Bacon thief

7 03 2010

It’s another night. The birds have stopped singing and all you can hear is cicadas and some animal not caring to hide himself anymore; it knows I can’t see him and that’s all that matters for him, because the reality is that I am the only predator in this hushed night, but all there is in my head is the perfume of flowers carried by the nightly breeze. The little animal knows all of this, and it’s confident, and if I let nature pervade me a little longer, I maybe will be rewarded with the identity of this little companion.

Earlier on I was cooking, bacon as it happens, and as soon as I dropped a hot little rasher on the plate a kookaburra came, and in an instant snatched the bit and flew away , in a flutter of feathers, without ever touching the iron table.

As I was wondering what had just happened the flying thief sat perched high on a branch, some ten metres away from me, helping itself on its spoils of war, savouring the flavour of that hot greasy streak of bacon, heavily enhanced by adrenaline and satisfaction. I bet his bacon tastes way better than mine.

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Tidal thoughts

12 02 2010

The Journey has begun , and it is much faster than what I thought ; words are no match against my landscape filled eyes: there is simply too much to take in but I will try my best to keep up with the speed at which Australian tarmac is devoured by my wheels.

It’s a road trip and it’s the only way to do it : you could easily fly around this vast country, stopping in any of the state capitals , but not only it would be more expensive , you would also miss all that this land truly represents: untouched nature.My point of view is probably biased , not having visited Africa or South America , but never I have experience such a kaleidoscopic diversity of wilderness and sceneries. From Albany’s cold shores to the penguins on Phillip Island ; from quokkas on Rottnest to salt water crocs in Queensland.

Right now I am in San Remo , almost 4000 km from where I started , in Perth. I am perfectly aware That this unnamed beach is not Victoria’s crown jewel, but it retains a beauty of its own. In the time I took writing these hundred or so words , the tide unveiled a good twenty metres of sand,  rocks and seaweed , without any noise except the calm and repetitive rushing of the waves. Sure enough as soon as I turn my head from my book , another five steps have been given back by the sea.

My pupils are now held captive by the water , however,  the naked eye cannot detect the exact moment in which a rock emerges. I am nonetheless more and more aware of this calm and silent retreat. It tells me one of the most captivating truth of this land : it’s almost five days to Christmas and it doesn’t feel like it; no glitter , carols,  pageants , advertisement nor corporate dinners.

In five days at seven pm the water will escape this very same bay, and it will be as quietly magnificent as any other day of the year. Everlasting daily beauty: that’s what this continent is made of.