Down on the beach, as the last of the sun’s goldenness bathes the tops of the pines, two men exchange wisdom and words of great import: gesturing beside their fishing rods which stand as sentinels against the discovery of their real purpose. Behind them, the bay is flat: mirrorlike. Kurnell now glows in the distance. White refinery tanks turn toward gold, and it’s hard to see just how much more ugly a de-salination plant might make it. I wonder how Cook could have been so wrong about the usefulness of Botany Bay? What month was he here? We should google that. Enter stream of consciousness mode: Because, Phillip arrived here in summer: mid January 1788. The nor easter would have been ripping across Botany Bay most of the day. Maybe Cook was here at a gentler time of year. Would be good to find out. It seems inconsistent with Cook’s general reputation for accuracy that he would have overstated the facility of Botany Bay to the extent that Phillip would have found it very unsuitable for settlement.
Besides, it is reassuring to be able to mark off known historical events against a context of life and natural cycles and patterns. Curiosity: a marvellous thing. Up above, planes stack up in patterns as they glide in toward land like some flock of variegated pelicans: wings extended and running up huge bills. It becomes a challenge to spot the next incoming bird as it is sent on a pattern of evasion by air traffic control. There were pilgrims in the street when I arrived. A pillage of them moved rapidly up the street beside the hotel as though they were on a mission. I thought perhaps that they were off to the Post Office to send a pilGram. Provided they get their message across one way or another I guess. Traffic thickens on the Grand Parade. It will get worse before long as they hurry home. I sit above it and wonder at the ability I have to write this description and send it through thin air to reach someone who I hope will enjoy reading it. It certainly is, as I look toward Miranda, a brave new world that has such wonders…. There is no Tempest here this evening, but plenty to think about from the Aldous Huxley novel which is drawn from the idea. It will get colder soon, but I sit still: still. Flash of sun sparkles on the shoulder of the next bird as it glides in, replete.
They will spill out, cacophony of nokia turn on sounds and text message alerts. The smart ones skip away with their pet carry-on bag on a lead. Off to the head of the queue. And that is a postcard from a place. A balcony on the 8th floor. Looking South East at sunset. Remember to click the word Comments (up the top) if you’d like to provide feedback.