xx
Splendour in the Grass, my first weekend back in Byron in August.
Just another day at the pass.
Field Picnic funtimes! Loveliest Ladies in the world.
Byron's weekly farmers market.
Halloween!!!!!! bzzzzzzzzzz....
Jim's Alternative Tour takes a pit stop at Minyon Falls
Roman visits: we have fun.
Listening to my intuition is a skill I’m finally learning and reacting to it requires a certain amount of selfish conviction that doesn’t come naturally to me. Since leaving Asia and the shroud of kindness that is wrapped around you by the beautiful people who live there, my soul has been longing for love and friendship. Stubbornly I refused to yield to these desires and shut them away. I regarded them as a weakness and insecurity and didn’t want them to dictate the path I chose to follow. Slowly I came to realize that neglecting myself in this way would only compound the problem, and if I am to continue to travel and follow my dreams I must take care of myself in every way.
At the Arts Factory I had found a calm bay in which I could weather the storm of emotions I was feeling. I found smiles, compassion and a loving atmosphere quite unlike anywhere I had ever been. My confused heart was distracted and I began to rebuild.
I fight to push my arm through the hole designed for my face as the alarm lady informs me of the time. Trapped inside I jerk my body across the tent and with a single finger I manage to prod the button which brings silence again.
Some successful sun reaches me through the canopy and the only sounds are those that come from the birds. Splendid relentless repetitive noise, I’m curious to know if they ever hyperventilate – perhaps that’s why they make so much effort, not a communication thing at all, but a way to get high?
My work boots weave about the guys and pegs, my hat ducks and bobs among the rope and tarp and I negotiate my path through the shanty jungle village to the mainland. This is my favorite time of day, its where I find my solitude. I cherish the silence. I watch the Water Dragons absorbing patches of morning heat and Bush Turkeys chasing each other about the lakeside. I see blue sky behind the montage of green leaves and conclude it too early for a breeze. I’m still staggered by how much rain we get here and this fine morning comes as a splendid holiday from the tropical wet. I hope it lasts long enough to dry the damp smell from our tents.
Positioning myself in full sunlight I eat cornflakes and banana at a table on the balcony. It’s Monday. I remember the weekend and piece each fragment together, enjoying the memories and deciding to stay until Christmas. Halloween, five weeks into my life at the factory was the first time I had been drunk here, and I consider if drinking together builds bonds between people that can’t be built sober? Instilling a sense of comradary? If this is true, perhaps I should drink more?
Byron’s monthly market never fails to impress me, I always find something new, be it food or jewelry or music, and luckily for me it only happens once a month because any more frequent and I could kiss my savings goodbye in favor of a big belly and multicoloured wardrobe.
Exactly this time last year, at the beginning of my journey I was here with my Mother, Lucie and Daryl, visiting Charlie and Shaun; our first taste of Byron. Feeling nostalgic I sit and watch a band called Oka. The reminiscence I’m lost in floods me with emotion and a tear falls onto the grass. Memories arrive of the last time I saw them, like a slideshow one after another, after another, and I try to land in them, be there again. More visions arrive, of friends of weddings, of other brief moments and before I know it I’m hugging the tent-pole like a lost child. Out come the accumulated pain and frustration, angst and worry, sorrow and loneliness. I’ve not cried like this for two and a half years and it feels so good; purging and cleansing. I feel a hand on my shoulder reach up and hold it there. It seems my sobbing has been shaking the whole tent and has not been as discrete as I was hoping. It is quintessentially Byron to have a stranger hold your hand as you cry. I half expected the arm to reach over and hug me, but it didn’t.
Walking home with a wonderfully clear head, I consider why crying is viewed as such a weakness when it seems to have the most amazing healing properties. By the time I reach reception I feel like a new man, well my old self again, at least, and begin looking for some fellow lunatics.
The Beach Hotel is full of Friends and we dominate the floor as if the show is especially for us. Grants dancing wins him a kiss with Lisa Hunt and a strained back and everyone loves him for his barmyness. Our collective eventually dissipates and some of us guiltily patronize Dominoes for $4 pizza, before ambling back for a chat and a smoke.
I check my watch and discover I am, as usual, late. My boss is weak and fond of sulking and especially dislikes my punctuality. I try to win his mood with a massive smile and a cheery greeting. Today’s task, as was yesterdays, and probably tomorrows is moving heavy objects from one side of the building site to the other. I feel grossly over-qualified and as I begin the menial job my eyes must turn glassy as I drift and fade from real life, losing myself in daydreams, ambitions and memories.
Into my left ear, a famous Dylan rift, and as I journey through the campsite more music welcomes me home; drums, percussion, and more guitars. I can feel the nervous excitement in the air, tonight is the most important night of the week for some, perhaps even the main reason some stay? Mara arrives at my tent and plays a couple songs she has in mind, then bounces off to find wine. I just sit, in my recycled lounge-shack, enjoying the atmosphere, loving my life and appreciating how happy I am here.
