View from the Bio Box

Last week the world almost ended while I was at the Old 505 theatre in Newtown. I’d been here before, mostly in the audience, but over this five night residency I was the tech operator for Blind Tasting, a beautiful play by Paul Gilchrist, performed brilliantly by Sylvia Keays.

old 505 bar

From the bio box I could view the stage, and watch both the audience and the performance through a rectangle cut into the partition that divides the original ballroom of the old Newtown School of Arts. It is now a theatre and a foyer with a well stocked bar. It’s comfortable, intimate and beautiful and if you look up, next to the rigging, you can see the original plaster ceiling panels. Not a bad place to be for the final showdown.

plastre ceiling with rigging.JPG

‘Teching’ a show is a little like being a DJ. I have a lighting board and a sound console and two computer screens, all with which to mix the mood for the play. And although it sounds complicated all I have to do is press the buttons in the right order. Liam O’Keefe, the lighting designer had already created and programmed the light cues, and the soundscape had been taken care of by the director. It included rain and thunder, seagulls and cicadas.

By the fourth night of this five night run everything was going smoothly. I had wrangled my fingers so they tapped the cues at just the right moment. I was dancing back and forth between light and sound and feeling like Nicky Siano at Studio 54. But then suddenly disaster struck. I began to lose control of my console. I’d just activated Cue 5, the excited chatter and squawk of seagulls, when suddenly I heard the gentle patter of rain, Cue 8. In a panic I checked the screen. What was happening? Had I hit the wrong button? No. The arrow signifying Cue 5 still serenely blinked its little green light at me. Nothing seemed to be wrong but why could I hear two cues instead of one? And then sounds that weren’t even programmed into my QLab software began to tumble around me. The theatre revealed its own musical score, one that I had no authority over; the whistling of wind rattling old window frames and the rustling of paper, starting and stopping at uncanny moments.

I looked up expecting the audience to be looking around in confusion, the actor raising her voice to combat the shamble of sound, staring daggers at me that said, ‘fix this bloody mess now!’ But no. The show was blithely continuing on its amusing little path completely oblivious to the impending disaster unfolding in the bio box.

Bio Box

It was just me. And all of these computers. Suddenly I realized that those Luddite nightmares that had plagued me for years were about to come true. Any sane person knows that computers and robots are about to take over the world and force us into mindless slavery. More mindless even than consumerism. But I’d thought perhaps we had a few more years of human autonomy left; the remainder of my lifetime ideally. There was still so much I needed to buy. But alas it seemed that the time had come.  A technical catastrophe preceding the final annihilation.  An apocalypse. Armageddon. The end of the world. And our new technological masters had chosen to start their universal domination by taking over my soundscape!

I made myself calm down. After all, if it really was the end, I may as well enjoy it. If these computers were determined to take over the show, then perhaps I should use this as an opportunity to pop over to the bar and order a gin and tonic. I slowly edged away from the tech desk, and as I did, the sound of wind and rain got louder and louder, until it was all I could hear. But the beautiful Sydney summer day on the stage remained undisturbed. The audience didn’t know that it was raining. And suddenly I realized that it wasn’t the fabricated world that had gone awry after all. Apparently the ambitions of the machine intelligence before me were still dormant. It was the real world that had turned intemperate.

Let me explain. The bio box was actually the stage of the old dance hall we were in and behind me were the glass windows of the building, covered over with paper to keep out any light. It was through these that the sounds of rain and wind, that were whipping the world outside, were coming from. The audience were surrounded by walls and thick black curtains which is why they couldn’t hear anything except what was happening on stage. I breathed an enormous sigh of relief, which did turn a few heads, as I leapt back to the desk just in time to press the next cue.

I’d been so excited to be able to watch each performance and, like an alchemist, or a high tech god, add sound and light to the world on the stage. But now I realized that I was the one in a performance, which had its very own soundscape, administered by the great tech operator in the sky. It was as if he or she had been watching me all along, like I’d been watching the audience and the actor on the stage.

“All the world’s a stage. And all the men and women merely players.

