Why my life is good, and how the bush fights modern absurdities
This is what I wake up to, hiding in my patch of jungle in Airlie Beach.
The sound of wilderness. The mighty black cockatoo with its ooh-aah, lonely, rusty gate call, the loud shreiking of the sulphur crested cockatoo, the feeding frenzy noise of the lorikeets. The once despised but now comforting laugh of the kookaburra. This is my alarm clock, these sounds tell me the weather without my having to look, these sounds fill me with peace.
All for "free". Only 50 metres from the main road. In a tiny patch of virgin rainforest between the parks office and Fantasea mass-tour operators. It's not paradise, but it's sure as hell more sensible than being a tiny, tiny little non-entity in the "market". I write in my little tent when it's raining. I look both ways and disappear into the bush with my bike. I respect the bush for what it provides. I am free.
The sound of wilderness. The mighty black cockatoo with its ooh-aah, lonely, rusty gate call, the loud shreiking of the sulphur crested cockatoo, the feeding frenzy noise of the lorikeets. The once despised but now comforting laugh of the kookaburra. This is my alarm clock, these sounds tell me the weather without my having to look, these sounds fill me with peace.
All for "free". Only 50 metres from the main road. In a tiny patch of virgin rainforest between the parks office and Fantasea mass-tour operators. It's not paradise, but it's sure as hell more sensible than being a tiny, tiny little non-entity in the "market". I write in my little tent when it's raining. I look both ways and disappear into the bush with my bike. I respect the bush for what it provides. I am free.
