpackers were to prove helpful in the final production of my albums.  A couple of them had laptop computers with them and they were happy to burn multiple reproductions from my master CD’s. The album masters had evolved to the best they had ever sounded and by the end of our disc burning sessions I had a swag of original recordings I could sell as part of my planned busking debut in Katoomba. On top of their kind help the backpackers ended up purchasing four of the newly produced cds and they insisted on paying the full price of twenty bucks.  I didn’t feel too bad about the bonus eighty dollars because they were obviously rich kids with family supplemented travel budgets. 

Since arriving in Katoomba I had made friendly connections with the local buskers and it was through them I found out about an open mike night at the Family Hotel.  With two guitarists known as Big Stuart and young Matt accompanying me we did a basic twelve bar blues jam and received a rowdy applause. For the whole time we were on stage playing there was a very intoxicated but harmless punter cheering us on from the dancefloor.  At the conclusion of our unrehearsed blues song he staggered up to me and started frantically shaking my hand.  He smelled worse than the ancient pub carpet as he mumbled something about Muddy Waters in my ear.  I allowed the drunk to continue hugging and slobbering all over me however as there was a fresh twenty buck note being squashed into my open mit.  I bought drinks all around for the lads then we laughed and jammed on the blues into the night.   It seemed the Mountains had become a mecca for many of the faces that used to frequent inner city Sydney during the eighties.  At just about every turn I spotted a head that was familiar and with just a little probing shared histories were unearthed. A couple of days after the Family pub night I ran into an old busking acquaintance called Alvin who had made Katoomba his home.  After remembering who each other was Alvin said “Hey man if you go busking in this town you are going to clean up”.  Wow! That was all I needed to hear to get motivated. My first public performance in Katoomba had proved both satisfying and profitable and I saw it as a good omen for things to come. 

                                                                                                                           

                                                       On stage in Katoomba

Followed so closely by Alvins encouraging statement I was positive I had dropped anchor in the best spot possible for my busking come back.  The self image of myself as a free roaming riverboat captain was lost among a host of rapid changes and the clothes I wore started to take on a folk musician tone.  Regularly I rummaged through the local op shops in search of the right attire and after much experimentation I looked well suited to the part I was ready to play.  The first thing I had to do was get started on building an amplification rig that could be incorporated into my existing bike trailer.  The original trailer was to experience a host of new innovations as I got working to convert it into a multi purpose unit.  The final result saw my dated guitar amp strapped into a commercial fish tub that was attached to the frame of and old golf buggy.  A twenty watt power amplifier drove the system which included my microphone and digital delay. The musical backing tracks I intended to use were fed into the amp from an old but reliable Sony Walkman and the end result was not at all unpleasant to the ear.  On completion of the new busking trolley I was keen as mustard to do the first show and that’s exactly when the dirty weather set in.  I had to spend five days just sitting around twiddling my thumbs in awful mists and drizzle before the first hint of sunlight started to warm the slopes. I didn’t have a clue where I was going to do my first show as Husky and I set off towards town.   It was my first official road test for the towing of the busking trolley and I was only concerned about getting it there without incident.  As we were nearing the highway overpass that overlooks Arns place I noticed a number of people had gathered and were looking down to where it sits.  Thinking it must be the day of the antique auction sale he had mentioned I pulled over to take a look. I was greeted by an image of horror.  All that was left of the main house was a smoldering, burnt out shell that had caved in on itself and attending fire patrols were still hosing it down.  Shocked by what I saw I asked one of the spectators what had happened and he said the guy who lived there had torched the place during the night.  The firemen had to hose the building down from outside of the property because Arn had blocked the only entrance with his car before he incinerated himself. Holy fuck.  Arn. Gone forever. What a terrible waste of life.  And what a bad time to receive the news just as I was preparing to hit the main street and sing cheerful ditties to the townsfolk.

