An Adventure Wrongly Considered

It's impolite to talk unless you have something to say. It is for this reason that the blog I sometimes keep has been a little thin on content lately but these are lean times for narrative in my life, dear friends. Mundane things that are available to you all are what has kept me from having a story worth telling in a while, things like work. You might object that I said things (plural) and listed only one thing (singular) and you would object from the entirely defensible position of correctness. There has been only one (single) thing lately that has been devouring the cheaply costumed charades I use to mask a life made up largely of boredom and small doings punctuated by interludes of digressions on the topic of leading a life of boredom and small doings, and that one (single) thing, if you have managed to keep a hold of the main thrust of this sentence, is my recently aquired new job.

It is to my free time as, for so many years Ross was to Rachael, incompatible. I wouldn't be telling half truths if I were to apply to your consciousness the abstract idea, made more cogent and interperable by the probability that you know me and have a mental mannequin in your head to place in the scene, that I worked something like 25 hours during the 48 of the weekend just gone. The smoking of your pipe is an action for you to undertake of your own volition but consider it primed and filled with ample material by yours truly.

Anyway that aside I haven't ceased to live completely. There are still stretches of time during which I am expected and even forced to parse the behaviours of people and places in the way that only I can, spherically opposed to the majority of my readership as I am here in Sydney. So here goes, an actual event, from this life that I'm now leading.

So I move into an apartment with a co-worker. And it's nice, it's a lovely place. It's own independant loveliness is thrown into sharp relief moreover by the filthiness and slum-ishness of places I'd looked at earlier. There was even a brief interlude, unreported here in the interest of preserving my own laziness, wherein I met with an estate agent looked at a place I thought was unfit for the quarantine of hibola positive monkeys, agreed to live there, gave him 300 bucks, returned to work triumphant at the procurement of digs, found out it was in the center of the police no-go area of Sydney, read an article on the net which was headlined "50 riot guards injured during incident" (which pertained to my new home) and recontacted the professional liar/scoundrel from whom I accepted the place to whimper "No, no, not me, I can't live THERE..."

But I, characteristically, digress. So this new place, wonderful. I'm out of hostels. I can now call myself a real person again. Or as much of a real person as the reader will grant me without smiling to themselves at the thought of me performing the day to day tasks of a legitimate person. So this particular evening, having been at a pub to watch a band, after a pretty long and beleaguring day, I realise that still in my bag are a couple of special brownies, a gift from the hyper-nice girlfriend of one of my new workmates. And there I am thinking, like King Lear, making plans in my head, unaware, that though I'm mostly a good and righteous person the universe wants to take me down a peg or two, and I decide on what I believe in good faith at the time, is the best course of action for my own self thenceforth. That action? Well here it is. I was about tired of the gig, I wanted to relax. I'll eat, I thought, one of these brownies right now.

I'll eat that sucker and then about ten minutes later I'll hop in a cab and head towards my new place of residence. By the time I get home, I reasoned, this item of psychotropic confectionary will have begun to exercise it's effects on my body and mind. That achieved I will retire to my new bedroom and listen to music, safe in this promised hazy bubble and awake refreshed and rebuilt, ready for another soul destroying day.

So brownie ingested I begin to say my goodbyes. I hail a cab with no trouble, though it took perhaps a little longer to be on the road than I had anticipated, all was still well with my agenda. And I arrive, in the agreeable suburb of Glebe, now beginning to feel, there's no other way to say it, good and stoned. I'm giggling to myself as I open the outside door to the apartment block. I had, that morning, when I got the keys cut, chosen, almost as a dare, a bright red heart shaped key ring. That was enough. And so I laughed my way up the stairs at this incongruous mechanism of key association. The brownie had begun to serve me just as I had hoped. And then it strikes.

I'm at the inner door, the final hurdle. Peace and sanctuary lay just beyond it's array of small glass panels. So near and yet so far. The key we had cut but that morning failed in it's most basic duty: the opening of the door. Panic. Cold streaks of panic. Where to go? What to do? Who to call? I didn't know anyone... Adam was in New Zealand, my sister had gone, her month long stint in Sydney ended merely days previous. Help, I needed help. Someone to talk to. Fuck, I'm pretty stoned now. Maybe it's me, maybe that's just what it is, I'm not trying it right. I was never good and opening locks that needed a little extra jimmying, that special knack. But there's no one around. And I don't know the place. I'll ring Chris. Pockets feel like they're filled with cotton wool. My phone feels like the buttons resitance is proved by little panels of cotton wool. The phone itself takes on the characteristics of cotton wool. This isn't like being really drunk. I can't brute force my way out. Slow determination is the key. But not too slow, or your'll forget what you were doi...

