I wrote a poem called OLD BAR and when I went to drag it into a folder called POETRY BOOK #3 I noticed there sure were a lot of traveling poems in there. I clicked on one called "THE TRAVELER" that I had forgotten about. It appears that I wrote it in Denmark. Anyway, I was please how the verses really started to sing to me and so I began to edit it and chop each verse to thirteen lines like the first verse already was, and then just put some chords to it that are almost good to go. I went into the David Bowie Suite of the BOOGIE WOOGIE BEACH HOUSE in Old Bar and recorded a YouTube demo of it. My Patreon page will get the full demo as an mP3 when I record it in Nashville after letting it steep a little here on TimEaston.com I came up with an idea for a book of stories, essays, poems, and songs to accompany my next album.
I guess it has been a productive time here in Old Bar. Thanks to all of my Australian friends that have made this possible, especially Areatha Bryant of Mother Hen Touring and the owners of BOOGIE WOOGIE BEACH HOUSE and FLOW BAR in Old Bar.
Here's the demo of a song I am calling Time Machine Vs. Wake Up Call
Here's the poem called Old Bar
I rose before the sun today
and made my way out to the beach at Old Bar
in New South Wales
where I saw a Japanese man
waiting to film the rising sun.
Two Terns squawked.
Looking down, I saw an eel
wallowing back and forth for shallow snacks
in a tidal creek.
I gestured to the tourist, shouting “Unagi, unagi.”
He was not interested.
I spent most of the rest of the day in bed,
not from depression, but exhaustion.
The road takes a toll.
I needed this book and bed and do nothing day.
Didion’s “Salvador” and naps. I craved reality.
Outside my cabin door, infinite noise pollution
was taking place with a welding event,
lawn mowers, weed whackers. power tools,
a tree crew sawing down massive Camphor Laurels
and feeding them into the roaring wood chipper.
I barely registered any of it while drifting from book to sleep
At sunset I went to find dinner
and walk the beach again,
this time North, towards the namesake old sand bar
that stretches across the mouth of the Manning River.
The skies were well overcast
and I was stuffed from good Thai food,
walking down the dented road
they call Mudbishops Point
passing the caravan park
that leads to the bird estuary.
Someone or many ones
had built a teepee out of driftwood
and I was magnetized by it.
Greenshanks and Tattlers squeaked
and hunted for crabs
as I made my way over countless shells
with smooth shiny rocks eternally
scattered by the moon’s infinite gravity.
I added a tall piece of driftwood to the structure
and walked in to sit down,
checking for spiders.
Facing East, I watched the waves rise and crash,
attempting to meditate until thoughts took over—
about bringing my daughter
to this place where there were no other humans
at sunset on a Monday night in the month of March.
A storm was evident but I pushed farther down
towards the mouth of the river
the Birrpayi people called “Boolumbahtee,”
or, “the place where the cranes played.”
No birds were singing anymore—
only the rip and roar of the wind and sea
arguing back and forth
with the turbulent river’s mouth.
The bar was now submerged in a furious high tide.
I stood close to the waves
and was mesmerized,
losing track of time
as I watched the dark water swirl and pull
I was turned to stone by the invitation—
invigorated by the inevitable.
Drops of rain hit my face.
I couldn’t move but I knew
I had better get back to town before
the night was pitch.
I trudged back South towards the path,
stopping when the sand ended
to put my shoes back on,
watching for snakes by the shrub’s edge.
One has to be vigilant down here,
or disappear in a dark dream.