Had Shakespeare been a tech operator too? Perhaps he’d also had strange behind the scenes experiences? Maybe I too would now be able to write thirty seven plays and one hundred and fifty four sonnets.

school-of-arts-480x282 cropped

Theatre is a strange medium. Odd things happen. The space itself becomes a new character with every new play.  With all this drama perhaps the walls retain the residue of all that’s been before. All of those characters created, and then left behind when the actors move on; each set laboriously made and then exuberantly unmade. And what of that old ballroom that preceded us, I wouldn’t have been surprised if I’d suddenly heard the whisper of satin slippers and the flutter of dance cards.

Theatrical productions are the result of a temporary illusion imposed on a permanent structure; a new way to look at the world, a view into someone else’s experience. In the theatre you can live vicariously the human drama, suspend reality for a time; enjoy for an hour or so, another world, another place.  And when we emerge, and the lights come up, and the actor takes their encore, we slowly come back to our own realities. But we’ve experienced magic, perhaps we’ve had an epiphany; and hopefully that means we take a little more joy, or empathy, back out into the real world with us.

Outside of NSofA building.JPG

Image of Newtown School of Arts Ballroom, courtesy of Eastside FM

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My adventures with Princess Neroli

“The magic of the street is the mingling of the errand and the epiphany.” 1

It’s with a serious mission that I set off on this expedition to Carrington Road, but I’ve forgotten that these old industrial streets of the city’s inner west can seduce your soul.

To get there I take the train to Tempe, a tiny station on the Illawarra line, the main line south. It’s before 10am and so I’m lucky that a train stops there every ten minutes. Later on it will be a different story. I alight and immediately feel like I’ve wandered into a timeless place; a forgotten pocket of our sprawling metropolis. I feel like I’m in a country town despite the rise of modern apartment towers only half a kilometre away at Wolli Creek. There is a deep silence, disturbed by passing cars and trains, only as a pebble disturbs a green pond.

Apart from the Eucalypts and Jacarandas that line the footpath next to the station there are few trees; the main inhabitants here are asphalt, steel and concrete. But as I leave the station and walk over the railway bridge I realise this density of tar and cement hosts a feral ecology of its own. At the corner, the ground beneath a bill board is carpeted in wild garlic, and creeping ivy spreads across the ring wire fencing that protects this important piece of urban infrastructure.  Tempe is where Diego Bonnetto runs his wild food foraging toursand now I can see why. And it’s the track head for the Two Valley Trail3, a series of walking tracks that fork between the Cooks River and Wolli Creek.

But a meander along the 13km of this waterside walkway will have to wait for another day because I’m here to visit two warehouses: The Sydney Prop Centre and New Directions, both on Carrington Road; a street lined with Alexander Palms and 1930s art deco factory fronts. I start with a fuel stop at The Old Garage Cafe. Travel makes me hungry so I order coffee, a home made raspberry muffin, and an oil change on the side.

Once replenished I’m ready for the serious part of this jaunt. I first discovered Sydney Propswhile sourcing a vintage car bonnet for a theatre production and they came through with the goods. Today I’m looking for a wine barrel. (You guessed it – for another play!5) And they don’t let me down. This place is a cornucopia of artefacts, anything and everything you might need to put on a show, organise a paegent, create a spectacle. I wander through a menagerie of fibreglass animals. Or is it a zoo, a horse stud, a circus? I meander down the aisle of a whole aeroplane of purple reclining seats, past fat and skinny fun park mirrors, through crate loads of baskets, beneath swaying Japanese lanterns, into a colourful Moroccan souk.


After enquiring about the hire of oak wine barrels I tear myself away from this wonderland and cross the road to my other destination.  Recently I’ve been dabbling in aromatherapy and I need a few items for my scented experiments. New Directionsis a natural skincare and wellbeing company.

Even though I’m not here for the essential oils I sniff and smell my way through Bergamot, Vetiver, Melissa, Lime, Rosemary, Cedarwood and Lemon Rose Geranium and finally pounce on the one I would really love to buy but can’t afford, Neroli. This is an intoxicating scent originating from 17th century Italy and named after Princess Nerola. A precious botanical oil, it’s distilled from the small white waxy flowers of the orange tree and known for its ability to soothe agitated nerves, relieve feelings of despair and reduce hypertension. It’s $47.30 for 6ml diluted in Jojoba oil so I limit myself to carefully testing it on my skin. I dab it on my pulse points, massage it into my temple, pat it onto my hair, rub it into my hands, and smear it all over my arms and legs; eyes closed, I breathe deeply the divine scent of bitter citrus blossoms with an undertone of dew soaked forest floor.