Wait why do I have my phone out? I should go inside. Shit! I can't get in. Oh yeah, I was ringing Chris. Ring ring. Chris, Hi man, listen ahh you wouldn't believe this but.. the key doesn't open the door. Yeah. I know. It is. You're where. Oh it's an hour west. No no, I'm fine. Really it's cool I'll ahh. Yeah. Listen I'll do that and I'll see you tomorrow. Hang on there's someone coming up the stairs, I'll ask them to.... Hi, listen, sorry I just moved in here, and I got keys cut today, but they don't work. I'm a little drunk though, could you help me out? Try them? Aww thanks mate. (Wow I can't believe I managed to sound that articulate... What the fuck did she put in these things. Ha ha, stupid keyring. Did I just get away with saying mate? - Shit he's having trouble too. What next? Your move brain...) Thanks mate, don't worry about it, I'll just go stay with a friend. Thanks again.

(That's twice now you've said mate. And you don't have any friends you can stay with) A cab, wave. Full, shit. That one has lights on. Walk down there. Damn it's going. Just wait here. What the hell was that? There's possums out here I betcha. Hiya can you ahh take me to the city? Thanks. (Jesus does he have to take the corners that fast, I'm going to be sick. Oh fuck, no not here. what would happen if I just heaved right here? Or into his lap, fuck I have nowhere to go to clean up, I'd never get a hotel. And he wouldn't let me out the cab. He'd probably hit me, and then I'd be stoned and badly beaten and covered in vomit standing at the reception desk of a hotel looking for a room for the night. Ha ha. Shit stop laughing, he's looking at you weird.) Yeah mate, right here is fine.

Sliding door, bright lights, reception. Get ready to talk, don't act stoned. (Note to self: in preparation for not acting stoned don't remind self to 'not act stoned.' As a simple instruction it has no intrinsic value, imparts no real advice, is likely, in fact, to only enhance contemplative state of mind and increase risk of appearing stoned.) Shit she's looking at you. Your turn.

Hi (she's got dreads, tell her the truth she'll get it. Wait is that discriminative? Shit, just say something.) listen I just moved into an apartment in Glebe, and these are my new keys. Here's the twist. They don't work, new housemate is hours out of town and I'm extremely stoned. Please tell me you have a room for the night? Oh ok, don't worry about it, sorry.

Four hostels and hotels later, still no room at the inn and the white hot panic turns black. homelessness for the night, lost unable to function, wrapped in a blanket of marijuana induced disregard for my own body. Back to port one. Hi, me again. Sorry to bother you is there anywhere else you can think of x, y, and z are all full. I'm totally fucked aren't I? Yeah thanks, the number of a few places would be great. Yeah, the Y, I stayed there before, yeah thank. Cotton phone again. Ring ring. Hi room? No, come on. It's 2am there has to be someone who hasn't arrived yet. Just gimmie that one, really there's a huge tip in it for you. Yeah, yeah, do that, book it for me online. I'll be there in ten minutes . Yeah it's 5432 4402 12 (you don't need the rest, do you, dear reader?) Thanks.

Out on the street again. I need to eat something or I'm going to collapse. 7eleven. Yes. Crisps, oh yeah I love those, and cookies. Fuck I can't even walk properly. That breeze is gorgeous. Okay where was I going?

A long walk later and I'm there. Hang on I spoke to a french guy on the phone. This dude isn't French... Sorry sir, no reservation for you. You sure it wasn't the other Y hotel?

Shit. Streets. Cab. Finally. Y. Redfern. Thanks. Door. Reception. You? yes you, oh thanks. Yeah, nightmare keys didn't work, taxis all night hotels full. Thanks. Room 85 oh god brilliant thank you. Oh I'm a web developer. Yeah, oh you do? Really, no I don't have a card (Why does he want a business card?? Why does he want to talk to me about work? I NEED TO GO TO BED!!!!!) Don't I look fucked up enough to be the sort of person this guy doesn't want to talk to?) 20 minutes later and the sweet embrace of hotel bed is bear hugging me and I never want to wake up...

