All in the Mind

Many years ago I used to experiment with the flow of words, writing in time and rhythm to various genres of music.
Today I’m experimenting with writing in the flow of early morning Sydney whilst telling a tale of a minor Hobart adventure.
I’m sitting on the balcony of an old colonial house, in the monied suburb of Double Bay.
Smoking my roll up whilst recovering from eight days of sleeping on floors of Hobart and surrounds, buzzing off history and land, talking to people and hearing stories and tales and experiences and feeling a creative buzz that I haven’t experienced in way too long.
Sydney buzzes but in a mannered, and wealthy way. Hobart has the edge and vigour of a rough hewn beast ready to stretch its legs and show off its strange pelt to the world.
I finally got around to signing onto Airbnb and booked a room in a gully region about an hour from Hobart.
The place looked mad and wonderful. Isolated and built of recycled materials by the owner, it looked to be the work of a savant antique dealer with environmental ethics.
As we drove down increasingly narrow, winding stone covered roads with no sign of habitation, myself and my companions made the odd quip about serial killers- in jest, but not completely.
We arrived at an amazing compound on the mountain top, and a vaguely anxious and awkward looking host with his arms tightly wrapped around himself, his dog bouncing around his ankles.
He showed us his creative building work, and we chose to ignore the gravestone in his back yard (as I have grave markers in my own garden I thought it would be churlish and hypocritical to judge) and the fact he had obviously had some serious head surgery at some point that had left deep scarring around the base of his cranium.
Our hut was some distance from his house, no lock, but hey- we’re all friends right?
We went for a wander down the gully and came back to a note in our hut, saying if we wanted to use the spa in his house, we were welcome.
The thing is, nothing happened. We sat on the balcony watched the sunset blurring into a beautiful night. We fed the wallabies and pademelons that surrounded the hut, walked the gulley and river bed, drew creative and crazed visions of the personality of the lands owner, and laughed and drank and ate and laughed even more.
It was a risk and an adventure. The experience buzzed our synapses to create scenarios and landscapes that only existed in our imaginations…and that was enough.
The next morning we took our leave of our host who was now wearing a jaunty red beret. We ignored the goats leg lying near his back door, and went to explore the deserted lunatic asylum that was half an hours drive away.image


About charlottejane2002

Author of 'P is for Prostitution', 'The Bloody Sacrifice' and co-editor of 'A Contemporary Western Book of the Dead' which are all published by Mandrake of Oxford. Italian publisher Roberto Migliussi has recently released 'The Sky is a Gateway, Not a Ceiling', a book of Charlotte's collected essays printed alongside images of his own art work. Charlotte is also an artist who creates spiritually directed art works from road kill and found objects. She has had her written work printed in anthologies and various magazines and on line publications and has given presentations at many events and institutions including Edinburgh University and Brooklyn's 'Museum of Morbid Anatomy'. Her art work has been exhibited widely including at London's Chelsea Gallery and The Bath Royal Literary and Scientific Institute, and is soon to be shown in New York.
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