And after I’ve poured most of the bottle over me I decide it really is too expensive to purchase right now and drag myself away. I have to push past a bevy of TAFE students in black t-shirts participating in the Cosmetic Chemistry Workshops, and make my way around two ‘start up’ dudes who are loading latex gloves and beard nets into a trolley like they’re going out of style. But finally I’m in their packaging section where my blood pressure soars once again at the plethora of bottles, jars, caps, tins, canisters, eyedroppers, atomisers, spatulas, bags, boxes and wrapping.  I finally find the 100ml glass beaker and miniature glass funnel that I actually came for. Now I’m ready to leave. I slide across the wooden floorboards smelling like the Flemington Flower Markets at 5am on a Saturday morning. As I line up at the counter the salesperson begins to sneeze. Eventually it’s my turn and I quickly pay for my items and high tail it out of there.

Back at the station a lot of trains go by but none of them stop. It’s not a problem because I’m still blissfully sniffing myself. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed traipsing the magical backwoods of this forgotten Sydney suburb.

1 Rebecca SolnitWanderlust: A History of Walking





(Images: map courtesy of; orange blossom drawing courtesy of Wikicommons; all other photographs author’s own)

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Festive Season Survival Kit

What a year it’s been! It’s time to celebrate!

And here, no matter who your family or friends are, is a festive season survival kit to take with you everywhere and indulge in as needed. It’s easy. Just pack the following ingredients in an Esky with plenty of ice and keep handy throughout the festivities:

  • a six pack of common sense craft beer (available at good independent breweries, choose middle of the range in price, and don’t shake before you open)
  • a Mason jar of freshly whipped confidence cream (eat straight from the jar with a spoon, as needed, to remind you that your presence is a gift to family and friends. WARNING: don’t over indulge)
  • a chunk of fortified, well aged, blue vein questions (may be a bit smelly, and not to everyone’s taste, but persevere as it’s the Royal Easter Show Gold Medal winner in the Easy Flow Conversation category)
  • a mini herb and spice pantry to add zest and flavour to any event: cinnamon (for sweetness), basil (for empathy), bergamot (for gratitude or attitude), spikenard (to just stop thinking about the year that’s been, or your boss, or your in-laws, or your bestie that’s been behaving like a beastie or….), frankincense (for calm), and fennel (to aid digestion)
  • a plate of ‘be here now’ biscuits (if out of ‘be here now’, substitute self medicating grade cannabis)
  • a thermos of laughter (or strong coffee if driving)
  • and finally don’t forget the Christmas cake, well wrapped in cheese cloth, it should fit nicely next to the half bottle of golden spiced rum; after all there’s at least a glass left over from soaking the fruit, and yourself, while cooking. As for the French Cognac that you used for feeding the cake after it was baked….



(Images courtesy of Giorgi family album and Wikicommons)

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Spirit of Place: Walking Burwood Road

Burwood Park is a testament to the strange and unexpected wonders that can be discovered in public spaces. I began my wander near the WWI memorial arch where I’d spied the white umbrellas of the park cafe. And  I was glad for my coffee when I came upon the Sandakan memorial only a few meters further into the park. This commemorates the 2,345 Allied prisoners of war held captive in Borneo and forced to march from Sandakan to Ranau during WWII. Only six of them survived.

On this beautiful  sunny day in early November I contemplated the awful suffering of the thousands of men and women caught in world conflicts.  But as I continued to explore, the newly green grass on the cricket oval reminded me that it was spring, and the four months without rain had ended only two days before.

After spotting an outdoor performance shell, a giant chessboard, a mini lake, a community centre, a memorial to Confucius, and a multitude of Ibis, I left this unique public garden and walked south along eclectic Burwood Road. Burwood lies 10 kilometres west from the Sydney CBD between two of the old Aboriginal tracks that became Parramatta Road and Liverpool Road. Burwood Road stretches from  north to south joining the two.  Perhaps because of this geography, and the placement of the railway station just on the half way point, Burwood is one of those suburbs that despite the advent of a Westfield’s, has remained a lively strip; a mix of Middle Eastern restaurants mingling seductively with East Asian eateries. Sahara By The Park, Golden Globe Seafood, Sydney Dumpling King, Momiji Japanese, Mint Vietnamese, Little Nepal and Mee Noodle House, to name a few.

