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Version 0.41 (Meetings and Language)

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02/23/19

A quiet Saturday for me so far. Sleeping in. Cafe. Hanoi Sandwich Shop. Coffee. Croissant. Dreary, nasty weather. Scooters, cars, pedestrians all over, like swarming ants. Really would love to be at Kafeville right now but wasn’t in the mood for a long walk or a Grab ride.

I went out yesterday evening with a beautiful Vietnamese girl I matched with on Tinder. We communicated well messaging over Instagram but she admitted to using Google Translate. Not a big deal of course—I don’t care. I mean, I can’t speak a lick of Vietnamese, so I am certainly in no position to judge. Besides, as I get older I drift further and further from passing judgment. I mean serious judgment. It’s certainly okay to have opinions and preferences as long as one doesn’t wrap himself up in them, like wrapping oneself in a heavy coat to ward off the chill of a cold wind—something unpleasant, unwanted. However, it made for disjointed conversation, and I found it necessary to pull out my phone and translate from time to time. She found no need, or perhaps just did not desire to do this, which to me seems a bit strange because it would have improved and smoothed conversation. I’m unsure how she feels about our few hours together. How does one spend an enjoyable evening with another person who he has only just met, and extract something meaningful from it when those two people are unable to communicate on a deep level (or even a very rudimentary level)? This inability to communicate leads to many long silences, so that an observer might take us for a pair of mutes or people having taken an oath of silence. It’s true of course that we share a common ancestry, that we are both humans born out of this Earth, out of this cosmos, but one can’t help but wonder, having only just met, “what is he/she thinking?” during these long pauses in talk.

She picked me up on her scooter near to my apartment and we drove to Thanh Nien Bridge for coconut sorbets, and began walking a bit around the lake. Then we went to dinner somewhere. Where that was I had no idea until I looked at a map and saw how close we were to where we parked, but with the rabbit warren of streets that is Hanoi, after taking several turns down streets fairly unpronounceable I felt as though I was lost in a maze. After dinner we had another meander through the mist, and then spent the next thirty minutes driving around looking for a cozy bar or cafe, to no avail. By then it was growing quite late, and she dropped me off at my apartment.

All in all the night was an enjoyable and interesting, if somewhat awkward and uncomfortable, experience (experiment). I was uncertain about what the point of it was, and still sort of am considering we met through Tinder, which may imply something, or nothing at all. In this case it was nothing, but I’m curious about why bother going out? For my part, I was curious about where the night would lead, how well we might communicate, and where she would recommend we eat. I suppose there was a similar reason for her. When I enquired as to why she matched with me she said it was a hard question, and not easy to answer.

Verison 0.40 (Chaos and Speculation)

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02/22/19

Hanoi, Vietnam.

The chaos.

Finding oases in this city is crucial, and if you’re just arriving may seem like an impossible task. However there are more than one may think, from small cafes down mysterious alleys and quiet lanes, to those mysterious alleys and quiet lanes themselves. Sometimes a more obvious place, like a public park. Even a gym may be considered as one. And hopefully one’s own home. Wandering around Old Quarter on foot (wandering around anywhere in Hanoi on foot, with the exception of certain lanes and streets, I’ve found) is an exercise in awareness and maintaining an inner tranquility. Not a problem for me, but I imagine for some people this could be a struggle, thus, this stressor that for some is minor or negligible for others may be like cymbals crashing in their ears, and after only minutes of this they’ll want to run back to their apartments to cower under the bed sheets. It doesn’t help that even when shopping employees are apt to hover by one’s side like a pest, or at the very least stand at a sort of military-like attention. This I find more exasperating and bothersome than the simple act of weaving through traffic letting the horns wash over me like so much spray from a waterfall.

My laptop is still dangling from the chains of Limbo. Three days and still not repaired. Maybe not ever. I wonder if they can at least extract the contents from it so that if/when I do purchase a new one I will have not lost anything. I am now uncertain about my time here. The purpose that I established for myself was one of using my laptop as a means of potentially making some money trading crypto and forex, but more importantly (maybe) as the only way of soliciting an agent or a publisher for my stories. Cultural immersion is of course the other reason for being here, but I don’t know that I would have opted to rent an apartment for a month otherwise. Who knows what I’d be doing. The thought of something else never even crossed my mind. So, all this leaves the question of what do I do to occupy myself now? (assuming the worst). There is an art supplies store about four miles south of here that I will probably pay a visit. I’ve been wanting to paint for some time. Maybe this is an opportunity to begin. I may also look into clay throwing as pottery is something else I am curious about. And there are a good deal of pottery works here. There is much for me to think about in this regard.

