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.
He is the magpie, the bowerbird, the blue jay. Bob Dylan collects words. He rephrases his music again and again.
I was pleasantly surprised that the family recognised the importance of Countdown, setting up a tray in the loungeroom so I could totally absorb what everyone would be talking about in the next few days.
As the band was setting up, Johnny’s manager arrived and, handing out sheet music and a running list, said there would be no rehearsals or sound check.
We crossed the border this morning. Six hundred miles. Sorry. Six hundred stories. No-one there to check our licence, registration.
Three short, playful poems. Marriage, Elvis, Lennon and McCartney.
We play a lot of good music, drink far too much, eat fabulously. Most of all we keep stoking the fire to keep the old house warm and our friendship ablaze. A good red helps with that.
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 [...]
I could see the bright lights of the Barracuda Fish and Chip Shop as a cheery spot in front of me. The door opened; smell and music spilled out. Fish and chips and doner kebabs and Build me Up Buttercup with all its warm yellowness. I sang along. I would be home soon.