I'd been writing to this ex-girlfriend of mine, Joss, a woman I used to go out with back in my university days and on her insistence, these letters were the old fashion kind, handwritten on bits of paper. We were just chatting at first, going back and forth, filling up each page with the minor details and daily occurrences of our lives, catching up as old friends do, until later on when things started to become more ‘intimate’. It's funny how life will take you off in all these unexpected directions. Joss and I had broken up in my last year of study, so long ago now that I can barely remember how exactly it happened. In any case, it was through these letters that we finally decided that, now that we were getting older and many of our options had dwindled, we might as well have another go at it.
The time was perfect. My first marriage had just ended last autumn for reasons I won't go into at this time and seeing as how Joss was estranged from her longtime partner, a butcher who had fulfilled his political aspirations by becoming the incompetent mayor of a small town in Queensland, it all seemed to make sense. So, after some nervous last minute assurances, I got in my car and drove up to meet Joss face-to-face for the first time is many, many years, to see if we really had something that was worth pursuing. Her property was a six-hour drive up the coast from Sydney.
As I drove, one thing troubled me. Despite all our recent in-depth communications, I still had this idealised image of Joss in my mind as the beautiful young girl she once was. Of course, I knew she wouldn't look the same, that time must have changed her but still, it was difficult to shake this image of Joss from twenty-five years ago. Understandably, we both had some baggage from our pasts but hopefully not enough to be a real hindrance to this rebooted version of our relationship. I was happy enough that she did not hold a grudge again me for the way things had ended. Looking back, what happened was, well, one morning the doorbell unexpectedly rang, distracting me from what I was doing and ultimately leading me into a series of complications which took me further and further away from my intended course. What did that French philosopher say? Life doesn't make sense as you live it, only when you look back....only then can you make sense of the days and years. The point is, in this life, you may think you are heading in one direction but watch out! Fate has a way of pulling the rug out from under your feet and you might find yourself heading along a completely different path. And as far as I am concerned, I can trace this so-called derailment back to that morning the doorbell rang. Which was followed by the fire across the street, meeting Frank De Pointing, the suitcase, the money, travelling abroad which became a career, which led to me meeting my first wife Carolyn and moving to New Zealand for a decade. Which eventually led to us returning to Sydney when my mother became ill, all the while dealing with a succession of small show dogs that Caroline and I owned together. Dogs which filled the void Caroline’s faulty reproductive system left behind. Dogs which are all dead now except for the one I still own (Johnny Walker Blue. Or J.W. Blue. Or Just JWB. Caroline insisted on naming all our dogs after top shelf alcohol products). The point is, life is a garden of forked paths and now that all these wild ramblings have run their course, I was in a much more stable frame of mind and therefore receptive to fixing some of my past mistakes.
So, long story short, Joss and I decided that I should drive up there to explore the delayed possibilities of our relationship. Like I say, it was odd because I knew almost everything about her, from all the letters and photographs we had exchanged, but I still didn't know what she would be like face-to-face. Of course, I was well aware that people change over time. To think otherwise will be foolish. I had all the current information and some old memories, but I was aware that I was missing the nuanced details which make a person complete. As such, I was filled with a nervous yet happy anticipation. And, as I drove, I tried to mentally prepare myself. I told myself that despite the cordial and intimate nature of our recent written exchanges, this would not be the same Joss I had known 20 years ago.
I arrived at Joss's property that afternoon and as she instructed, I unfastened the gate and drove through, rattling across the cattle guard in a musical cloud of dust. Joss greeted me in the driveway and after a slightly awkward peck on the cheek, we had a very pleasant meal in her kitchen. It was obvious from the start that the next couple of days were going to be both joyous and a bit awkward because there was a great deal of expectation hanging in the air. Our combined futures were at stake! Joss put me up in the spare bedroom. The room had a saggy queen-sized bed, a chair in one corner and a crappy picture on the wall of a farmhouse. There was a frilly blanket on the bed which draped to the floor and a little disposable toothbrush with a tiny, tiny tube of toothpaste in the ensuite bathroom. A perfectly adequate room by anyone's standards.
