I found myself in Byron again on the weekend. I went for three days and stayed for a week.
My feet lagged slightly behind my body, heavy with the build up of dirt and water on my badly designed shoes, eyes peeled in the darkness, a twitch of panic in my stomach, searching for the back of a head I had just lost sight of in the 40 000 thick crowd carrying me.
Splendour in the Grass was ridiculous.
In the end I didn’t even care about the grindy echoes of Tame Impala or too much gangsta for one man to handle of Earl Sweatshirt. I couldn’t stop watching the people, what they were there for. What their approach was.
The Amish guys in their top hats, accidental trend.
The chicks in their festival specific high wasted shorts, too short for their ass cheeks and definitely too short for the weather.
The woolen jumper wearers and those with the gumboots fresh out of feeding the pigs.
I ended up bailing into the night, after two days in festival grounds with no ticket and a really sore pair of butt cheeks from climbing hills in the mud.
I bailed to Broken Head to hang in the afternoon sun, eat homemade Mexican and surf a shitty beachbreak, against the warnings from the police of a five metre Great White in the area. I was lost in the vortex.
A time warp of retro clothes, Ziggy Alberts and sipping long blacks with high population of long hair and beards at The Top Shop.I nearly didn’t come back.
To the city and its millions of people in a hurry.There’s a part of me that can’t stop working. Being a word nerd.
There’s also a part of me that is on permanent holiday. These two parts get into some serious fights now and again.