Category Archives: Travel Journal

Version 0.35 (Last Few Days in Perth)

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02-12-19

I’m out with a few hostelers at Cottlesloe Beach, a popular area just a bit outside Perth. I’m not sure why I’m here. Probably because the attractive German girl. But I leave for Veitnam in two days. So…

At the least I may write a bit. And get some sun. But what to write? It’s unplanned and without the usual impetuses that motivate me.

I thought my week here in Perth would be too long, but it seems as though it will have been a perfectly appropriate amount of time. I’ve met some very nice people at the hostel and there has been so much going on in the city that I’ve found a wealth of interesting, and even free, things to do, in addition to certain tasks I’ve set myself regarding onward travels.

There is a beautiful aboriginal art exhibition happening at the Art Gallery of West Australia that only opened a few days ago. Extraordinary paintings and sculptures that are being produced by these people. And extraordinary the way they transmute their mythology of world creation, dreams, and landscape into living artworks, canvases of astonishing beauty and abstractness.

In addition to this exhibition there was also an immense light-art installation at King’s Park that I went to twice. Again, an event of magic and magnificent beauty which nearly moved me to tears. Its message, on the destruction of the natural environment—the death of these environments that are not found anywhere else in the world, or even within Australia itself—was enormously depressing and somber, though they ended it with voices of encouragement, hope from older folk who remember when these environments were pristine and have seen their decline, and the younger generation of children in elementary and middle school who don’t want to live on a dead planet, who worry about their future.

Version 0.34 (Last Looks)

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02-06-19

Out for a walk down along the quay, watching the sun sink behind the clouds, behind the windmills, behind the hills that eight miles distant fall away into the ocean. The sky that way is a brilliant yellow, like the skin of a Meyer lemon exploded. The clouds behind me are beginning to marmalade and pink lemonade… saying goodnight and goodbye. It feels like my last night here, and that is a melancholy thought. But this is life. A daily changing color palette. A fresh wind from a new direction carrying a different scent. The terns all sit the same way in the same place facing into the wind. They are something permanent. More permanent than the town, and the wind turbines, and the sand hills. They’ll always be here, as long as there is a rock to stand on, facing into the wind stoically, with strength and grace.

I turn around to look back at the town; its white houses gleaming faintly yellow, just slightly pee-stained, climbing up the hill, Mount Clarence, as it’s called. They’re all vaguely the same two shapes: rectangles and triangles. It is a scene that I imagine Cezanne would have painted were he in this spot today. The light is right. The plant life is right. The “mount” is right enough. It’s as if a town encroached upon the left flank of Mt. St. Victoire. But just for a bit. This is my favorite view of the city. It’s the first of it I saw when I got off the bus, and it’s the last I’ll see of it when I climb into the bus before it departs in the morning.

The wind turbines in the distance though.

I don’t recall having seen them before from this place. But perhaps I’m more conscious of them now from having climbed up to their spinning heights, blades whirring and whirling around at 200km/h; having stood beneath them with the ache of the pack in my shoulders, peering up at their titanic otherworldliness; having watched them swim stationary in the air,18 blades cutting the wind, from my camp along the Bibbulmun Track, at various times of the day for two days—the most alluring time being at sunset with the salt spray breezing up the cliffs toward them in yellow and orange and the clouds drifting high above them forming a letterhead, and the sun going down far in the distance as it always does (Wouldn’t it be magical for it to just once go down directly in front of you so that you might even put your hand on it and give it a good push to help it on its way?) staining the sky in myriad colors. That site is emblazoned into my mind forever, just like the view of Albany from the Anzac Peace Park.

Version 0.33 (We all Love old Things)

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02-15-19

I’m back in Albany after my two nights on the Bibbulmun. Right now being a curious tourist; one pretending to excellent taste, and also one who seems to think he has much more money to spend than in truth he does. I’m at Liberté, at the London Hotel—a beautiful place that I wish I had the scratch to stay at, but at least I can justify (sort of) paying a visit to its little bar on the ground floor.