Beep beep, phone alarm. House keeping. Check out time, oh God.... Can't think straight, where am I? Oh yeah. What the hell did she put in those brownies?


The unspeakable truth: I'm eating another right now :)

A Suspension of Disbelief

There's a lovely little art house cinema in Sydney harbour. It has a beautifully tiled foyer with a circular staircase that leads to a bar or a restaurant above. It plays the sort of movies I like. The snack counter has beer and combo number 2 is popcorn with a glass of house red. I can't imagine wanting to drink alcohol before watching a movie you wanted to pay attention to but that's the sort of vibe here. The screens aren't huge either. And there's a girl who works in the box office, who I haven't actually met but who I'm told is an art college student, who spends her days there chopping up movie posters to make collages of each film. It's a nice touch. My last trip there was Saturday and there was a bride standing on the circular black and white marble floor with her wedding gown spread out having her picture taken from above. I'm sure it was a nice photo. Anyway I saw a film that I'd just decided to watch without any preconception based on a poster I found somehow intriuging. The premise of the film is interesting enough to warrant going when you really think about it, which is hard in these days of internet news. It's hard to consider anything truly amazing when every second email you get shows you something new and amazing, something that without the web you'd never have seen. And to some extent I think that's deadened our sense of wonder. It's blunted mine anyway.

So here it is, 'Man on Wire' is a documentary about a man called Phillipe Petit. In 1974 he travelled to New York and in a brilliant piece of guerilla DIY rigged a steel cable between the north and south towers of the world trade centre and walked across it 8 times. That's it. Wow, I can hear you say. And when you really put yourself there and imagine what it must have been like to see, what it must have been like to do, when you really put yourself there and try to imagine how the wind would howl 450 metres up, how your body would rock with fear then maybe you can bring youself to want to know more. Well that's where I was on Saturday, trying not to let this age of constantly eroding boundaries of amazement kill my jaw-drop reflex as I entered the theatre.

And wow. Really Wow. Whenever I hear people tell me a film brought them to tears I struggle to find the value in that. More often than not I don't want to be upset by a piece of entertainment. Great if a film can affect you in that way but how willing are you to have that happen, to surrender to that manipulation however much it may be worthwhile?

How about this? When was the last time a film brought you to tears of joy? Told you about something which seems merely amazing and showed you in simple convincing terms why it's actually truly beautiful? When was the last time that a quirky, animated, playful, inspiring, talented, driven individual was sketched out for you in ways that make you wish you had a tenth of his passion? In ways that will make you look, at least, if not find, something like that passion for yourself? I can't do this movie justice here but I can try to spread the feeling of real excitement that my sister and I left the cinema with, the feeling that you'd just been let in on a new perspective that makes the light of the world a tiny bit brighter:

Go watch Man on Wire. Today.

So what have we learned?

Why do people travel? Scratch that, why am I traveling? Frankly I don't have much of a satisfactory answer.

I've always felt like I should resist automatic impulses. Whether it's a reactionary, self flagellating mechanism that developed out of some binary logic taught to me as a child that things that come easy aren't worth having / doing or just an idea that if something is easy and anyone can do it then it's uniqueness is diluted somehow, cheapened by popularity, I can't say but I suppose because I knew that because it would be in some way difficult it would thus be worthwhile and possibly character building to circumnavigate the globe. Besides it's not exactly kosher to be as opinionated as I am about so many things, places and people without finding them, seeing them, meeting them.

But that doesn't do me well enough. I read once in an alternative version of the ten commandments a rule which I felt I should always try to keep: "Thou shalt not stop liking a band just because they become popular." And so just wanting to do something different isn't enough justification for me being here doing what I'm doing. (Not that it's particularly novel these days when almost everyone within five years of my age goes on a trip like this.)

So what's left? I suppose when I can see something coming, unless it's something I really want, I work to stop it happening. I could see the blocks arrange themselves in the distance once, a few years ago, and they formed a fairly pleasant seeming life, but I knocked them over, and would do it again. And why did I do that? Because there's nothing worse than knowing what's around the corner. Give me a surprising future any day above a prescribed safety. And I know it's an ancient eastern curse: May you live in interesting times. Maybe some people can just see further along at what's coming. Maybe some people don't even look, but I've never been one of them. In fact I spend more time staring at the ever approaching horizon than I do almost anything else.