Burwood Road is grungy, never without traffic, especially buses; and the footpaths are crowded with commuters waiting to get on those buses, and pedestrians weaving their way between the station and the shopping centre. And there are smokers and beggars and dawdling couples and dogs in sidewalk cafes. And there are also two pubs: The Burwood Hotel and the Avalon Hotel.

Inside the Burwood Hotel the long counter of the bar has a glass wall behind it revealing the once hidden kitchen of the Burwood Eating House. This is where, according to their website, ‘East Meets West’. And so as you order your drinks you watch the white clad chefs juggle the pots and pans that will become Roasted Lamb Rump with pomegranate pearls and Wagyu Beef Burger with house pickle sauce or Korean Chicken Drumsticks with chilli, lime and peanuts.

And then there is the second pub, The Avondale Hotel. There are no glass windows here. The outside is a bottle shop but not one where you step inside to browse. The bottles of booze are displayed in a glass case set into the front wall of the pub and you ask for what you want through a barred window. Reminiscent of troubled outback towns rather than the main street of a lively Sydney suburb.

On the ground level is the front bar which I go into. The walk up and down the street has made me thirsty. There are three old fellows sitting on stools with a wall of screens above their heads. Every dog race in the country seems to be being broadcast loudly but despite this the men turn and look at me as I enter. Immediately one of them calls out, “Ladies are upstairs Love,” meaning the toilets I presume.

Obviously that’s the only reason a woman would ever step in here, the logic might run. And I’m not sure that they’d be wrong I think, as I climb the wildly out of place gold plated staircase, which conjures in my imagination the opulent casinos of Macau, not an old suburban pub in Australia. Or perhaps this is still a segregated pub, and it’s the Ladies Lounge they were directing me to. But at the top of the stairs is the VIP Lounge. I’m tempted to have a quick flutter. Luckily I also spot the door to the Ladies (toilet not Lounge) right next to the gambling den. I do need to go, so I silently thank the old blokes who are obviously mind readers.

When I come out I’m tempted by a long, open corridor; the covered balcony overlooking the railway line. This pub may have a narrow frontage but it hides architectural depth.  And then I realise that this pub has a Bistro too, with what look like generous serves of classic pub food.

It isn’t enough to walk around Burwood I’ll have to come back and eat here, over and over again. Perhaps I’ll need to move in for a few months to really experience it properly. Unfortunately this suburb has classy old bones, reflected in the property prices. People want to live here, either in brand new high rise apartments or in beautiful old Federation houses that sit elegantly on cultivated quarter acre blocks. But that’s the beauty of being a tourist in my own city: window shopping and crowd gazing are free; and I can come back as many times as I want.

When we walk around our cities we discover unknown terrain, and later when we relive the small delights of that new landscape in our  memories, although it remains communal civic space, it also becomes uniquely ours. In so doing  history is rendered to a human scale and the future becomes cause for hope.



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The Next Big Thing

“Bowl head! Bowl head!”

“Stupid wog! Look at her hair!”

I’d thought my 1920s Parisian style bop was quite sophisticated.

“Did your mother put a bowl over your head to cut your hair?” one of them snarled, as the rest of the group of Year 8 girls crowded around me.

“No,” I wanted to say. “My hairdresser recommended this as the perfect style cut for me.”

But I didn’t. Not just because I was petrified and knew that opening my mouth at this point could result in a black eye, which although it would match my hair, wouldn’t suit my face, but because it wasn’t true. My mother had cut my hair. But she hadn’t used a bowl.

So I just cowered quietly on the bench praying that they would get bored soon and notice one of their other victims; perhaps someone who’d stupidly thought they should actually wear the regulation school uniform. When they did finally leave I finished my salami sandwich before going to sit in the library for the rest of the lunch break. The library was a safe space that the bullies didn’t venture into, probably because they couldn’t read.

The next time my mother suggested a haircut I pleaded with her to take me to the hair dresser. Strangely she agreed and booked me into the salon that she went to. Maybe her scissors were blunt that day. Whatever the case, I was grateful.  I needed a new look. I scoured the pages of Vogue, Vanity Fair and Dolly and it quickly became obvious what the most sophisticated hairstyle of the moment was.