I’m sitting at a wee little table by the door, sipping a White Negroni, and trying to photograph the bartender surreptitiously as she shakes and pours cocktails while the battery in my camera dies. Tonight is Blues and Booze Tuesday. For some reason I was thinking live music, but I’m perfectly happy with recordings. I have an excellent drink and that accursed hiking pack is no longer on my back. I’m only here because of the fabulous couple I met the first two days at the hostel. One of them recommended it to me, and it sounded like the sort of place that would be right up my alley.

It is.

It’s old and time-worn, with a sort of faded, washed out quality to it, like a forgotten polaroid found at the bottom of a desk drawer that you one day decided to rummage through.

It’s beautiful.

And it’s a bit of an anachronism.

The chairs glow in some places with the sheen of their original polish, but in others are dull and lusterless. There are cool posters pasted up all over the walls, kept company by a handful of mirrors and various other knick-knacks, antiques, and framed photographs old and new. The flat-screen tv is well out of place though, and the wall mounted air conditioner is too modern in appearance. A part of the ceiling has fallen away revealing the wooden planks which the plaster would have been applied to, but those are painted over white to match the ceiling rather than being patched.

A chandelier is suspended above the small bar in the center of the room where the drinks are poured and around which all of this revolves—all of us satellites, our eyes and ears trained on the goings on right behind that bar, right beneath that chandelier which, casting its not-so-bright sphere of light, illuminates the treasures for which we came; but the posters, and the knick-knacks, and the antiques, and the pictures old and new are watching too, like all the framed portraits of past Hogwarts’ head masters in Dumbledore’s office—until we finish our drinks, and maybe our food, pay our tabs, and trickle out the door slowly, unlike space debris flung off the orbit of a rotating star, and maybe, once we all go our separate ways, some of us wander along the streetlighted streets thinking to ourselves how beautiful this world is, and in particular this one little space on the planet where Albany is located, and how wonderful it is that that old hotel still stands there, and the bar inside of it.

Version 0.32 (Picking Sand out of my Tent)

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02-04-19

Late morning. Sick of my tent being full of sand I pulled everything out of it and piled it on the picnic table, unstaked the tent, turned it inside out and shook as much of the sand out of it as I could, then set it up facing into the wind, as opposed to perpendicular to it, because I was weary of one side being permanently bowed in by the wind that blows incessantly. Now, of course, both sides are.*

I’m putting myself through some kind of torture out here. Heaven only knows why. Well, no, that’s not true. It’s to save a bit of money, and to see this beautiful coast (which is beautiful, but once it’s been seen and explored, even just a small part, then what?), “to see Australia”, to be on an “adventure.” Is this an adventure? If it is it does not speak particularly highly of it. The wind is incessant. My tent I’ve disliked for some time for its inefficient size (volume relative to it’s shape)—though perhaps it’s just too small for my preference—and because I don’t have a multitude more stakes to pin down the sides, for now when I’m inside it I feel as though I’m being beat about the head by a flock of birds, it’s so constantly flapping about. Sunlight has been inconsistent, and the temperature is so that because of the wind if the sun is obscured I need a jacket, but otherwise not, so that I am always too hot or too cool, or putting my jacket on or taking it off. If I lie down in my tent to escape the wind it becomes too hot when the sun comes out (not to mention the previously mentioned issues with the slouch of the tent walls), like lying in a greenhouse. And I’m camped at a site called Sand Patch, so naturally there is sand all throughout the tent again. Now, is this an adventure, or is it simply living in discomfort simply to save a bit of money? I think I’m heading elsewhere, or back to Perth in a day or two.