After lunch, we sat at the kitchen table and talked in great detail about our lives, filling in the remaining gaps, while getting to know each other all over again. Joss's approach to this situation was a bit more candid and practical than I had expected. To be perfectly honest with you, her attitude was a bit off-putting at first. She talked about our pending sexual union as if she were organising the breeding of two prized barnyard animals with a neighbour, a union that would be of benefit to both parties. Joss said she wanted a child before it was too late. Up until that point, I had been vaguely aware of this child situation but now, sitting in that sunny kitchen, I was dealing with the hard reality of it. I thought about the resulting lack of sleep, the crying, learning to ride a bike, the added financial demands. The belligerent teenage years. Suddenly, it all seemed quite overwhelming. The clock is running out, she said. I heard myself say something like, well....that shouldn't be a problem. We can figure something out. Good, she said, decisively slapping her denim covered thigh. My only request is we both get checked out at the doctors, she continued. I don't want any surprises. Again, if I'm being honest, I found the exchange rather brisk and joyless but I didn't say anything to this effect.
Later that afternoon we walked around the property, following the sagging fence line. Even at a casual glance, I could see that the place needed some work. We walked past a pond and through a series of paddocks bordered by semitropical foliage which seemed to pulse with unseen animal life. In the distance, I could make out scrubby foothills and the mountains beyond, distorted by the heat haze.
It got dark and after we'd eaten dinner, Joss told me she would need to go to church the following morning. She also mentioned that we could begin having sexual relations the following week, once we'd been married in 'the eyes of the lord'. She had arranged a modest ceremony. In order to comply with her faith, she had insisted that we get married before anything else happened. I didn't mind this at all. Not really. Live and let live, I thought. I think the important thing, said Joss, as she cleared away the dinner plates, is that we have a plan and that we stick to it. Agreed? I nodded. We had vanilla ice cream and rhubarb pie for dessert.
Lying there, in the guest room, enveloped by the thick silence of the surrounding countryside, I just couldn't get to sleep, such was the expectation I felt about this new phase of my life with Joss. I felt nervous, excited, scared....all of the above. Excited because I realised that I would be discovering new things about Joss along the way, things I had either completely forgotten about or minimised, such as the extent of her religious devotion. How had I forgotten about this? I seemed to recall she wore a small gold cross on a chain around her neck but I don't recall her ever going to church. But look, seriously, at the end of the day, it didn't bother me. Not in the least. And I really don't think she was troubled by the fact that I was not religious. I was interested in the idea of faith but as far as my own theoretical leanings....I was a card-carrying atheist.
In terms of taking the next practical step, all I really needed to do was quit my job back in Sydney, something that I had been wanting to do for a long time anyway, and make a decision about my apartment, whether or not I was going to sell it or sublet it. And finally, I would need to figure out what to do with Johnny Walker Blue, my last surviving show pug. I had serious doubts he would acclimate to farm life. Poor old JWB wouldn't know a brown snake from a fallen tree branch. He was a city dog through and through.
The following morning Joss was up early rattling around the house. She drove off to church, leaving a little note on the kitchen table which said, help yourself to everything. Back soon. XXX. I made coffee in a french press and ate some toast covered with butter and fresh jam. I took another look around the house, taking my time, amazed that this would be my future home. I felt like a country squire! I was just about to write out a list of things I needed do (Two neat columns on an A4 piece of paper titled short and long term goals) when Max, my neighbour from Sydney called my mobile. Max could always be counted on to look after little Johnny Walker Blue when I was out of town. Anyway, there was a problem: Johnny Walker Blue had gone missing. What do you mean missing? I said into my phone, the battery hot against my ear.
I-I-I left the door open, stammered Max, obviously distressed by his mistake, and...I don't know....he must have just....wandered off. I'm really sorry mate.
Johnny Walker Blue was old and rather stupid. My main concern was that he would wander into traffic on the main road near my apartment building. I could well imagine the screech of tyres and the thud!
After getting off the phone to Max, I tried to call Joss but she was obviously occupied with the church service so I left a short message on the kitchen table explaining what had happened. How this unforeseen emergency needed to be dealt with promptly and that I would return as soon as possible.
Without hesitation, I got in my car and headed south. I hadn't even brushed my teeth, such was my concern for Johnny Walker Blue. Once on the road, I realised that my phone was almost dead and I had forgotten my charger cable so I would need to conserve the battery just in case Max called with an update on my missing dog.
An hour later, I pulled into a small town on the side the freeway to get some petrol. This was the same idyllic town that I'd stopped at the day before, on the way up. The woman behind the counter had a tattoo of a unicorn on her inner arm and short, peroxide-blonde hair. This same woman seemed far less friendly towards me this time around, scowling and muttering under her breath when I handed over my credit card, an attitude which I tried to not take personally. After all, I had no idea what was going on in her life. Maybe she was having a bad day? Or maybe she was always like this? Maybe yesterday she'd been having an exceptionally good day and as a result, had been uncharacteristically friendly? It was impossible to say. Do not use your cell phone around the pumps, she said, with barely concealed irritation, as she concluded our transaction.
