Archive for the ‘138 Station St’ Category

J stays with Paul K

For summer work in the city

Transitioning school to university.

They share a Mosman top floor.

Windows surround spacious room

Where we lazily lounge

Harbour breeze blows through,

Fresh chilled watermelon,

Voice of Baez, pure crystal chimes.

Combination perfect (if transient).

While, out west …

Summer winds burn.





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Skis strapped, boat pulls Paul*

He glides the water, two circuits, home.

Speeding towards “home beach”,

Sudden turn whips skier’s speed,

To reach shore unpowered.

Is he going too fast?

Shore looms.

Drop! Paul! Fall!


Hits beach – speeding.

Skis stop.

Paul continues – momentarily upright, running,

Finally tumbling into campfire.



* Paul Smith again – previously makeshift surgeon and advisor on the medicinal properties of plants. This was on the family holiday at the Gold Coast … the journey their is told in Short Memories #307 – #311.



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The old Stafford Street house.

Victorian architecture.

Decades uninhabited, untended.

Appearance supports haunted reputation

Perfect for late night entertainment.

Ouija Board underarm, we enter.

Living (“living dead?”) room.

Circle forms,

Fingertips lightly touch planchette.

Incantation (from someone).

A rattle, pointer moves, … everything moves.


We run, whipping up fear & laughter.



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In Kingswood, a random walk

Strolling along the fence-side of someone’s home

A double-take at flowers

Hanging droopily over the fence.

Something I’d heard about,

And Paul S. identifies.

Angel's Trumpet

Angel’s Trumpet


Angel’s Trumpet.

We pick flowers & taste nature’s way.

A mild effect.

Our posy, low in potency.*

Angels protecting us … once again!


* Apparently the toxicity of the Angel’s Trumpet varies dramatically according to a number of factors. It has been known to kill, and certainly cause severe illness. Selection & preparation requires the experience of a medicine man.





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At home, late, after earlier partying

Wanting to extend

At lower volume, lower energy.

Lounge in black leather, swivel chairs

Vodka & orange refreshing.

Acoustic music, volume down.

In tones echoing wisdom,

The soft voices of sages,

Ruminate on reality, relativity,

And the beauty, truth, love & misery

Of acoustic blues.


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Worrying witnesses of

“Tell-tale signs”

Girlfriend’s parents

Intercept revealing correspondence.

Rosie McCann

Whisked away to Hervey Bay

By swooping mother.

Facing parental guilt & inquisition.

Where did we go wrong? Why?

Avoiding frivolous reasoning

I, falsely, invoke emptiness,

Instead of experimental fun & indulgence,

As driver of our chemical diversions.



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Trudging along in northern heat

Amidst beautiful landscape, lush & green,

We are scorched

Our throats are parched,

Cars are sparse.

A verdant Sahara.

Between Ballina & Bangalow – fertile grounds, cars sparse, throats parched.

Farmhouse beckons, mirage-like.

Roadside abandoned, homestead approached

Reticent – redneck experience unnerving.

Please, can we get some water.

Country kindness (and icy cold juice)

Slakes our thirst.

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Traffic streams north,

Almost a jam.

Car veers sharply

Suddenly brakes.

Our lift?

We jump in.

Wheels spin, back into traffic.

Shirtless driver speaks – drawls

Between swigs

Flagon between thighs.

Offered, declined.

Turns right – sideroad east.

Uh Oh!


Stunned, fearful silence lasts 500m.

Shout: “Wrong way!”

“Sorry boys, clean forgot about yas.”

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Driver drops us

At Evans Head turn-off.

Last sunrays fire the sky.

Our thumbs out & hopes up.

… momentarily.

Start a roadside campfire

For light & warmth.

On the banks of the Richmond River at Woodburn, we set up “camp”.

Greg opens his bag,

Pyjamas!! – crispy freshly pressed & folded.

Toothbrush, toothpaste.

Methodically, meticulously, prepares for bed.*

Speechless (and pyjama-less),

I keep trying for a lift.


* While this came as a surprise at the time, it should not have – Greg Totman is one of the nicest blokes you could meet, and one of the most fastidious. Well, I have not seen him in decades, so he may not be either of those now – but I suspect he retains both these qualities.

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Late afternoon, shadows extend

Day darkening quickly.

Greg and I on roadside

Finger calmly points our destination &

Pleads for a ride.

Frustration & imminent night

Suspends sense. Raises suspense.

Roadside “hikers’ point” morphs into

Road centre distressed desparate’s dance.

Flailing arms, jumping & shouting.


Crazy long-hairs – who’ll stop??

Then … someone did!!


* This Short Memory is connected to yesterdays … up until this moment, our journey had been uneventful.

** Modern Txt Language, unavailable back in the day, is great for a 50 word limitation.

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