HERVEY BAY

I wish that we’d had more time in Noosa.

And Brisbane.

We’re in Hervey Bay now. I’m walking along the shore. There is a café and I’m thirsty. I step inside, barefoot and shirtless.

The atmosphere is dim and low, with plush, red velvet couches and crystal curtains—they offer free wifi, but only if you buy the FOOD—I want a drink, naturally.

Ordinarily I would walk out.

This time I didn’t.

I give my order to the longneck kid behind the counter—a smug bastard, trying desperately to look hip with his plaid shirt and loose tie.

A few minutes later he dropped the Ginger, Mint and Pineapple smoothie on my table and waddled off. Maroon 5 is playing on the speakers—It’s Not Over Tonight—and there’s a group of cuties munching sushi across from me, giggling.

I’ve been working on a story called Plastic—also, a story called Control and a story called Dwight. I open my laptop to write, but nothing happens.

I write this instead.

Later on I’m walking along the shore, at one with the world and the waves and the sand that sifts, softly, between my toes. Sun on my back. I end up on the beach for awhile and read a bit.

That night I enjoyed the company of three German guys and a Dutch girl. It was like the good old days—the Auckland days—beer sharing and life thinking, discussion and substance, seated around a picnic table after dark.

Great guys, great gal, great day, great night, great life—live it, ya dig?