I got back in my car. I was worried about Johnny Walker Blue because he was not an intelligent animal and as such, liable to get into trouble. In recent months he had made friends with some homeless people in the park. A bad bunch who drank cheap white wine mixed with methylated spirits and who spend their nights singing and fighting on the concrete bandstand just inside the park gates.
I turned the key in the ignition and discovered that my car would not start. I tried again. Nothing. I got out and did all the things a person with my limited knowledge of auto mechanics might be expected to do. In other words, I looked under the hood, poking around ineffectually at the cooling engine. After awhile, I went back inside and spoke to the woman with the unicorn tattoo, explaining the situation. There is only one mechanic in town, she said, shaking her head, and I know for a fact that today is his day off mate.
So....I'm stuck here? I asked. Is that what you're saying? The woman with the ugly unicorn tattoo and the stiff blonde hair shrugged and said, I don't know what to say to you mate. All I know is....it's the bloody Mechanic's day off.
Following this reticent woman's reticent instructions, I walked into town, past the heritage pub and the post office, to the Mechanic's little house which was really only a short distance from the service station. The Mechanic's wife spoke to me through the screen door, explaining that her husband was back at the pub. I'd walked right past him! I smiled to myself and began to thank her but she was already closing the door. Five minutes later, I found the Mechanic still dressed in his oily boiler suit, drinking beer with some of his cronies. After a short discussion, the Mechanic agreed that he would help me out first thing in the morning because at that moment he was too drunk to go under a car. Besides which, it was his first day off after twelve consecutive days of work, so he needed to unwind. Of course, I said.
The Mechanic and his friends insisted I drink a few beers with them. I got the distinct impression that to refuse this offer would have come across as an insult so even though I am not a big drinker, I accepted their menacing gesture of hospitality. And somehow a few beers turned into many beers and soon enough I was drunk, very drunk, leaning against the side of the bar, the room tilting, as I struggled to maintain focus on what I needed to do. After the pub had closed, we climbed into vehicles parked out front and drove off to find the Mechanic's brother. The Mechanic's Brother ran a caravan park just off the main highway, a place called Holiday Land. Coming in through the main gates, the vehicle's headlights probing through the dark, I could see that Holiday Land was a run down, dishevelled place. It had an American-Wild-West-dude-ranch theme. The camp sites, communal areas and connecting walkways were half-heartedly decorated with waggon wheels, cow skulls and sun bleached fibreglass cactuses. Single-storey cinder block structures, which were supposed to resemble bunkhouses, bordered a swimming pool. The pool was kidney bean shaped and the water was illuminated by a single, warbling light.
Sitting on plastic chairs in the restaurant area, somehow it was decided that I would do some work for the Mechanic's Brother in exchange for having my car repaired. As I was drunk and running low on cash at that point, this seemed like a fair enough deal.
Over the next couple of days, I pulled twenty-five large white canvas teepees out of the green shipping container which was half submerged in the weeds out back. I scrubbed the canvas panels vigorously with a brush and soap, removing patches of mould and dirt, before erecting each teepee on its wooden frame so that when I was finished, all twenty-five were proudly visible from the side of the highway. The effect was very impressive.
The Mechanic's brother told me that Holiday Land had once been the main tourists draw around these parts. Families would pull off the freeway all the time, seeking out Holiday Land for a few days of relaxation, returning year after year. The children loved the teepees, the pool, the river and rambling through the surrounding meadows right up until sunset when their mothers would call them in for dinner. It was idyllic. And now, with my assistance, said the Mechanic's Brother, Holiday Land had been restored to its former technicolour glory.
And although this took a lot longer than expected, as far as I was concerned, the work was immensely satisfying. For the first time in years, I was outside in the elements, the wind in my hair, my hands becoming rough and callused with hard labour, doing something which had a tangible result. I borrowed a few of the Mechanic's old shop overalls to work in thus keeping my personal clothing free of dirt and grime. Once I'd finished with the teepees, I touched up the Holiday Land sign at the main entrance, using green and white enamel paint so that the jaunty lettering really stood out and once again, conveyed a feeling that Holiday Land was a safe and accommodating place. At the Mechanic's brother's request, I also repaired PA system so that he could play old western songs throughout the campground, classic such as 'Home on the Range' and 'Tumbling Tumbleweeds'.