I feel nervous as I find a patch of blanket to sit on. I don’t know why I’m nervous, I just am, and as we pass beers and joints the atmosphere finds its own unique and loopy medium. It must be so difficult to remain composed in front of this many eyes. I imagine myself under those lights and wish I had something to offer. I feel that squeeze in my stomach the rises to my throat, just thinking about being there ruins me, there must be 300 people watching?
Every Act is outstanding and I feel proud of my friends. We all dance to Cockatoo Paul as he wraps up his show and the short term visitors look bewildered by our zeal. The atmosphere relaxes and the evening is underway. Now I have to decide how functional I want to be at work tomorrow, because there ain’t no turning back… I feel old as I pause to consider the repercussions and laugh at myself for being so easily persuaded, what harm would one more do?
I live with a lovely community at the Arts Factory and plan to stay here until after Christmas, when which, there is only one other place in the world I would rather be – Cold rainy beautiful and homely Devon. But not this year. Between New Year and April I am still undecided but it will depend on how much money I have saved. My future travels require an obscene amount of money, all of which needs to be earned.
- Ben Bushell, Byron Bay, December 2008
We cross the bridge into NYC at 5pm. The city looms as we approach, and the drive thru is an odd experience of finally seeing in person the urban landscape so familiar to me already through pop culture. Wide, car-filled streets with tall buildings and packed sidewalks. Lovely building facades with fire escapes unceremoniously tacked on top. Occasional square of greenspace overflowing with active New Yorkers of all ages enjoying the sun, heat, and company. A few minutes later in central Manhattan we are greeted by a friendly woman named Ximena whose apartment we are renting for three days. As she 'gives us the tour', she serves us homemade lemonade and then takes us up to a rooftop party with an incredible view of the city skyline. That evening we dine at Schiller's where I gorge on a delicious cuban sandwich and marvel at the lettering (numbering?) on the bottles that line the wall. We then drive over to brooklyn and spend the night getting strikes & gutterballs at "The Gutter", a great bowling alley with good beer, 70s furniture and a cozy bar. We cap off the night back in Manhattan with some typical new york pizza, and discuss how post-drinking eateries seem to be a great equalizer, bringing all kinds of people together at the end of the night, united by their love of greasy hangover-preventing snacks, sitting elbow to elbow devouring different-but-similar slices of pizza.
Sunday we get up less-than-bright-and-early for an eagerly awaited brunch/lunch at Cafe Habana on Prince Street. The food is great, the highlight being the Grilled Cornonthecob covered with Queso Blanco, chili powder and lime. We think we see Perez Hilton, but are disappointed a quick blackberry-internet-picture-check later. After a wander through the designer markets and a subway trip, we find ourselves basking in the sun with about 1000 other sunbathers in central park, in 'sheep field'. We then groggily stroll over to the MOMA where we finish the days activities off with a rushed-1h-before-closing survey of art and design from 1870-1940. Seeing Les Desmoiselles D'Avignon in person is pretty overwhelming! I take in 1940-present in about 5 minutes as the guards corral us towards down-only-escalators 5 minutes before closing. Tired, we head back to the apartment, making a quick stop at Wholefoods for some hor d'oeuvres and a bottle of Rose which we happily devour back on the rooftop, watching a pale pink sun set over the NYC skyline. Dinner is Indian, drinks are at a half empty club, and the night finishes happily with cider and lemondrop shots on yet another improvised rooftop terrace (read: kitchen chairs on tarpaper) this time in Brooklyn. We get to bed around 4, simultaneously excited for and dreading another full day in NY.
Not surprisingly, monday sees us rising late, and we don't make it out till at least 11. We basically spend the afternoon doing lots of rushed shopping, including gawking at haute couture and anticipating celebrity spottings in SOHO. (no dice.) Another rushed museum visit, the Guggenheim this time, is discussed, but rejected thanks to everyone's mutual need to retreat to the apartment for a nap! A few hours later, we are off to see Ricky Gervais do a standup act at Madison Square Gardens. The spectacle is exciting, the act is hilarious, only slightly marred for me by the fact that i've seen about 70% of the show already on DVD a week earlier. But this allows me to discover first-hand how excellent an actor Gervais is, with his rehearsed-but-convincingly-spontaneous style. We take in Times Square, a spectacle best seen at night to be sure. I wind my way through crowds perched on the curb watching baseball on a screen overhead, passionate couples arguing loudly, long lines of caricaturists with thier prey, and other tourists like myself tripping over each other as we look nowhere but up and/or through our cameras. To finish off the night, we head to Jamon for some lovely Rioja and tasty Spanish tapas. The quail en escabeche disappears much too quickly, as does the pickled sardines and the freshly cut serrano ham. Inspired, I vow to actively embark on an education in wine appreciation. About 7 years too late, but better late than never.