The royal wedding had only been a few months earlier. It was attended by three hundred and fifty guests and watched by about 750 million people on TV worldwide; evidence that the hairstyle worked. If I adopted it, not only might the bully girls show a little more respect but maybe one of the boys I had a crush on might even look my way.

When I arrived at school on Monday morning I proudly waited for everyone’s reaction. No one said anything until music class when one of the girls asked the teacher if we could listen to some Duran Duran.

“Of course not,” the teacher replied.

“Maybe Simon Le Bon can sing for us then?” she said as she pointed straight at me, while everyone else writhed around on their desks shrieking with laughter.

“Boy cut! Boy cut!”

“Stupid wog! Look at her hair!”

I’d thought my smooth short layers looked just like Lady Di’s.

“She looks like a boy! Her mother took her to the barber!”

It’s taken many years to get over this childhood trauma. I count myself lucky, so many other victims of bullying have not come out of it so well. But I still feel insecure at the hairdressers. I don’t trust myself to make a choice that won’t rip the scars off old wounds. And it’s as if the stylist with the shears in their hands senses my fear because no matter how firmly I request just a 2cm trim, they always try to convince me to try something new.

“Maybe a chin length, Parisian style bop?” they suggest.  “Very chic. Would really suit your features.”

And they’re fascinated by the giant white stripe on the side of my head that makes me look like a skunk and is no doubt the result of traumatised brain cells. I can never tell if they are trying not to laugh at the fact that I refuse to colour it or are wondering if its the next big thing.

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10 Things To Do In between Croissants

When I was at university I read Simone De Beauvoir’s memoirs and fell in love with the French Existentialists and their subversive lifestyle. It seemed they sat in Parisian cafes long into the night, drinking coffee and cocktails and talking about all the important things: love and sex, politics and philosophy. Not only did they address the perennial question: How to Live? but they also knew how to dress. Think black: turtleneck and trench coats, berets and boots. I immediately adopted this Rive Gauche uniform but succeeded in looking more like a member of an unsuccessful punk band rather than a member of the French Resistance.

So it was with great excitement, but also a little trepidation, that I picked up Sarah Bakewell’s At The Existentialist Café: Freedom, Being & Apricot Cocktails in a bookstore recently. Would the adventures of Sartre and De Beauvoir and the other philosophers in their milieu leave me wondering if my life had been a complete waste with no meaning or purpose whatsoever to my existence?

Fortunately before I could succumb to my existentialist angst I got sidetracked by what the author was saying. “Existentialists think that what makes humans different from all other beings is the fact that we can choose what to do. In fact we must choose: the only thing we are not free to do is not be free…. I may be influenced by biology, culture, and personal background, but at each moment I am making myself up as I go along, depending on what I choose to do next. As Sartre put it: ‘There is no traced-out path to lead man to his salvation; he must constantly invent his own path.’ ” 1

What a terrifying thought. But perhaps it was also hopeful. Even though I may not have done anything exciting or worthwhile with my life so far, I could always choose to do so in future. Even though I was currently sitting in a cafe eating a lovely chocolate croissant it didn’t mean that I’d have to do it tomorrow. I was free to choose what to do with my life. Tomorrow I could begin training for the half marathon instead.

As I read on I was pleased to see that the author agreed with me about the hope stuff. She questions what Existentialism might mean for us today in an age where we have become uncertain about freedom and bombarded by the idea that there are so many forces beyond our control in the world. She suggests that although we find this a disturbing idea it is also reassuring; letting us off the hook of personal responsibility. “Sartre would call that Bad Faith. …Moreover, recent research suggests that those who have been encouraged to think they are unfree are inclined to behave less ethically.” 2


Oh. Maybe it wasn’t so hopeful. I ordered another croissant.

This philosophical stuff requires lots of energy as does living in a world where there is so much to do and yet where doing anything at all seems so hard. Had I forgotten how to live freely? Was I just an  amoral automaton? I needed to take responsibility, and perhaps order a cocktail.

I decided to make a list. You’ve got to start somewhere and anyone can make a list. I spent a little bit of time on the heading for my list, after all it’s the first thing that I will read each time I use my list.