When I asked how my car was coming along, the Mechanic, who would drop by Holiday Land on a regular basis to drink beer with his brother, would typically shake his head and say, we're still waiting on the parts from Sydney, mate. I'll let you know. Alright?
Drawn in by the improvements, tourists began to arrive in droves, pulling off the highway to spend the night. I would greet them in the office, take payment for their stay and explain where they could find the amenities using the provided photocopied map. Then I would escort them to their teepee. I was also required to get up 5 AM to clean the bathrooms, male and female, with a large stringy mop and buck full of disinfectant that made my hands smell like lemons.
When the Mechanic's half-sister returned from her humanitarian work in Africa, we quickly became friends. She was a nurse, about my age. At first, she only intended to stay for a few days before moving on to some other war-torn region of the world. However, I came to understand that the traumatic events, the terrible acts of random violence she had experienced overseas meant that she was in desperate need of a quiet, stable place to recuperate both mentally and physically. And as I was quickly learning, there was no more peaceful a place on this earth than Holiday Land.
As it was the height of the season, the Nurse and I had to share a teepee. This was a completely platonic arrangement. At first. We had a large blanket hung on a section of rope, dividing the interior space of the teepee in half for the sake of privacy. A perfectly acceptable setup. At night, once my choirs were done, I would listen to the Nurse talking in her sleep, recounting some of the terrible and wondrous things she had experienced in Africa, albeit in a fragmented way which was at times, a bit difficult to follow. One night, after a long conversation and two bottles of red wine, we ended up in the same bed together. Rather than sexual pleasure, I think this act of intimacy was more about comfort through physical touch, one human being consoling another. I was happy to oblige. After we had finished, she told me all about the terrible and wonderful things she had seen in Africa, most of which I already knew, or at least had an inclination of because she talked so extensively in her sleep. In fact, I would go so far as to say that perhaps the Nurse 'overshared' when she talked in her sleep.
In the Nurse's rucksack, buried beneath her scrubs and intimate underthings, I found a little diary which contained her personal, innermost thoughts. I knew it was wrong to read from the diary but I couldn't help myself. So, while she was off working the day shift at the local hospital, I would read from this diary, page after page, and eventually her entries caught up with the present and I realised she was described meeting me for the first time. Her first impressions of me were disparaging, to say the least. However, as we slowly became familiar with each other, her opinion began to change and she started writing about me in a much more affectionate way. Which was a relief seeing as how we were physically intimate most nights of the week.
Every time I was finished reading, I would carefully return the diary back to where I'd found it. I made sure her things looked untouched. She used a Drakensberg Rockjumper's feather as a bookmark and I would ensure that I replaced the feather exactly where I'd found it each and every time. Every couple of days, the Nurse would write a new entry and I would secretly read it. And in this way, I understood our relationship from the inside out. There were no secrets between us. Of course, there were times when I felt pretty lousy about invading her privacy but the temptation was too great. I just couldn't help myself.
Then, one day, the diary was inexplicably disappeared. I searched the entire teepee, ransacking the place and still I could not find it. The diary's absence filled me with a new kind of dread. Without her soothing inner voice, in the form of written language, it was as if a door had been slammed between us, concealing the interior state of things. Apart from her barely sensical ramblings at night, suddenly I had no access to her unfiltered personal perspective. And I couldn't very well ask where the diary was or why she had removed it from the teepee. Surely that would have raised suspicion? One thing was for sure; until that moment, I hadn’t fully realised how dependent I had become on the diaries content, how it informed the moment to moment dynamics of our relationship. Anyway, from that moment on, out relationship began to change. Secrecy existed between us. A wall. A barricade. We became less communicative and less trusting.
One day, I showed up at the hospital unannounced. As far as I was concerned, I was there simply because the Nurse had forgotten her lunch and being a caring partner, I wanted to ensure she didn't eat out of the vending machine again. If she wanted to call this kind of concern for another human beings welfare 'stalking' well....that was her problem. I called it 'unrequited love'. Anyway, the resulting confrontation was both good and bad. Good in the sense that my overwhelming paranoia had been vindicated. Bad in the sense that I found the Nurse kissing a French doctor in a supply cupboard. This doctor, this healer who will remain nameless, was an old colleague from her African days and had been to our teepee on several occasions for dinner and games of Monopoly and Connect Four. This man had drunk my wine and sat around my camp fire. And wasn't that always the way? You unwittingly invite the rival into your own home. 'Mi casa es su casa, Hombre!’ You cry. Come on in! Look, I could see the appeal. He was a handsome looking fellow with a sturdy jaw line and shapely, sensual lips. I had heard that most of the local girls went ga-ga over his French accent and the power of life and death which resided in his strong hands.