So, since I’ve been alluding, but haven’t actually asked the question, I’ll ask, what is adventure anyway? I think yesterday was a bit of an adventure—I left the hostel a bit after ten with sufficient water, and bought some simple food at the IGA. Then I began walking: two hours of leaving town along the road eventually to a bike trail which took me to another smaller, quieter road that at its end was Albany’s wind farm: 18 giant turbines atop the sandy hills that fall off like cliffs to the ocean some three hundred feet below. Around this area is a boardwalk loop that also diverges into the Bibbulmun Track and a long set of stairs that runs down to the beach

It was at the wind farm that I stopped and had a PBJ and some trail mix, and thought about what it was that I wanted to do. At the start of the hike I thought that I might walk a length of the Bibbulmun to the next town over, Denmark. This hike out from Albany was a test run to see how that might feel. How do I feel simply hiking out of town to the Bibbulmun? If I was comfortable with this, then I would either continue on toward Denmark, or would camp at the nearest campsite and continue the next day. Obviously my feelings have been made clear, and we see that my mind has been made up about going back. But to me, that first day at least was worth it. It makes a good bit of sense to escape the routine of life by doing something so not routine, but my life currently is hardly routine to begin with. So, this extra day, to just save some money, is simply stupid. Of course, if the weather was better and I didn’t have a caffeine headache, and the wind wasn’t so obnoxious I might feel differently. But it’s not. It is what it is. And I am what I am, which is a fool. But I’m learning more about myself all the time. I’m stretching, reaching into realms that I have not before. Certainly it will leave some mark or impression on me, within me. But do I have the talent to leave anything of my travels behind?

 

*editing this now, two months, nearly to the day, since first writing this in my journal I realize I probably should have turned the tent so the door faced the wind, rather than the rear of the tent, as it is a triangle-shaped funnel, the front door obviously being the widest part, but then there would be the issue of so much more sand blowing into the tent, so I guess the solution boils down to pick your poison…. ah, well….

Version 0.31 (Continuing to Dig)

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02-03-19

It’s the third of February and I’m camped atop a sandy cliff overlooking the Indian Ocean, about seven or eight miles south of Albany. I’m attempting to see a bit more of Western Australia while at the same time spending less money. I walked the distance out here, plus some extra as I took the wrong route, with a quite heavy pack—like really quite absurdly heavy compared to what I’m used to. This was not quite painful, but extremely uncomfortable, this walk. But I am here. To what end I do not know. However, I witnessed our sun’s magical rays splashing down upon the ocean in radiant sparkles and jangles like an eruption of fireworks across a night sky. Through gaps in the clouds they came like rockets and fizzy whizz-bangs shimmering like a floor of gold coins found at the bottom of a hidden spring in a hidden cave in a hidden island, and I guess that is something enough. Perhaps that is all I came for. That, and the pain in my shoulders and my aching ankle. It was a message and a warning. You see, I’ve had this idea for a bit, of walking Japan from its southern most point, Cape Sata, to its northern most, Cape Soya. It is a “soft” project, as most of mine are. Soft meaning it is unnecessary to finish, or the means of getting from point to point may vary. The discomfort of carrying such weight now has me rethinking things. Though, runners traveling long distances typically push strollers with their necessary supplies, so that is something I may consider. I could also simply WWOOF or do a work exchange. Those are things I might look into even if I do continue with the walking trip. But all this brings me back, once again, to the questions of “why?” and “what am I looking to get from this trip?”

Clearly I’m not just looking to throw money away on a comfortable vacation. This is certainly a bit of a vacation, but it’s also kind of a lot of work. The photography, the writing, trying to stick to some sort of budget. I realize that hostels are never the plushest digs in town, but multiple unplanned days can easily puncture holes in one’s bank account. But ignoring the budget, what is the point of the photography? Truthfully, here in Australia there is no point. I don’t have a strong interest in being here, and I’m not interested in photographing Australia (which is different than saying I am not interested in photographing in general). The only reason I am still here is because I paid for the flight, a SIM card, and a visa. It seemed silly to leave after less than two weeks. But of course staying here longer means I’m spending more money, and Australia is not cheap, regardless of the exchange rate. There IS NO PHOTO PROJECT HERE. Except for possibly the one vague one that is everything is the same everywhere—a thought that I wrote about in a previous journal, and something that is ever present in the nether regions of my mind, surfacing at unsuspecting moments while walking around town or traversing a new landscape that reminds me of home. Even having a defined project though, what’s the point? What do I wish to achieve? Obviously if I want to produce a book, get featured in a magazine, or have a show (or multiple) I’m going to have to put some work in later, so this is something that is not at all relevant to my immediate situation.

