Splendor in the grass

Splendor in the grass was a whirling, whooshing wonderful thing. The Doves in particular, aided considerably by some magic mushrooms that I purchased, created a sparkling bright liquid wave of sound that washed over me with a soothing caress. All sorts of thoughts spun into and out of the dark recesses of my mind as I stood in that tent, each one illuminating the black for a short period, each one a star in the nightscape of my mind.

The weather in Byron bay, as usual, did not disappoint: the temperature was that dreamy, neutral degree; the one to which human beings are optimally suited. And the girls! All sorts of wonderful, exotic girls. Fortunately, the food at the festival was far above the norm for music festivals - the norm being Dagwood dogs and dried up mystery bags (aka dim sim). I managed to find myself a tasty samosa accompanied by a creamy coriander sauce at one of the food stalls and walked away a very satisfied customer.

Har Mar Superstar, though very funny to observe, was not nearly as entertaining as I thought he might be. Queens of the stone age, Interpol, Cut Copy, Bloc Party and Sarah Blasko were the highlights. Having to spend my weekend away with ex-housemates, ex-housemates who come attached with the ‘ex’ for a very good reason, was the lowlight.

During the second afternoon of the festival I went and lay upon the beach, with the golden fire shining down on me, its rays penetrating more than my flesh, and with the even, relentless crashing of the distant waves I fell into the world beyond. As I lay there, half in this world and half in the next, I tried to focus on the timelessness of the ocean. Would that I could become one with the sea; would that I could crumble, fade and return to the sand that was spawned at the beginning of time. And the waves kept rolling. And the waves kept rolling. And the waves kept rolling. Sleep.