I was shaken and upset by what I had seen but instead of wallowing in pointless morbidity I made a snap decision that ‘The show must go on’. In some eyes it might not have been the most respectful thing to do but it offered a perfect opportunity to test my skills of emotional control. If I could plod on regardless after such a horrific shock to the system then nothing the future could dish up would phase me.  I set up the music equipment near the entrance to the Carrington beer garden and sitting on a milk crate I started to go through the sets.  The backing music I had compiled for the show was mostly up tempo with light and romantic lyrics so it wasn’t too hard to slip into the mood.  A group of backpackers from the Flying Fox gathered around clapping and throwing coins which brought a welcomed distraction from the hovering ghost of Arn howling through my brain.  That was the first busking performance I had done since the late eighties and all things considered it went well.  I was able to stay at it for about three hours before a thick mist set in but I had made enough money to afford a celebratory bottle of scotch.  As I was counting the coins I had a nostalgic flashback to earlier times with friends laughing and joking around me while we split up the takings. My following shows proved more profitable than the first after I worked out the best location for busking in the wintry alpine climate. It was the indoor ramp area of the Woolworths and K Mart shopping complex just off the main street. There’s a certain spot on the ramp near the carpark entrance where heat dispersed from the building gathers in a warm vortex.  I did a couple of shows while it was snowing outside the carpark and held my own against the chill. Husky sat on a blanket near the money case just out of the way of shopping trolley wheels and he was the main focus of everyone’s attention. As well as being a powerful and majestic working dog he is also a real good looker and as playful as a two month old pup.  If the truth were known Hus was and still is the main feature of our busking shows wherever we happen to be. Well to do old ladies pushing shopping trolleys made a special point of saying ‘This is for your doggy as they dropped five and ten dollar notes in the case.  Many left the supermarket loaded up with cans and large packets of dry dog food and they would be laid at my feet with big smiles as I merrily sang my songs.  At first my earnings ranged from thirty to fifty dollars a day but before the winter was over I was averaging eighty to a hundred and twenty dollars a day. I was quick to learn that small children perched on trolleys are the best target for bringing in the bikkies.  Once a very young toddler is held transfixed by the sound and movement of the show it stops the whole family in their tracks.  

                                                                                                                           

                                                  Busking in the Kmart carpark

Parents look down adoringly at their infant who might be showing the first responses to music and everything follows a logical progression after that. The mothers start digging around for their purses among the shopping load and coins are given to older children to throw into the case.  When others see this happening the old ‘Monkey see monkey do’ syndrome kicks in and it can turn into a congested line of family groups and others rallying to have their turn.  I didn’t need any more proof than this that regional shopping centers and malls are the optimum venue for buskers.  They are the modern equivalent of the village market square and a friendly place to be in an alienated world.  Situations like carpark entrance had to be the most profitable because the performer is dealing with a captive audience. From the moment the shoppers start moving down the ramp towards until they drive away they are exposed to the music of the performer.  While loading the boot with groceries they have a few moments to absorb the sound and often is the case they will throw money when they return the trolley to the rack.    Because the cement structure of the building did such a good job of amplifying the music I had to keep the volume on my portable sound system right down.  People will let you know if they feel they are being blasted and no inspiration can come from singing your heart out to frowns and covered ears.  In the early busking days no form of amplification was ever used.  The only time I got to sing through a microphone was in studio situations or jamming around the pubs.  A highly perfected microphone technique became the new skill added to my list of achievements and I grew increasingly more confident with each show.  The vast majority of passers by were receptive to what I was doing but there are always those who aren’t and they don’t hesitate to let you know it.  Amid my cheerful ditties I would receive the odd comment like ‘Why don’t you get a proper job?” or “Stop blocking the fucking doorway”. I guess that sort of thing just comes with the territory.

A RETURN TO THE STREETLIFE.

It was about nine thirty at night when the front door of the hut was bombarded by large rocks courtesy of passing teenagers.  This was the first assault of three that saw me brandishing a loaded speargun at the front gate and Husky showing his true worth as my protector.  In evaluating the situation I concluded that the hut must have been a secret hangout for the local young trouble makers prior to my arrival. They would have seen me as just some old hobo who was getting in the way.  The safest and most sensible thing to do was relocate my camp so I scanned my list of options for the best possible outcome.