How to beat the forces of evil currently ruling the world (or things to do in between croissants):

  • make a date to see a friend
  • have a screen free day
  • read another book;
  • go for a walk in the park.
  • become informed about an issue;
  • do your job with care;
  • smile at a stranger;
  • give money to someone that’s hungry;
  • sign a petition or send an email to an MP;
  • order another croissant



2 p319  At The Existentialist Café: Freedom, Being & Apricot Cocktails, Sarah Bakewell, Vintage 2016

Images: Punks, courtesy of ‘A History of Bad Girl Clothing’ blog; and book cover: At The Existentialist Café.

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Rage against the dying of the light

I hate Vivid.

Or I did. That’s because essentially I’m a snob. If a whole lot of people like something then you can be sure I won’t be caught dead anywhere near it. And that’s what I thought when I first heard about this over rated light show. A modern example of bread and circuses for the masses.  Little did I know that it had started in 2009 as a light festival show casing energy efficiency. I only knew that hundreds of thousands of people flocked into Sydney every June long weekend to stare at the liquid-like images projected onto the sails of the Opera House; or stood mesmerised as the walls of the MCA turned into bowls of coloured jelly.  And perhaps I hated Vivid because it had hijacked this long weekend that marks the beginning of winter – the least holiday like of seasons. A time to retreat and wait for the warmth to return.

But then I remembered that the Saturday night of the Queen’s Birthday long weekend was  traditionally Cracker Night. Walking home from school on the Friday you’d spot the various wood piles on street verges all ready to become bonfires. And in just about every garage was a stash of fireworks purchased from the local shop; Throwdowns, Bungers Roman Candles and Catherine Wheels all ready to turn the average back yard into a mini war zone. And on the Monday morning the inevitable news stories would appear reporting how many hands and fingers had been blown off over the weekend.

In our household it was also  the weekend closest to my father’s birthday which fell on the 13th of June.  That was a great excuse to gather family and friends around the back yard barbecue. I remember burying potatoes in the embers; to be cooked slowly and eaten late that night, long after the cake and fireworks had disappeared. But although the long weekend is still with us cracker night has long been abolished and the majority of children now retain all there fingers into adulthood.

As a child I wouldn’t have thought it possible to remove such an event from the calendar. It would have seemed like getting rid of Christmas. And equally as an adult I would not have thought it possible that I would come to love Vivid.  So what happened to change my mind?

Perhaps I’m no longer a snob.

But more likely it could be because of the huge amounts of time I now spend on public transport.  I refuse to look at my phone like everybody else and instead insist on looking around like a crazy person.  So the other night I was sitting on a train at about 10 pm just looking around. And I realised that everybody else was also looking around. In fact the train was really crowded and no one was looking at a screen.  I was in a carriage filled with happy parents and sleepy children. I went into a panic. Had my refusal to look at my phone meant that I’d missed a major event? I knew that Harry had recently been here but had the Queen actually made an appearance for her birthday weekend? What other reason could there possibly be for all these people to be out in this big, dangerous city on this cold, wet winter night? And that’s when I remembered Vivid.

So the next night I went into town to see for myself what was going on. I wandered with the masses, caught up in the incandescence that had transformed our little harbour city into a winter wonderland. There were ethereal columns and human crosswords, fluorescent sunflowers and giant luminous mailboxes; and an electric forest of Morton Bay Figs. And there were talks and walks, activities and artworks, and of course food everywhere. I even spotted teenagers looking calm and happy, talking quietly in groups or looking vaguely off into the distance. This was something I hadn’t seen since the year 2000 when Sydney became the Olympic city and I was convinced that the government had pumped happy gas through the city streets to keep us all calm. Were they at it again? Because what else could explain my enchantment. This sense of wonder and joy despite the pouring rain. This was magical. This was the perfect winter festival.

And suddenly I realised that Vivid had replaced the cultural tradition of Cracker Night. And I was transported back to the innocence of childhood. So despite my initial misgivings and the shallow satisfactions of paranoid conspiracy theories, I am now an avid Vivid fan. I’ve decided that an event that brings people together and dispels the temptation to hibernate is a good thing. Because as Dylan Thomas once wrote, ‘Do not go gentle into that good night…Rage, rage against the dying of the light.’ Particularly if while raging you meet the light globe, goggle wearing animals that can now be found in our Botanic Gardens during the festival. How could you not love ‘Rowi’ the electric Kiwi and her chick?

First image: Vivid Sydney 2016, James Horan/Destination NSW via Wikimedia Commons

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