Writing is its own pursuit, and sometimes I think it is more of a joy than photography. It is certainly more therapeutic. These journals, or snippets of them, could also accompany the photographs in a publication or an exhibition. At least with going to Japan I have a sense of something. A purpose. A journal, a la Basho. Just more contemporary in style than writing haiku and journaling; although, amongst his contemporaries, Basho, having more-or-less invented the haiku form, or really given it its own recognized stature as a poetic form in itself, was more forward thinking than anyone else of the time, and so when I think of what it means to be considered a “contemporary” artist today I liken Basho as being the earliest of contemporary writers and poets of his time, while the rest of his “contemporaries” were continuing in past traditions. In other words to be contemporary is to break new ground, which is what he did, and what some contemporary artists are doing today (though I’d argue there is little ground left to break).

I’m enjoying sharing this “adventure” with friends. And I continue to understand myself better with every new foray beyond what I find is my comfort zone.

Version 0.30 (What it Means to not Travel)

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01-30-19

I’m on a bus from Perth to Albany. Six hours with not a thing to eat. That’s not nearly as bad as it sounds, but if Jay, a bloke I met and chatted with a bit yesterday and who gave me the idea of going to Vietnam instead of Bali, had not chewed my ear off this morning I would have had the opportunity to grab a snack. Oh well. Maybe it’s for the best. If ‘Nam is as good as he says it is I’ll thank him regardless. I’m just glad I made the bus, even if I am sweaty and sticky as a result of speed-walking and jogging with my hiking pack to get to the station before the bus departed.

I plan on doing a walking tour from Albany, kinda following the coastline west. Might take busses or hitch a ride here and there. This is very loosely planned. There are a few specific “sites” I wish to visit along the way. I put sites in quotations because it’s all a site as far as I’m concerned, but these are things labeled on a map, so i guess that makes them of some greater significance.

I do have a decision to make re: Vietnam, and that is what city I will choose to stay. Then will need to find an apartment, and apply for a visa.

Peering out the window of the bus everything looks the same; but looks different too. It’s like a mashup of eastern Nebraska, American southwest, and Mid-Atlantic landscapes, but the plant species are different. It’s all forested and hilly, but extremely dry and rocky. At least this is how it appears to me. This is the world over of course: same but different, different but same. It’s what makes travel so stimulating sensorially and mentally, and so exciting. The sameness gives one a sense of security, even if only slight. It’s a center, a nexus, a pivot which all that is different swings from. It’s a bastion which one can repair to when one feels threatened or is frightened by that which is different and foreign. Deep down we all know we are the same—all the same dreams and desires, the same suffering, the same joy. And if one bothers to zoom out, and I mean really zoom out, even all the differences we observe on this micro level of cities, states, countries, cultures blur into one humanity speeding and spinning and revolving around one star, on a tiny blue, green and white sphere, one which seems to be slowly going black, like a bit of cheese slowly molding in the back of your refrigerator. The differences we notice so close up are things that make travel so exciting and exhilarating (and frightening, perhaps): the different cultures, the different animal and plant species, different money, different languages, different customs. No one travels for the sameness of travel, but “the same” is the thing that one can latch onto if necessary (if one can see it—that is, he doesn’t miss the forest for the trees).

Of course realizing all this can beg the question why travel at all if at heart, or from a perspective really zoomed out, there is no difference between one place and the next. And what about those people without the wherewithal to travel? Where comes their excitement? Well obviously life is flux, change. Sit somewhere that is not the interior of a windowless room (this is why people go mad in the madhouse) and every five minutes, every five seconds something is changing if one cares to take notice, to focus her attention. Day to day always brings the new. This change, this difference, this excitement, this joy can be found anywhere, even sitting in a chair. So, why travel if that which can be got by traveling can be got by sitting on the porch at home, or in a cafe? But why not travel for the exact same reasons? Ultimately, you see, it doesn’t matter what you do—travel, or not travel—because to travel is to not travel, and to not travel is to travel.