Understandably I made a scene and was removed by hospital security. It was humiliating, to say the least. We'll talk later, said the Nurse, her arms folded crossed her breasts as the security guards strap me down onto a waiting gurney and prepared to drive me back to Holiday Land in the hospital's only functioning ambulance.
I was beside myself. I removed all my things from our teepee including my acoustic guitar, my cell phone (that didn't work anymore), my spare overalls, my old toothbrush, various books of fiction and a beginners guide to Western Philosophy, my chair and my record player, and I moved into teepee number 6 over by the water tower. I was so heartbroken that I began writing brokenhearted songs hoping that the Nurse might hear me strumming away, working out the melodies and the lyrics on those warm summer nights after our separation. Hoping against hope that despite the restraining order, these songs, these fragments of raw poetic emotion, would drift into her awareness like the pages of a love letter carried down a river on a gentle current. One significant problem with my plan was that summer had already passed. It was now winter. The skies were slate grey and dripping and the guests spend most of their time inside their tepees, huddled around small fires, engaged in craft activities. Activities designed to keep the hands busy so that the mind would not succumb to cabin fever as the days grew mean and short.
I needed help. I went to the library in town in search of a book. 'Songwriting for Dummies'. The librarian, a stern woman with a no-nonsense hairstyle and dress sense, was sceptical at first that I was eligible for a membership card but when I mentioned that I knew the Mechanic and his family, she acquiesced and gave me a temporary membership. I took the book home, back to my teepee, in order to resume work on my songwriting project. Along the way, for the first time in what seemed like many, many weeks, I noticed there was a warmth in the air, a generosity of temperature and light. Buds from some optimistic plant or flower had broken through the wet soil with the early promise of renewed life, indicating that spring was just around the corner.
I recorded each brokenhearted song on a Pioneer RT-909, an old-fashion reel-to-reel I had purchased from the Op shop in town which was run by the Mechanic's second cousin. One day, guitar in hand, I was practising my songs when a man named Gordon W. Haynes stopped by my teepee, drawn by the music. This encounter was the beginning of a friendship which would last for three years, four weeks, nine days and six hours. After this time had elapsed, Gordon, or Gordy as he preferred to be called, and I would mutually decide that we should part ways. Business and friendship rarely mix, Gordy would shout into a satellite phone, as he stood on the helm of his luxury yacht which was slowly sinking into the South China Sea. Why was he out there? Some say it was a salvage adventure gone wrong, while others talk of a staged disappearance. You never knew with old Gordy. He always had many irons in the fire. Anyway, that would be the last time I would hear the old bastard’s voice.....But enough about that for now. I'm getting ahead of myself. That is the future and no one really knows what the future will hold. My advice to you?
Relax, do not be impatient and wish for the speedy resolve of this life.
All will be revealed in due course.
Let the future linger on the horizon for as long as you can children.
The rush of time was, is and shall always be cruel.
One day you may end up at the side of the road.
These were some of the lyrics I wrote after becoming friends with Gordy. And credit where credit is due, it was Gordon who expanded my creative horizons, encouraging me to move away from only writing bitter love songs, a genre which does tend to limit an artist's scope and emotional impact. Think big picture, Gordy advised. First, imagine yourself playing in a room, an intimate setting. Now, expanding outwards, imagine yourself in a club, a larger space. Does your music translate? Now imagine a stadium, you under a spotlight, the hush of the crowd, your face and mannerisms projected up on massive screens. Your voice amplified through speakers. Ask yourself: how big do I want to go with this thing? Visualise it. See it already happening. Can you? Gordy was very good at inflating small daydreams, making them become gargantuan in size. That was his main skill: he was able to rebrand simple dreams, make them something bigger. He could put butts on seats in imaginary stadiums.
In the end, I wrote 50 songs about my life in Holiday Land and under Gorden's continued editorial influence, we whittled those 50 songs down to 20 really good ones. 20 songs that eventually became the classic album 'Pass'n time down in Holiday Land'. An album which Gordy would later promote tirelessly and which eventually developed a diverse underground following in countries such as Sweden, South Africa, Chile and Canada. An album which despite never becoming a commercial success, unanimously received glowing reviews, one critic going so far as to describe me as a twenty-first century Woody Guthry. A Neil Young for the digital age. Or at least that is what Gordy predicted would happen when he first heard me playing in teepee number six.
