And the clock strikes eleven…

National Young Writers Festival 2010

I tend to assume that I’m lost. Basically because it saves time. Also the sense of achievement that I get arriving at my destination is increased exponentially by the assumption that I’m unlikely to get there at all. Upon leaving McDonalds yesterday evening the first thing I did was turn the wrong way. I have a gift. I end up outside a church which two nice Catholic ladies tell me is called “The Sacred Heart.” I figure, at least, I’m unlikely to get raped and murdered outside a church. I call a taxi to take me back to the Backpackers which is now a very long way away.
I eat a microwaved tub of pasta as I walk back along Hunter St. I arrive at the festival club to find it sparsely populated. I was told this was the place to be. I find the only person in the room I recognise (Zora/Zoe) and attach myself to her circle. Over the next hour or so I manage to meet one of my room mates, talk television with people whose names I can’t remember and acquire a party hat.

I follow the crew from Farrago across the road the Staple Manor. There’s an exhibition of cover art from student magazines. I sit in the circle of editors and designs and affiliated people and catch a glimpse into a fascinating world I know nothing about. We’re kicked out at 10pm when the public liability insurance expires.
Standing on the corner outside someone decides we should go in search of something else to do. We walk in a sprawling gaggle down King St toward “the penis thing.” Some drunken locals holler at us and a man screams like a banshee into the open window of a parked van.
The Penis thing turns out to be a poetry slam. Its while listening to a poem about pickles and lobotomy that I realise I’ve been awake for almost 20 hours. I’m distracted from this fact by an amusing guy with a clarinet.

The group wanders beach-ward discovering in the process that contrary to conversation earlier in the evening my backpackers in actually on the way to the Farrago unit. Which is good to know, because wandering in the dark is more fun with company.

Further reading

December – home

I spent the first minutes of 2018 on the beach. I’ve never actually spent New Year