A washout. Overexposed wasteland blues.
Where days drop like flies and the months march by.
I got rolls of film in my pocket and i’ll expose the lot.
And dip into my savings for the scans.
Summers here, Spring is but a turn in the winds. And bindies in my heel.
This time of year is crap. All heat and sea-spray. Though the light starts to linger a bit longer.
So you gotta carpe diem and all that comes with it.
Something in me feels that day siezin’ ain’t what it was once for me. A trip to the beach and a beer in the shade mightn’t be what some might think of as grabbing life by the throat.
A town covered in grey. Granite paved streets without a soul on them. We walked in the cold rain to find a drink and a feed.
Most kitchens weren’t open till 6pm and it had only just struck four. So we went for a crawl about town. Our old motel had the cheapest piss and a fireplace. Good music and a large smoking area. No food though. So we made a move to a place up the road. The one not recommended by the bar staff.
When you’re fairly cut and step into a bikie den, most times its a good idea to have your drink and move along. But we had our meals, a few more beers and shared a few lingering stares with rough heads in leather vests.
We went back to the Hotel Motel and I drank 4 buck schooners of Coopers until I was out of coins. A piss-head approached me at the urinal.
“You with the Girraween Times mate?”
He was getting close. I would be pissing on his leg soon.
“Seen you been taking photos around town with a fancy camera. What for?”
‘Just like taking photos, out here hiking mate. Camera ain’t fancy, just old’ I shrugged
And he left me to finish up at that, with a nod and a stumble backwards out the door.
Got up the next morning for a hike and it was very pretty. The skies cleared. The roos came out and the sun shone on massive mounds of granite sticking out of the bush.
It stunk out. A stiff northerly kicked up a dust devil as I stepped out of the car and walked to the drive thru bottle-o. Grit’s whipped into my eyes. They weep as I’m peeling the shirt off my back, I step into the cool room and quickly find the cheapest slab pale ale.
“Cheer up mate, cant be that bad” the bald mad with stubby digits says to the chuckle of a small crowd of local boozers queuing up at the counter.
Back in the lot. Looks like a wreckers backyard. Cars parked haphazardly wherever they’ll fit across the potholed mosaic of asphalt and broken glass. Its always been like this since I’ve known it.
But it wont be forever. No.
A passing glance reveals a wee tsunami of gentrification washing through the streets of old Palmy. Shiny white Cafes, Hip restaurants, boutique shops and trendy barbers. A dozen or so popping up in the last year. The pissheads with the blistered coupons wont be chuckling when they cant afford the rent anymore.
The slabs in the boot. I spark up and sink back into the cab.
Suns getting low.
Lighting up the faded pastels of the highway motels real nicely.
Lights go red.
Lights go green.
Lights go red.
Traffic backs up and we all crawl along in this beautiful stinking postcard afternoon together.
There’s chocolate on my keyboard. Been spending more time watching movies and television on it than anything else. Been getting some bad habits from this sedentary life.
Last week I slammed my head on a quarter-pipe and probably needed a stitch or two but my medicare had expired. So I got a few longnecks and some KFC. Cleaned the cut with those moist towelettes on the drive home.
Thats my exciting story of the past week. That, and I ate 5 whoppers in 5 days.
Would have been a fine thing. To get a shot of me face as I watched my old friend shattering on the roadside.
It hung in for a few k’s. I heard a bump and a rattle as I pulled into the bottle-shop but wrote it off as a tick of the car. Maybe the suspension was shot. I was heading back to camp along a dry wooded backroad. Fast. When I caught a glimpse of something black spinning through the air. The light catching it.
I thought I’d hit a crow. It’s greasy feathers shimmerin in the light. But nah. When it collided with the tar for a second time familiar parts flew from it.
Lens cap. Lens Hood. Battery. Flip out screen.
I found them all scattered in a line when I got back to the scene. I followed and collected the fragments that led to the brush. Tramping through the long grass in arcs I finally found it. 20 meters from the road. The Camera body. Lens covered in dirt. Cracks on the body. The rear menu screen was a flip out. Shattered now. The back casing had flown off onto the road.
I turned it on and took a shot.
It still focussed. It still seemed to go.
So I got back to camp, drank my drinks and went walking. Taking pics with the cam. Not sure how they would go.
Far up the beach was a man too well dressed to be on the beach reading a book. I talked shit to him for a while and really tested his geniality. He’d come so far out of his way for solitude to have a pished blood-eyed cankersore of a man poring all over his cool Russian literature and snapping photos of him with a busted ass camera to boot.
Upswing: The camera still goes after all the shit I’ve put it though. Man. The Nikon D5100 is a tough SOB. Totally obsolete tech but still. Tough. And still takes a nice pic if you’re in the right space, at the right time, 95% of the time. Isn’t that the game we play people! Right right right?