The way things actually turned out, only once did I perform my songs live, in front of a small audience at the local pub. The Mechanic and his brother were there. The Nurse and her doctor husband were also in attendance (by that time they had a baby boy named Jean-Piere and judging by the Nurse's extended belly, there was another child on the way). The Librarian was at the back of the room, steadily getting plastered on gin and tonics. After the show, she informed me with a wonky determination that I still had 'Songwriting for Dummies' out on my card, and that by now the fines would be astronomical. Was I aware of this? I nodded my head and said I would do my best to return the book first thing Monday morning.
Overall, my performance was well received but once finished, it was as though a spell had been broken. I had accomplished exactly what I set out to do which was express my feelings about life in Holiday Land through song. As such, I didn't see the need to continue on this creative path. In the coming months and years, not only did the album gain an audience, but it also generated a modest income in the way of royalties which trickled in at a steady rate. An income I now understand Gordy embezzled. Money not only from 'Pass'n the time in Holiday Land' but also from the secret recording that Gordy had made the night of my only performance. A recording he titled 'Live at the pub near Holiday Land' and which he released online with accompanying photographs of me up on the stage where they usually held the meat raffle. Anyway, after that initial taste of success, Gordy wanted me to travel far and wide to promote the damn album but I said no, no, sorry mate. I was responsible for the upkeep of Holiday Land. I mean sure, we could have gone down that route, promoting the album to the point of exhaustion followed by the release of a predictably misunderstood and much-criticised sophomore album. Night after night spent in faceless hotel rooms with faceless groupies. Stadiums. Airports. Addiction and recovery. Fame and the inevitable decline into obscurity. No thanks. Not for me. Like I say, I had work to get done at Holiday Land. I need to get the mower serviced so I could cut the cricket pitch for kids. The swimming pool was getting cloudy again, with that unidentified lime green algae. I definitely needed to check out what was going on with the chlorine levels and the filtration system. Besides, the way I figured it, I only had one decent album in me and now that album had been completed, it was time to move on.
When the rains came, there was a leak in my teepee. The water destroyed many of my personal possessions including the master tapes of 'Pass'n the time in Holiday Land'. This was both terribly disappointing and liberating. In a way, I'd been given the gift of freedom. Being free of your past means that all you have is the Future. And this being the case, I realised that I needed to take advantage of this opportunity, forge on and begin a new phase of my life. The first thing I did was move from teepee number six to teepee number eleven, the most isolated teepee in the caravan park. Continuing in this vein, I got rid of as many of my remaining personal possessions as I could, scaling down to the bare essentials in an effort to live a pure, less cluttered life. I became a kind of recluse, barely speaking to anyone for days on end. I completed my janitorial duties at night when no one was around. I grew a long beard and I meditated for five, sometimes six hours a day, transcending the restrictions of both the body and the conscious mind, breathing in and out at a steady rate, becoming one with Holiday Land. In this heightened state, I was able to look down on the orderly pattern of teepees, the surrounding roads and fields and the river, all spread out across the landscape. In mastering these techniques, I began to understand that time is a false construct. There really is only the here and now. And believe me, I understood it was a privilege to live this way. To exist outside and beyond the pressures of modern life. For me, a minute could have been a day. A year. A decade. Time was metered out in arbitrary units. There was only breathing. In and out. Everything outside this moment was simply abstract speculation based on the wounded echo of memory. Looking back, worrying, getting angry about that bully in primary school (Hey Frank. How are you doing buddy?) was a pointless exercise. It was an attempt to repair the damage inflicted on the ego. It could not be done because we can only move forward. I spent a lot of time trying to figure out how to realistically accomplish this goal while attempting to live a somewhat normal life. To my way of thinking, this was the central human dilemma. The past makes us who we are yet it also enslaves us. How can we avoid this?
