I awoke today as they made way for a decent view of another mountain.
An extraneous, under-fruiting mango tree was lopped in favour of the outlook, with a softly-spoken electric chainsaw.
The light is disappearing now and so is the newly visible peak, a perfect meringue in the distance.
The nearer peak follows you around the hinterland like the Mona Lisa.
I have a great great uncle who was a hermit. My grandfather and his father used to ride bikes from Newcastle to visit him. We have a photo of his grass hut, ironically located a stone’s throw from where his nephew would retire, decades later. It looks like a fiction, a wannabe design concept for a film probably starring Tom Hanks.
As kids, my cousins and I used to play in the surf, within what would have been spitting distance from his “secluded” hovel.
I wonder what happened to him.
The darkened mountainside is twinkling with headlights. There’s a bird who just won’t quit, night and day she wails. Sings? No, wails.
And I keep moving belongings from one side of a table to another, to a bedside, to the verandah, to my pocket, I just can’t get more outtatheway.
Get off the road, you drongo!
Hugging the side of the mountain like life itself as I wind on down to the ocean in the Corolla, getting myself out of the way like great, Great Uncle So-and-So, right on in where the forest meets the sea.
I quietly deposit myself into the ocean, I am a self-burping baby. It’s a relief.
We all have instruments of self-pacification. It’s probably good to have a varied toolkit. Not too varied, but varied enough.
I float on the surface, letting my ears fill up, for a minute.