Captain Casual who you will know from earlier chapters took residence in Katoomba after the property at Hazelbrook was lost to his creditors.  I became a regular feature at the new Planet Savers headquarters and it replaced the Flying Fox as the spot I charged my batteries.  Early in the game I befriended a twenty seven year old horticulturist called Michael who was living with the Captain and volunteering his services around the property. On hearing of my dramas at the hut Michael allowed me the use of a street level car shed for a mere fifty dollars a week. It was a solid brick structure that had a working roller door but the most wonderful feature was the electrical power switch on the wall.  Like some kind of power hungry, energy craving parasite I extracted leads and powerboards from my load and plugged them in at great speed.  My flight case protected mobile studio was ignited to life and I went into a grid connected, creative powerburst.  Michael let me use a pot belly stove that he owned and it became the central hub of my world through the winter months.  Many a time he would pop out to bum some pot or cigarettes off me and he would comment that my setup was warmer than his in the house.  Michael was a struggling new age zealot with an impressive list of planet saving degrees but he couldn’t get a job anywhere in the mainstream work environment.  He was battling to afford fuel for his car and I was making good money at the shows so he was happy to be my part time taxi service.  On sunny days Hus and I pulled the busking trolley to the gigs because it was good for the townsfolk to see him working. This factor was a large part of the novelty and many who threw coins said they had seen him pulling me along the highway.  If the weather was dirty Michael simply loaded the trolley into the back of his car and drove me and Hus into the carpark.  After the shows back at Planet Savers headquarters we would be joined by his supermodel class girlfriend and chummy little dinner parties would unfold. Her name was Maya and she was the most delectable twenty year old love child that any old fart could wish to behold.  The young sweethearts welcomed me into their hearts and minds like a long lost uncle and I was honoured to be their friend.  We attended a number of festive gatherings at the Katoomba Community Gardens of which Michael was a key organiser and I got to meet all of the local freaks.  Among them were a couple known as Jonno and Meredith and they were to become my regular pot suppliers. Meredith was a fat and happy aboriginal woman with a golden smile and Jonno her whitey boyfriend was an old school hippy prankster.

As August came around I dropped hints about my forthcoming fiftieth birthday to all who entered my den for a complimentary smoke.  The list included Jonno and Meredith, the lovers, Young William, Stewart and Matt and a host of others who would make the party complete.  The piano bar of the Carrington was chosen as the venue and as the night progressed it turned into fun for all.  I was presented with a candle lit birthday cake by Michael and Maya which had a big five and a zero perched on the top.  It was a very touching moment.

With the decline of his financial independence Captain Casual withdrew from the world to a darkened room and a blinking computer screen. Michael revealed that he was only surviving from week to week on welfare payments with the odd handouts from his wealthy younger brothers. All the bills were being paid to keep the Planet Savers operating but it was a much different story to the excesses of days gone by.  Our good Captain was so down in the dumps that he started divulging thoughts of suicide to those around him and anyone else who would listen.  It brought the whole vibe of the place tumbling down and got me thinking seriously about my next move.  William, Michael and myself had all been friends of Arn before he killed himself and there was still a strong sense of loss among us.  It was agreed by all that we didn’t want to see the Captain go the same way as we mulled over the problem and conversed about his fragile state of mind. The general consensus was that our patriarch felt as bankrupted in spirit as he was in dollars and cents and he had started psycho dramatizing an inner sense of failure.  By threatening to end his life he was holding those dearest to him to emotional ransom and it was nothing more than a self indulgent plea for sympathy.  Late in the night huddled around the pot belly stove we concluded that the Captain was out of the danger zone because more often than not those who talk about killing themselves rarely ever do.

The Planet Savers building went into renovations and the shed I had been occupying was needed for storage.  I had seen it coming well in advance of the crunch so my backup plan went into action with the new day.  I had recently bumped into an old mate called Phil Gray who I knew from Melbourne and he was renting a house close to town. With Phillips permission and Michael's help I moved out of the first shed into the second in a matter of hours.  My new habitat was not half as cosy as the last but I was still connected to the electricity grid and that was all that mattered. My new address was much closer to the carpark than the previous dwelling had been.  Husky and I had to expend a lot less energy transporting the equipment to and from the gigs and as a result I was able to do more shows.  The temptation was definitely there to blow my earnings in the pubs and late night bars so I invested in a swag of digital technology starting with a new laptop computer.  The quest to break free of obsolete, analogue devices became my new mission in life and greatly improved audio quality would be the final reward.   