Hundreds of people filtered through Holiday Land each year. Tourists. Families. Young people who showed up with their new technologies. To me, they seemed lost. After a great deal of contemplation, after recognising there was a potential audience at my fingertips, I decided it was time to fulfil a lifelong ambition and start a new a religion. I had always wanted to do this, ever since I was a nipper. In my free time, when I wasn’t practising staying 'in the moment', I had been working steadily on some rough ideas concerning the structure and rituals of my new religion. Actually, it wasn't really a 'new religion' as such. I'd taken bits and pieces of existing religions, things I liked for their theatricality, parts of other doctrines, art movements, naturopathy, my meditation and yoga practices, and I mixed them all up into a glorious theological stew. And once I'd re-read P. T. Barnum's 900-page biography and done a little additional research on history's more successful cult of personality figures, I began to feel much more confident with my general tone and performance abilities. At that point, I began to preach in the sloped field near the river, an area which formed a natural amphitheatre. At first, I think I was perceived as a bit of a lunatic. Most prophets are. Then I notice one or two people were like, are you hearing this? This is something new. Hey, let’s give this guy a chance. Most of what came out of my mouth was utter horse dung but nevertheless, I was a good orator and skilled at stirring up a crowd. And admittedly, it was only a small crowd in the beginning, but as time went on, a crowd which grew in both size and fervour. It wasn't all bullshit. The meditation and advanced visualisation components I touted did help my followers become more centred. More focused. My costume evolved as I settled into my role as the leader. I began wearing floor-length, heavily embroidered robes and mascara. I received my followers in my teepee, offering spiritual counsel throughout the day. A great deal of my religion was veiled in secrecy. Why? Because the ceremonies and rituals I had designed were intended to help the congregation become sceptical of centralised faith and worship. That was it: the little secret enlightenment I offered them all. Simple as that. In essence, my religion was set up to gradually push it's membered towards a serious crisis of faith, to self-implode, and in doing so, help them become their own God. But why couldn't I simply come out with this objective at the onset? Why couldn't I just explain that there was no big man up in the sky watching our every move and dirty little thought, doling out his punishment and eternal reward? Wouldn’t that have been easier? Yes, of course it would have. But who would've believed me?
In my experience, people don't want simple answers. They want to learn things the hard way. They crave the narrative of redemption. They want to discover truth through trial and error. So it was The Process I was interested in, the dismantling of blind faith in conventional belief systems. We woke these people up, made them responsible for their own existence, help them turn their backs on the big cop out. In those early stages, after the indoctrination period, even if I had simply come out and told my followers of my intentions, they would have just assumed it was another test. And what was the end game of all this? Well, after moving through all the stages, after completing The Process, my followers would be invited to the final council where they would learn the big secret. Ie. There was no reward. I would tell them that all prophets including myself, all scriptures and all idols were bunk. They alone were responsible for their own divinity. They were free. Their reward was a one-way bus ticket out of town. Goodbye and good luck!
In any case, to facilitate all these shenanigans (literally), I decreed we should build a super teepee right there in the middle of Holiday Land. By that time the Mechanic's brother had passed on, bequeathing me the deed to Holiday Land so I could do pretty much what I pleased. The Mechanics children were none too happy with this situation. They wanted the land and all assets to stay within the family. It all developed into a rather nasty and protracted legal battle that necessitated I increase my demands for more and more financial contributions from my devotee's and their relatives to pay for a crack legal team.
As for the construction of the super teepee....the men of our congregation felled and delimbed tall trees which were required for the main structure. The women sewed huge panels of double thickness canvas. Once drawn tight over the timber framework, these panels were like a ship's sails. All told, this super teepee had five floors connected by a grand central staircase. We furnished the whole thing as you would a hunting lodge, with cowhide upholstered chairs and ornate chandeliers made from animal horns imported from North America. We held sermons on the ground floor, the largest space which was filled with natural light on sunny days. Looking out over the sea of upturned faces, I would take the pulpit and begin my sermon. In that moment, that millisecond before I opened my mouth something would overtake me. I never planned what I would say, it just came gushing out. Sometimes I spoke in tongues and at other times I chanted or sang. We filled the assembly area with sage smoke and encouraged the use of psychotropic substances, including Ayahuasca in all our ceremonies. Tuesday and Thursday were our designated days of worship. Sometimes I relied on PowerPoint slides or fireworks. We had a killer light show and a new wireless PA system both inside the super teepee and fixed to the top of decommissioned ice cream truck which I drove around the campground. We always capped things off with tea and biscuits on Friday afternoons.