Version 0.29 (Some Thoughts on Bread)

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01-28-19

Today I am officially no longer part of the crew. I was swapped out for Joanna, a mutual friend of ours from Summit County, earlier this afternoon. I’m currently getting screwed by the shysters at this beautiful pizza parlor on Williams Street. This is the only time to my recollection that I’ve ever thought “I should have asked specifically for tap water,” or “I should have asked if there is a charge for that,” or “I should have read to the very bottom of the drinks menu so that when my server asks me if I want still or sparkling water I may enquire as to whether she’s referencing the seven dollar 750 ml bottle of spring water or no.” I haven’t received the bill yet, but I’m looking at this bottle in front of me, this very beautiful bottle, and the menu, and the gears are very clearly turning. The pizza is very, very, very… VERY good though.

[Later]

That pizza was extraordinary. A simple margherita, but the most perfect pizza I’ve had in my life. I’ve never bit into a crust so crisp yet soft, so perfectly chewy and doughy, so wonderfully elastic, so delicious, so beautiful, so astonishing. It is one of few things that I’ve eaten in my life that was so clearly made with enormous amounts of passion and care. And this got me to thinking about other great cultures in which dough, or bread, is of such importance: India with its Naan, and Central Asia with its obi non, most specifically, but also injera from Ethiopia and surrounding countries, and even Central and South American cultures with their tortillas (made from maize, not wheat, though serving much the same purpose).

Certainly, bread, being one of the earliest staple foods at the dawn of civilization, is of huge cultural importance the world over, but I thought of India and Central Asia specifically because partly the shape (oval), but also the texture (yes, this pizza crust called to mind naan), and also because I think I associate bread with these two cultures most strongly relative to others (the French with their ubiquitous baguette, and here the Italians being the only others where it seems of such a fundamental  intertwining of the culture of a people, with a craft, with food).

Bread, when made well, with good ingredients can be wholly satisfying on its own, though it is best when used as a vessel for the transference of dips, sauces, vegetables, or meats into one’s open, salivating jaws, but, as I stated, if the ingredients are pure and good, then yeast, flour, salt, and water is all that is necessary for a tasty, if admittedly very humble, meal (or snack). An interesting note about tortillas (and pasta, which like the tortilla is bread-like in that it’s great virtue is as a way of getting a sauce, or broth, into one’s belly; and of course as added calories to a meal) is that they, unlike good bread, are not at all satisfying eaten plain, that they absolutely need a filling or toppings to be worth a damn. In my eyes this is the great differentiator between bread and other food stuffs made from grain.

And those are some thoughts on bread brought on by a visit to a truly magnificent pizza parlor in Perth.

Version 0.28 (Daily Journal Becomes Metaphysical Musings)

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01-26-19

I made the decision to break from the group yesterday, before Doug even started his run, though I suppose that decision was made long before I even came here to Australia. I have not yet physically broken ties with the group, as right now I am actually lying in the top bunk of an overly ambitiously large motorhome, on the lawn of a friendly family who we talked to while at a community pool (which we were let into free of charge thanks to simply asking, and explaining to them what Doug is doing (in this absurd heat, as well!) and why it would be so appreciated if they would give us access) earlier today. We have power to plug into, which is important because we can run the a/c, and the fridge too without having to use any gas. I’m waiting for my substitute to arrive, which is why I’m still here. That should be in a couple of days. In the meantime I am attending to my duties as crew. Today that mainly included coordinating pickup and dropoff points for Doug along his route, joking and driving around in circles with Ben, and cooking a pretty tasty, simple dinner of chicken, veggies, and rice.

