Here and now, a deer disappears over the distant mound. Three ducks peacefully paddle, winding their way ahead of the flowing waterfall gently calling me towards the steep terrain of my nightmares.
It’s a rhythm one could argue is difficult to not slow dance to and, in the sun and in love, I lifted her hand into mine and we danced together.
This being a prog show, there are very few young people, and only a handful of young women. Luckily, there’s a young couple sitting next to me, so I don’t feel too out of place.
Throwing protocol to the wind I even joined the exhibitionists in standing and swaying in something akin to dancing.
I’ve been in the emergency psych ward for about 24 hours. There’s not much to do besides talking to other patients, and I’m feeling restless. I have three songs from Wave, the latest Patrick Watson album.
I worried the distance would be a death sentence as I found myself alone in my best friend’s mostly empty new living room, 1681 miles from any possibility of weeknight concerts, impromptu G&Ts and sushi, Galentine’s Day, movie marathons, holiday gatherings, city adventures, beach birthdays, and drop-everything post-tragedy afternoons of comfort TV.
The celebrant spoke, but I didn’t hear a word. I fell into a trance, absorbing every once-in-a-lifetime second.
A piano is broken. Burnt, seemingly. A harp is stranded, unplayable. Chairs in a once lavish dining room are rotting.
Bendigo, May 2021 I fidget in my seat here in the middle of the second row of an intimate theatre in my birthplace of Bendigo. I am here to see a local theatre company stage ten ten-minute plays, including one I wrote. I am here with my immediate family, including my [...]
A rollercoaster through yourself. The rain monotonously pounds on the floor-to-ceiling window, obscuring the twinkling lights of the city. Murmurs disperse across the room...