Phil Gray my most recent host in the mountains was an all round musician who played guitar, keyboards, drums and sang.  He had all the talent in the world but it took second place to the alcohol cravings that emptied his wallet and eventually pickled his brain.  The spare room he had converted into a home studio was full of state of the art recording gear that was sitting idle and gathering dust.  He had a strict rule about nobody else touching his equipment yet he was incapable of putting the bottle down long enough to switch it on.  There were numerous occasions where he babbled on about cleaning up my music beds and recording new vocal tracks but it never came to pass.  The closest thing I saw to any kind of progress was the day he attempted to connect a microphone to the tone processor in one of his drunken stupors.  Lost in a tangled mountain of cables and leads he conversed intently to himself about what lead goes where and where the fuck his gaffer tape was.  The cable remained unconnected as he staggered from the scene on the scent of another beer.  I was grateful for Phils hospitality but Arns death had instilled a new sense of caution when it comes to bonding with loose cannons.  Letting him go his own drunken way I just kept to myself, ever vigilant that my household bills were paid.  The shed became unsustainable when a neighbor complained to Phil that they had heard me cursing.  I had spilled a cup of coffee on my butane cooker and it soaked the jets, which triggered some colorful language.

In more sober moments I was told by Phil that I could occupy the empty sunroom at the front of the house for the remainder of my stay. This represented an immediate quantum leap in creature comforts and a far more civilized environment to sit out the Katoomba winter. The swearing incident was nothing to worry about but Phil was afraid the neighbors would inform his landlord.  Intoxicated to his normal fill he went staggering into their yard with a posy of flowers in hand.  He presented them with the flowers at the front door and went on to apologize on my behalf about the swearing.  I was sitting at the dining room table chopping up some buds when I overheard the nearby conversation.  The neighbors said it was not a problem and they displayed extreme discomfort at the babblings of the piss tank from next door who they barely even knew.  Phil stumbled back into the house all puffed up by his accomplishment and I acted like I didn’t know a thing when he said a tricky conflict situation had been resolved.  Poor shmook.

The winter equinox was due with the new moon and preparations for the annual winter magic festival were in full swing.  Many of the townsfolk I had met were involved and the whole village seemed to be buzzing with anticipation as the big day drew close.  The weather was picture perfect for the event and I was up with the birds to secure a good busking spot.  Crowds assembled in great numbers on the main street and by mid morning it was shoulder to shoulder all the way. Not happy with the spot I had chosen I attempted to man-oeuvre my rig through the mass of humanity and that’s when the trouble began.  An irregular bulge had appeared in my groin some time back and the diagnosis was confirmed as a hernia.  In the months I had to wait around for the operation I got by with a strap I devised to hold my guts in but if the truth were known I should have been taking it easy.

When I attempted to get the buggy up some steps I doubled over with pain and there was an urgent need for me to sit down. I was wrestling the trolley up the last few steps and moaning when I caught the eyes of someone I knew. Walking towards me in the other direction was Margaret the sister of Beth. E. and the aunty of my daughter Miranda.  The whole clan was there including Beth and it was one of the most uncomfortable situations I think I have ever had to endure.  Miranda wasn’t with them.  The fact I was in severe pain served as a valuable distraction amid awkward greetings and I was truly relieved to get away.  Margaret was the only one from the group who came over to where I was sitting and after some light chatter she said something that took me by surprise.  She told me that the family had been speaking about my environmental musical and they all agreed the idea was ahead of it’s time. What a mind blower.  I was only capable of engaging in brief conversation before I scribbled down my mobile phone number and left the festival in search of medical help. 

Nearly busting my pooper at the festival served to fast track the hernia operation and after an overnight stay in the Katoomba Hospital I was confined to an easy chair.  The understanding with Phil was such that I would vacate the sunroom after my operation and he wasted not a nano second in reminding me of this fact the moment I was well. I guess my motivated and enthusiastic presence made him feel like a time wasting wanker. He had turned into an absolute drag to be around and I was yearning for the return of my domestic independence. The most memorable part of my stay in his house was the Christmas period because that was when Miranda called the number I had given to Margaret.  I was pushing a trolley through the aisles in the local shopping center when I received a text message wishing me a merry Christmas.  I immediately called the number attached to the message and exchanged friendly, festive season chatter with one so badly missed and now all growed up.  I was having a private little cry near the health food section as I learned that my princess was in the advertising game and about to attend a work seminar in Chicago.