My reasons for needing to leave are few and simple, and I pretty much covered it in my previous journal entry… Basically I can’t be a contributor in this capacity to another person’s dream. I must follow my own path, my own dreams, lit by the fire in my own heart. I am far too independent a person to hitch my wagon to anyone else’s star, especially for the length of time I would be hitched to his, though I’ve only recently learned this.  If I were to do something of this nature in the future, it would have to be for myself. I suppose this is selfish of me, but to live one’s life for hisself is the only way to follow one’s own truth, unless one’s life is to be lived for others in which case one’s truth becomes wholly acts of charity. Of course a person’s truth, his/her path, can change at any given time and without notice. These aren’t things we must be privy to, as though God/destiny/tao must ask our permission. Often a shift in course, in direction, will manifest itself abruptly, like a summertime thunderstorm. Other times it may reveal itself slowly, like a bell tower in the mists of a distant horizon, only becoming clearer as we close in on it. The important thing is to give up control, to give up the idea of control, or at least as much as you are willing to, as for nearly everybody this is a crushingly difficult thing to do, but to struggle against this is to swim against the current of a river. Better to swim to shore and get your bearings before accepting this change than to wear yourself out at an impossible task….

I don’t know what precisely I will be doing after I officially take my leave. There are many doors open to me. However, I do think I will stay in Western Australia for a few weeks longer, as I’ve paid for the flight out here, and I’ve become genuinely curious about the southern part of this great state of Australia—I’ve heard such wonderful things. What that entails, I am not entirely certain, beyond further self exploration, new experiences, new discoveries.

Version 0.27 (Finding Equanimity and Understanding Through Writing)

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01-24-19

At Mill Point Bookstore and Cafe.

I continue to wrestle with being here, in Australia. Every morning I wake up with dread of what the day will bring, and that, of course, is nothing that one should wake up feeling, but that feeling is just a response to not giving a damn about why I’m here, and not wanting to be here in the first place. Being in Australia certainly isn’t even “bad”, but I think somewhere in the being here but not wanting to be here is the sense of lacking control of my life, and so I’m despondent, grumpy, and generally unhappy. The irony of this is that I don’t believe that anyone has control over his/her life. That doesn’t simply mean that we’re all just tossed around by the wind like so many falling leaves; it just means that the notion of there being a controller somewhere inside of us (in our heart or in our head) is faulty and doesn’t stand up to logical examination. So then, why should this feeling of out-of-controlness bother me? Well, that may not even be the case. It could be just as simple as I’m not invested in this thing, I don’t want to be a part of it (at least in this capacity), I’m not the least bit curious about Australia, but there’s no easy way out, even if I didn’t mind paying Doug back the money for the air fare. He thinks he needs me, though I think he’s wrong about that because I don’t feel like I’m doing much, and once Ben gets here he’ll be doing the lion’s share as he truly does want to be here and is enthusiastic about the project. We’re very different personalities though, Ben and I. Anyway, the question remains, what can I do, (funny question, that, in light of my recent statements about “control”) to encourage a change in my attitude and feelings about this thing? After all, I HAVE been pondering the thought since arriving and I’ve come to no conclusion as of yet. Maybe when Ben arrives my mental state will improve, though it’s more likely that I’ll just feel alienated. Maybe once we finish all the preparatory tasks, get the hell out of this city, and fall into a rhythm of Doug running and the two of us handling our crewing tasks I’ll feel better. Maybe, maybe, maybe… That’s wholly meaningless to think about right now.

Well? What do I want then? I just want to follow my heart, as the saying goes. To live what I can determine to be my truth, whatever that is. But what if that truth hasn’t been revealed to me? Perhaps being here in Australia is all part of it. Perhaps I’m being stubborn and obstreperous for no reason. But even if I am, I can’t help it. The problem is I feel like I’m living out someone else’s dream, and not my own, and there is absolutely no way in a million years that I may be convinced otherwise—that doing this is living out my dream. Not without some monumental external force to totally flip me on my head. But what out there has the strength to shift my own jumble of yearnings pumped by my heart through my veins, to make room for another’s, and in effect bringing this other person’s dreams into alignment with my own, to make a little room for this other’s dream to become one of my own? But so much more than “a little” room is necessary!, for three months is a long time!, so therefore requires much space. This is akin to a birthing. It is the gestation period for a baby, a baby that is not, and can not be, my own. It is to spend all that time expending one’s energy, one’s motives, one’s thoughts on the gestation of this thing, but then once it is born giving it up to its proper owner, then turning around and walking away. I don’t know that I have that strength without the motivation, and motivation means care, and now I’m back to how do I care?

