It's December 7th, and I've been back here in oz for a full 4 months. I've been putting off updating this gosh darned thing largely because the more time passed, the greater a feat updating you all on my life seemed. An impossibly large task in fact. Where to start?! And how could I ever communicate to you all the joys of the tiny moments that fill my days here in Byron, that make this experience a whole that is greater than the sum of its parts?
This past Monday at our weekly talent show, the solution to my procrastination fell into my lap when a good friend of mine, Ben, did a prose reading. What he wrote touched me so much, as it so beautifully and succinctly expresses everything I would have tried to tell you about what it has been like to live here at the Arts Factory, and in Byron Bay. So you have my apologies for not providing my own version, but I'm thrilled to be able to share what he wrote with you all. I'll fill in my own details in entries to come.
lots of love and hugs,
claire
ps, many thanks to Ben for allowing me to mooch off his much time invested in writing this.
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
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