It would appear the planets and all of the stars were in some kind of convergence as it relates to bonding with my offspring.  Within days of my connection with Miranda I had an unexpected visit from my other daughter Kiaana, in the company of her mother Alicia.  It was a sunny day and I was busking on the main street when I saw the two of them drive by.  Once Alicia had located a parking spot they came over to where I was and it was hugs and kisses all around. Alicia said they had made a spontaneous decision to make Katoomba their holiday destination in the hope they might bump into me.  And so they did.  Alicia has a long time girlfriend in the area who offered to put them up so for about a week we got to goof around. I broke into song for Kiaana on numerous occasions and it was a delight to discover she knew all the words to my songs. I had forgotten that I gave Alicia some early recordings and it was from these that my twelve year old daughter had learned the words. She also loved Husky to pieces and before they left the mountains Kiaana insisted that I send her some shots of him as a puppy.  Within minutes of seeing Kiaana and Alicia in the main street of Katoomba I also reconnected with Steve Wall a muso mate from the nightclub days in Sydney. Like I said something weird was happening in the psychic stratosphere.  Steve had collaborated on some of my early recordings and I sang vocals on a couple of his.  Our meeting was the springboard to a series of events involving old crew reunions and it allowed me access to a fully rigged, state of the Art studio. The lads got me to recite some of my poetry over ambient music beds they had constructed and we captured some innovative stuff in the process.  The lads all had families and day jobs to attend to so work on the re-recording of my music beds never eventuated.

Directly opposite the entrance to the underground carpark where I was doing most of my shows I discovered an empty house.  All of the doors and windows were locked tight but there was a downstairs laundry area left unsecured and begging for occupation.  With the bulk of my load tarped over in the front yard at Phils place I set up camp in the laundry which was similar to the entrance to a mine.  I was delighted to discover that the power was still connected and it brought four days of free usage before being mysteriously cut off.  When the power went it was no great obstacle because I had located a power point in the carpark where I could run a charger undetected.  With such an easily accessible energy supply I turned into a gluttonous movie buff with a five DVD a day habit. Being in such close proximity to the place I performed made the logistics of doing a gig much easier.  Less than ten minutes after the decision to go busking I was all set up and working.  Entertaining the Christmas shoppers lifted my income to an average of one hundred and fifty dollars a day and contributions were often followed by a cheerful “Merry Chrismas”.  The vast majority of those passing were friendly in their manner but there was a minor percentage who expressed open hostility for reasons unknown.  There is a significant population of fliptops in the Katoomba area and for some reason I had been singled out as a target for their theatrics.  Mid song I would find myself the focus of some deranged individual who was standing over me and verbalizing incoherent babble. It eventually became such a nuisance that had to recruit a bodyguard from among the local, street level tough guys.  His name was Simmo and he was one of the most fearsome looking blokes in town.  Whenever he was around the fruitloops kept their distance and I got to sing without any hindrance.

                                                                                                                          

                                       Hus pulling me and my busking rig. (Super dog)

There’s a healthy busking community in Katoomba who fill every available doorway as they compete for contributions.  At times when I arrived in the carpark I had to wait around while another performer finished their shift. On one such occasion I was being sent to sleep by a violin player when a professional looking photographer arrived on the scene and set up his equipment.  He took countless shots of the violin player and then he came over to talk to me.  His name I found out was Peter Adams and he was documenting the mountain buskers for a book he was compiling called ‘The Streetwise’.  I claimed the space where the violin player had been working and Peter merrily snapped away as I went through my sets.  A few days later Peter picked Husky and I up and we were taken to his very luxurious home studio for more shots and an interview about my life as a street performer.  When the last of the photographic sessions were done Peter presented me with a CD containing all of the best shots and they still remain a treasured reminder of my time on the alpine slopes.  It was a cool scene to be part of but the chronic pain in my lower back was telling me I had to get out of the mountains and return to the coastal flatlands. As well as being my most regular weed suppliers Jonno and Meredith had also become trusted friends.  Their flat was in an area nicknamed the Redfern of Katoomba and it was the most frequented hangout of street level operators like myself.  Even if I didn’t need to score I used to go there just to drink and talk with the local maniacs and misfits. It was a rich and exhilarating scene that I was familiar with from times passed. At one of the daylong bong sessions in Little Redfern I got yakking with a bloke called Dazza who did removals on the side.  He was a highly strung extrovert like everyone else there and it wasn’t easy to pin him down to specific details.  Amid the din of the household and endless distractions to our conversation I managed to extract a quote for two hundred bucks for my next move.  Dazza said it would cost that much because he had to tow the trailer with a gas guzzling V8 engine.  All going well the fee he had requested would see me out of the mountains and relocated to Manly on Sydney’s northern beaches so I had to agree to his exorbitant terms.