Too many months have passed without self-indulgent writing, with no wordy rambling save skinny scratchings in a work-related notebook and the occasional sentence plugged into my phone’s orangey notes.
Someone has left a whole watermelon on my doorstep.
The eyes have been scratched out of a massive poster of Wil Anderson up the road. He looks more interesting, satanic.
My beloved rooster is yet to crow and give the whole game up.
Yesterday, we took the boys to Sea World. There were many tattoos. We left at closing time. The nearly empty carpark suffered random discards: bags and containers stealthed down between parked cars guiltily revealed when their cover drove off. In a straight line to our car, I passed two dirty disposable nappies. People suck.
We had stayed at Greenmount, which was a younger sample of the weekend’s generally vintage vibe. I want to save every last faded one of the southern Gold Coast beauties: the random terrazzo floors, proud little skillion roofs, all the asbestos-clad modesty.
Those beaches of the GC’s cooler lower reaches are stunning, and the high-rises grotesque alongside.
Whenever I look north across the sweeping bays towards the silhouetted geometric outline that spreads from north of Surfers Paradise to (where? Broadbeach? or would it have sprawled down to Nobby’s by now?), I can’t help imagining it a smoking ruin. The ocean, sparkling and alive, in front of apocalyptic desolation. An annihilated future.
I must go. Work demands attention, and I also must find out what sort of bird made the nest that landed on the driveway last week.