In terms of communal living, we established strict codes pertaining to acceptable sexual behaviour for new members. Then I would set about flagrantly breaking those rules. We encourage hypocrisy in all its forms. In practice, our monthly orgies and ongoing polyamorous relationships regularly strained the social fabric of the community but we needed to get these people thinking for themselves. I ran workshops which sometimes lasted for three or four days. We built people up and then broke them down. It was a very intense and at times, exhaustive experience. We used body paint, balloons, improvisational comedy and drums. At one point I had five wives, including the Librarian, and a total of 23 children. The smarter children soon figured out that my religion was completely bogus and they would leave home shedding the humiliating cotton tunics I insisted all members of the congregation wear. I applauded these runaways even if they were my own blood. To my way of thinking non-belief is simply another way of saying self-belief. They would leave Holiday Land, heading off to new lives in Sydney or Brisbane. And I would commend them for attaining enlightenment with a warm paternal hug or handshake at the station. I hope I never see you around these parts again, I would cheerfully say. The less intellectually inclined stayed on, determined to blindly battle on, doggedly completing each empty ritual I had set up, convinced that each new absurdity was yet another test of their faith, even though I would pull them aside and say, listen mate....you don't have to do this. I'm telling you. It's all bunk. Would they listen?
Not likely.
Then came the great floods of 2022. The banks of the river broke for the first time in 60 years, leaving Holiday Land completely underwater. All the fixed structure buildings and all the teepees were washed away in the deluge. Even the super teepee, which we monitored from a hired ex-army helicopter, eventually buckled and succumbed to the twisting waters of the flood. For six days, all you could see was the tops of trees poking up above the brown water line. Being the head of a religious cult (that was how the newspapers were describing us at that point) I took it as a sign, figuring it was time to pack the whole thing in. Besides, membership numbers had declined steeply so I figured, get out while the going is good. I gathered the last of the true believers in a wind-swept field and told them it had all been for shits and giggles. I mean, I didn't use those words exactly. I told them all about The Process and how they were now free and blah, blah, blah….all the rest of it. I could see the looks of disbelief in their eyes, even as I confessed the intended purpose of our church in detail. It is a test! screamed a haggard looking woman standing just to my left.
No, no now Martha listen to me…it’s not a test, I replied, stepping out my robes. People, I know I said a lot of things in the past but it’s over! Okay? Seriously.
The non-delivered have abandoned us! They are lost! We must pass this final test, a man in a red poncho shouted.
Look, I said, who is in charge here? I was getting quite exasperated at this point.
You are, they muttered in unison.
Okay then, I’m telling you, for the last time, this is not a test. I am officially shutting this religion down. You can go. There is nothing here. Go home. Scram. I am retired. I have a headache.
They looked at me wearily, afraid to move. You couldn't blame them really. How can you trust a false prophet? One or two continued to follow me around, long after the waters had receded. So strong was their devotion, it got to the point that I needed to take out restraining orders.
I cleaned up the Holiday Land as best I could. The Librarian and our three children were the last family members remaining in the area. The Librarian told me that she was going to return to her job at the Library. She had just about used up her long service leave anyway so it was time to go back. Avoiding the lawyers, we worked out the child payments and she drove off with the kids in the back of a ute.
After that, I was alone again. I learnt something very important. It is all very well to arrogantly denounce time but one day it will catch up with you. One day you will look down into a puddle full of clouds and oily rainbows on the side of the road and you will see an old man looking back at you. Now I spent my days sitting on the side of the road near the entrance to Holiday Land. I have a wooden chair. The chair and I have one thing in common. We both have a wonky leg. I wear a baseball cap to keep the sun out of my eyes. A cap which says, 'true story' in swirling cursive script. I have other novelty baseball caps as well. Some say, 'Gone fishing' or 'Old guys do it better'. In two years time, I will be one hundred years old. A century! Quite an achievement in anybody's book.
Mainly what I do with my days is I sit there and wave as the cars and trucks that drive past on the highway. Sometimes I catch myself drooling a bit but I suppose that is to be expected at my age. I give each passing vehicle the once over, then I either wave or give them the big thumbs up, depending on my assessment of the driver's face. On rare occasions, I might stand up and do the robot, but that is only if my arthritis is not playing up. Mainly I wanted to hear these cars and trucks honk their horns. My current record for one day is 184 honks. Crazy right? I know…184!
Once a fortnight one of my many grandchildren will stop by to say hello and bring me a piece of apple strudel and a flask of hot tea. At this point, I can't keep their names straight so I just smile and shout 'G'day Champ!'. Sadly their grandmother, the Librarian, has now passed on to a better place and staying true to her profession, her last wishes were that the word 'revoked' be carved into her tombstone. That will tell my story at a glance, she said on her death bed. I miss that woman.
Someone told me the other day that the Queen is going to send me a letter if I make it to hundred. I was confused at first. I didn't understand how the Queen was still alive, it being 2032. But then some other smart arse reminded me that she had been cloned long ago and still lived in Buckingham Palace. To which I just shrugged and said, you don't say.
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