Version 0.25

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01-18-19

Finally, an opportunity to properly write. Doug and I are on our plane from Auckland to Perth, currently still sitting at the gate. We’re late departing. Something about unplanned maintenance.

It’s hard to know where to start regarding all that’s happened over the past several days, so I’ll just begin with leaving my bike with a friend in L.A. I have a debt of gratitude to him for helping me out with that last minute. My day would have been MUCH, MUCH more complicated and stressful had he not, and it was already plenty of that enough. Rain on and off all the day long was the biggest culprit, but there was also a certain amount of stress in not being showered for two days, and continuing to schlep around in the same unwashed clothes for two weeks. The stink of yourself; the dirty crumpled look and feel of your clothes; and the oily, unwashed feel of your hair, scalp, and skin all become a heavy weight—though in reality one that is greater mentally than physically. But with all things the mental aspect is always more difficult than any sort of physical struggle, because the physical struggle is really just a manifestation of the mind. Of course when one is out in society, smelly and dirty but attempting to hold to some level of social standards in order to maintain one’s dignity (not that one has to abide by society’s standards in order to maintain his/her dignity) this can become a huge mental struggle, and so my thoughts about my then current state and how I imagined I was regarded by society (particularly by that society in the area I found myself pedaling my bike, shopping around for a hiking pack) now has me thinking and wondering how the truly destitute and homeless must feel themselves to be. Mere animals. Insects. Subhuman. Not worth the regard they ask us to pay them. So how can one expect them to have the confidence to look for employment anywhere? When one has lived in a state of hopelessness for so long, when one is wallowing in the quagmire of misery and apathy, how can it be expected they he might just go about filling out applications for employment like anyone else? When they walk into a shop or restaurant in dirty, stained clothes that hang on them like the haggard, tired expression of a half-starved face, stinking like they just climbed out of a dumpster, or like they’ve been living in the same set of underwear for weeks, who will hire them? Well anyway, I cycled around thirty miles in the wet in order to get a pack to migrate certain things into, and to leave my bike with Danny at the motorcycle shop he works at.

Now I’m in this plane soaring above the clouds, the sun very nearly set just ahead of us, the moon reflected in the wing—a tiny, yellow smudge amidst the blueish darkening of the world—and Doug, eyes shut beside me. Exhausted Doug with a blanket thrown over his lap, his hands folded, peaceful beneath its fleecy warmth.

[Later]
Today was mostly spent walking a bit around the city of Auckland, as we opted for an eleven hour layover as opposed to the two, drinking coffee, eating and simply observing the city and its people. A most enjoyable way to spend the day I thought, though Doug’s overall exhaustion seemed to have got the better of him.

Very little else happened. Anything properly worth writing about at least. And I’m much too tired to bother. I setup an AirBnB for the next week in South Perth, and took a shower.

Truly it would have been wonderful if something of account occurred over our time in town and at the airport, but nothing did. We existed, in a bit of a state of suspended animation, as humans so often do between times. Doug does have the type of personality which compels him to talk to just about anybody about anything, though. And while I won’t go so far to say it’s something I missed about not being around him, I do have an appreciation and fondness for it, for often it leads to amusing moments. Moments of no great consequence, but significant in their own small ways, like an odd bit of grammar or poetry thrown in amongst the general sameness of a paragraph. He’s always drawing a new character into the coterie of our own little band of merry, or not-merry, makers. All these NPCs, so to speak, become important characters, people with meaning, in this game of his. And that’s really the thing! He gives them, through the agency of his actions, his desire to engage with them, importance, significance, value, more so I believe than most, and certainly moreso than anyone else I have met. And that I think is one of his great virtues.