Well it's certainly been different. For the most part anyway. Mind you I'd have to admit that the more things change the more they stay the same. I'm on the other side of the world right now. And it's late at night. I'm in a gaming internet cafe and the props required for this scene have fallen serendipitously onto the stage and lay now as they would, probably do, in fact, everywhere, anywhere else. There's the serious game player, whinnying like a donkey with grammatically mal formed insults and put downs ( the lions share of which denigrate himself in greater measure than his victim ), a girl whose wrists still bear the mark of travel -friendship bracelets from some pseudo utopia given in sincerity by an armchair Zionist who's memory were it not for the internet would have faded in the drink and drug tinged haze but which is flickering into focus in front of her right now as I type these words, courtesy of the misinformation super highway.

His dreadlocks were never grown with a skype headset in mind, but she doesn't notice the incongruity - she's happy that a living souvenir from a part of the world she may never have seen - if it weren't for her answering the same call of the road that I did - is continuing in some small way to edit her life.

I'm sitting here myself, wondering what this has done to me, what it's made of me that my separate pieces couldn't have been assembled into without this monumental journey. And I honestly don't know. I'm getting up in the morning (granted I still live in a hostel) to go write code for the day. Alright sydney harbour is a short walk away but functionally speaking what's different? Not much anymore. If I really open my eyes I can see it again. But when you're travelling you become like a reverse kitten. Your eyes are wide open in the beginning but the more time goes on they more they close. Soon it's like you're walking around not seeing anything, the way you do at home. The difference is, now I can turn it on when I want, I can look at this place through the lens of a foreigner and that's something I hope I can take home.




I may not always have been a finder but at least I'm out there seeking.

Note: I love the internet. It's my workplace and my playground but honestly on the road it's the closest thing I have to a home...

Return of the Mack

Hi. Sorry. I know. You didn't even know if I was still alive. I'm a selfish thoughtless bastard and I don't deserve you, but stay, wait a minute. I can explain. Just give me three minutes. Then leave forever if you want.

Where the hell were you?

I was busy, alright. I had to find a job and I couldn't do that without a working holiday visa. God if I could go back and just check the box on the web form that said 'Yes, I intend to work in australia' I wouldn't have been off the map for so long. I would probably have been proper set up by now. But it's not all bad. There are worse punishments for a lack of fore-sightedness than a holiday in New Zealand where you get to check out the city of Wellington and meet up with your sister for some museum perusing and theatre going. But that's no excuse for neglecting you, I know. The thing is when we got to Wellington we thought we might as well see what the work situation was like there. And so we did interviews. I made my mind up during a chat with Ann that I really didn't want to be in Wellington long term. So it was back to Sydney for me. And without Adam too. He had a follow up interview and I needed to be back to meet with people for a job that needed to be filled right away. So there I was, a week ago, in Sydney, alone knowing no one, staying in a hotel, wondering, as I often do, 'What the fuck?'

Well... then what?

It wasn't all bad, some friends were in Sydney, Derek and Saranne of further up the coast fame. So that was nice. And I did some interviews. Things didn't go so bad. And the weather in Wellington got to Adam so he came over not long after me. We stayed and are still staying in hostels and have to move a lot because we never know how long to stay for and are frantically trying to secure an apartment for ourselves. But I found a company that makes games out here, Flash games, facebook games, cool things. I spoke with them on the phone and interviewed a couple of hours later. We actually chatted about games during the interview and the vibe was great. Totally what I wanted to be honest.

And...?

They hired me.

Really?

Yeah, I started the next morning. It's cool, a lot of work and pretty challenging but great.

Well, ...congratulations I suppose.

Thanks. So ah, we cool again? I mean, it was hectic and all and I know I came back here without even any pictures but...

Oh forget about it, I'm just so glad you're back!

Great, I hate falling out. I promise I'll never leave for this long again. And I'll say more next time, I just wanted to make sure things were okay between us before I came charging back here like nothing happened.

You silly sausage.

Death of a Campervan

The sun rises on the final day and we know it's over. There isn't a word spoken to acknowledge the denoument but with every cycle of the wheels the reality that our time together is over only becomes more harsh and pointed.

I started noticing road signs more and appreciating, if only because the petty annoyance of it was now to be relegated to the dusty halls of memory forever more, the odd wrong turn, the drag it's fibreglass roof gave in the wind. With every oncoming roundabout my clenched teeth were loosened and I stopped worrying about the things that the inertia of navigating the circular interchange would certainly send flying because the end was near.