I'm excited to go back, but I'll admit that my excitement is heavily overshadowed at the moment by the contentment I feel being back in Montreal. The city is alive, humming with the movement of people who are trying to make the most of these warm summer days before winter threatens us with its gaunt, autumn-colored fingers. So many old friendships in need of re-cementing, new friendships to hurriedly make a foundation for before I leave. So, dare I say it, I feel sad to leave Montreal. Sad to the point of fantasizing about staying a bit longer... I know what that would mean, tho. It starts with a Job, followed up by an apartment, then suddenly it feels *impossible* to leave again. At the moment I have the benefit of a very temporary living situation to help me stay focused (I'm unemployed and sleeping on a foam mattress on the floor at my sister's apartment - it has smurf sheets for heavens sake. Ok, maybe that's a perk...)
One of the exciting things about being back in Montreal was rediscovering the city i've known for so long, the city that is a part of me to the point of becoming invisible. It was invisible. When I lived there, the city was a totally ubiquitous part of my daily life. But now it suddenly exists again, and I'm dying to consciously rediscover my favorite parts of Montreal, so I can share them with others and appreciate them more fully. But to be honest, I'm beginning to think it's naive to believe you can ever see with any distance or impartiality anything you are/were once so close to. Maybe you can suspend partiality, as you 'suspend disbelief' when you watch a movie, but it's still a different creature from having fresh, naive eyes.
Since I had some free time on my hands, I decided to volunteer with the Montreal Fringe Festival a little bit, which was alot of fun, and I highly recommend it to anyone. I mostly worked the beer tent, which is a great job; it lets you socialize with guests and other volunteers and watch performances while you work. Being involved in the fringe reminded me of being at the Arts Factory a bit; it's a condensed, brief, emotionally intense experience of meeting people, forming bonds, some of which you know wont last past the fest, but you can pretend nonetheless.... And then some will, and you will be pleasantly surprised. I saw a few shows, including Degrassi! The Musical, which was a fun reminder of all the things I loved about that show, and Blastback Babyzap - a great sketchcomedy show from some truly brilliant actors. Ok, I may know these guys personally. But hear my honest, unbiased review: it rocked.
Terrifying thing #2 - I performed in the hostel's weekly talent show! Me and another guest named Phil cracked out a version of Joni Mitchell's "Case of you" about two hours before the show started. Neither of us have really performed in front of people before (I maintain that Karaoke doesn't count...) Performing was so much fun, I think I'm a tad addicted to it now, I just might do something next week!!
Since I've spent so much time here in Byron, I decided to start doing a little work-for-accomodation in the form of driving the hostel's nightly shuttle bus. It brings guests into town, and runs every 7 minutes till 4am. The motivation in offering this service, however, has much more to do with reducing complaints from the neighbors about loud, drunken backpackers roaming their streets at 3am, rather than some well thought out business strategy. Of all the accom work, this job is considered one of the best, since you only do it twice a week ( 2 x 6h shift) and it doesn't really take up much usable time (10pm- 4am.) Plus, how many jobs let you crank out your own tunes, mock your 'clients', and have a friend sit with you as you work? I've even taken to photographing people as they stream thru my litte bus-world, helps the time pass, provides some really interesting souvenirs of this job... And a final perk of the job: the snacks I get given from stoners doing 'pie runs' in the middle of the night (aka nipping into town to the all-night bakery for some munchie-induced snacking) I'd have to give the rum ball and hedgehog two thumbs up, and the asperagus-corn-cheese pie is NOT to be missed! .
Which brings me to terrifying thing #3: I have learned to drive a manual! I kid you not, people, it has actually happened. Opportunity presented itself when the automatic bus almost ran out of fuel one night and resulted in a friend offering to teach me on his own van. (he's crazy, I know.) And I'm not kidding when I call this one terrifying: my first reaction was to run screaming. I had a hard enough time learning how to drive in the first place when I was 19; somehow I managed to make turning corners into a huge feat. BUT, a 2 hour lesson later i had almost mastered hill-starts, and then drove the manual bus that night for my 6 hour shift, almost without incident. I only stalled, hmm... 10 times maybe? And almost NO bunny hops. Ok, a few. many. shut up. At least I learned!!
The surf goes on, though my body is giving out bit by bit. Or at least it was until I discovered that occasional breaks from surfing, or a one-on-one-off schedule are more suitable for my extremely out of shape and unathletic self. My surf-induced cuts and grazes have been saved from becoming sea ulcers thanks to some self-maintenance-education from local surfers and chemists. But hey, i've graduated off the softboards, also know as 'boats', and my paddling is improving a hell of alot, so I'm pretty fuckin' happy!
hugs and kisses to all of you from byron, missing you lots.
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