Even as this day, a day like any other, was dawning the sun had begun to set on our most recent companion. And as I stifled a tear, our three hour (4 mile) journey through the winding east side streets of Sydney at it's end, a map crumpled in my tight fist, I looked at our campervan, the ship of our emotional desert, the physical manifestation of our psychological locomotion, parked, it's headlights the sad eyes of a puppy begging it's indifferent master not to leave it at the pound, I said to myself, quietly:
"Fuck You, Campervan. Fuck you."

Am I required perforce to drive home the full impression that campervan travel left on me to the reader? I think not. It's one of those things that's fine in principle. You get a bedroom on wheels and with your driving gloves on tight and a stubby cigar held between your jaws you explore a new country safe in the knowledge that there will never be an inn whose owner says "No room," because the ass you rode in on is all the room you need. But like so many things that are fine in principle the reality is somewhat less romantic. Like going to the gym: one thinks of health, the outdoors, looking good in shorts, a satisfying sweat.

One rarely is encouraged to visualise, when being sold membership to a gymnasium, oneself vomiting from overexertion, or the dark evenings when all one can see through the window is oneselves' withered carcass pulling itself in an awkward gait over the neverending black plastic road to early death, a corpse in animation: Sisyphus on a treadmill. So it goes with campervan travel. The harsh realities of it are thus: Imagine sleeping on a thin spartan cushion, the thickness of one you'd expect to be provided on the wooden bench of the viewing room during an exectution in the early 20's. Imagine now having no room to sit up in this bed. It is cold enough to freeze the testicles right off of a brass monkey when you lay your shivering head down, in three layers of clothing.

But consistency is the enemy of the efficient tormentor. A subject can become accustomed to any amount of consistent misery so what to do? Well have it become unbearably warm at around 6 in the AM. Yes, of course, you could almost hear Herman Mengele cry, that's it. Freeze thaw action it's called in modern Geography. A month of that, and eating microwaved supernoodles while sleeping in holiday parks people with the armies of the white hair. The over 70s. Ghostly Man and wife feeding each other spoonfuls of yoghurt or mashed potato under a canopy at a plastic table wittering away to each other that "This is nice, isn't it?" "Yes, Dear." Happiness is a warm room with no wheels, whose mercy is manifest in her soft mattress and her constant temperature. Caravan Parks, like limbo from the annals of Catholicism, should be stricken from the record.

There follows a less embittered photographic essay on my wanderings towards and arrival at the welcome city of Sydney.


A Manta Ray. They are frigging huge. Feeling less despondent about the demise of Steve Irwin having seen one so close. They could probably just touch you to death.


The view from the underside of a large and carnivorous fish. Unpleasant.


A testament to the aforementioned low temperature to be found within our van. These sheets had come out of the wash and the wrapping of them around ourselves was an almost indecent joy.

As can be seen from my puerile face.


The ugliest of exotic fish - a Titan Triggerfish. I saw one of these diving in Thailand (the fish wasn't diving, I was. Well I suppose it was too but it wasn't wearing SCUBA gear) and apparently they bite divers when they're in the mood. It's described as similar to a bad dog bite. Don't they look uglier now, hearing that?

The almost Jane Austen-esque-edly named Darling Harbour in Sydney. A very pleasant place indeed.


The inside of a Kangaroo. This was in a museum by the way. Not just a zoo that hates animals.


The grand view of the large tropical fish tank in the Sydney Aquarium which was, not to make it sound untrustworthy, extremely fishy.


A tiny squid. I've decided I now want a fish tank full of these little guys. Apparently they're quite intelligent. I got the impression from this one he was well aware of me. I even took a picture while he was eyeing me, using the flash, just to see his reaction. He blinked and swam off, almost mouthing "WANKER."


A prehistoric possum. It weigh(s)(ed) 3 tonnes.


I can't imagine this fossil was taken from the earth intact like this. Proves a long held belief that you can't trust anyone who works with bones all day. Especially butchers.


Interesting to look at behind glass however I would happily eject my lunch through whatever orifice was closest at the sight of one in the wild.


Artificial coral reefs. Exponentially more luminous than the real thing but very James Bond villain conference room none the less.


The harbor so suggestively named you'd almost want to hug it, Darling.


I think this one is self explanatory.