Version 0.39 (A Coffee Spot, and Dinner at a Buddhist Temple)

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02-20-19

The atmoshere at Tranquil is superb for writing, which is why I am here—peace, quiet, thoughtfulness, and… writing.
Once again, though, what am I writing about?
I do not know.

Whatever comes!

Had one of the best coffees of my trip so far at Kafeville today, a micro-roaster tucked away down an alley near Bach Thao Park. After meandering my way from Tay Ho, along busy, and not-so-busy streets, then through the park, which contains a large pond; tall trees; wide thoroughfares for walking, running, or cycling; places designated for badminton, soccer, or any other game one could imagine; exercise equipment; large cages filled with a variety of birds—peacocks in one, and pigeons or doves (enormous, white ones, at that) in another—and men and women alike (mostly older) on said exercise equipment, I exited onto a busy road and took a left down a small side street that had me skeptical if the location was pinned correctly on Google Maps. That is until I arrived at my destination. It is a miniscule shop front almost all the way at the end of the cul-de-sac. The space is split about 50/50 between a seating area in the rear, and the barista’s work station and roast area up front, with a few stools for bar seating, and a low bench against a wall; as well, there is a small porch out front of the shop.

I hate writing like this, meaning purely descriptively—somewhat soullessly, but not completely soulleslly—because it’s meaningless, to me, and not enjoyable. I mean, what’s the point of describing an arrangement of chairs, or the color of the wood of a table, or the order flow in a cafe? This isn’t a magazine article, it’s a journal, a diary, something, hopefully, with soul, spirit, verve. What is written here must go deeper than surface details because otherwise there is no point. May as well throw the pen and the paper away and stick my head in the sand. It’s writing for the sake of writing because I feel like I should be writing. But why should I feel like that….

Everyday so far has seen at least one beautiful occurrence. Some days after my experience with the tobacco (which is what I found out later it was), and providing a story for a Vietnamese family to tell their friends about the foreigner they invited for a smoke and dinner, I was offered to have a free vegetarian meal at a buddhist temple I was exploring and photographing. While walking around the grounds, or, rather, while standing in place looking around, my head swiveling around on my neck, my feet doing a little dance as I turned around slowly on the spot, taking in the various structures, the layout of the grounds, the children running around playing hide and seek, the piles of shoes and sandals outside the thresholds of building entrances, the sounds of voices emanating from some of these buildings, the large grey flagstone tiles of the courtyard, a man came up to me speaking in Vietnamese, but also gesturing in an eating motion and pointing beneath a distant awning where a number of long tables were set up at which people were seated. He led me over and gestured to a series of maybe fifty or sixty bowls which were filled with veggies, stacked neatly and with purpose. I was to take one of these which I was then to give to a woman seated behind an enormous stock pot within which was more vegetables and of course a broth. This she ladled into the bowl and returned to me, and from there I was guided to a blue plastic stool at one of the tables. On the table were other dishes, one with a salad of greens and herbs, and another with some sort of small, bitter citrus fruit and fresh birdseye chilis sliced thin. These one adds to his soup to taste. There was no donation or payment accepted. It was, I thought, a generous act on the part of the man to invite me to eat, and generous on the part of the temple to provide such an abundance of food, particularly if this is something they do every Sunday to anyone who may be hungry. Besides that, it was just another wonderful example of the friendliness of the Vietnamese people. There was a woman who sat near to me and with whom I exchanged a few words in english. If only I was a french speaker we may have been able to have a conversation so that I may have come to a greater understanding of what these food donations were all about. Alas, I will have to satisfy myself with this rather unique experience that likely few westerners get the opportunity to partake in.

Version 0.38 (An Introduction to Vietnam)

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02-17-19

I’m back at the sandwich shop that I first visited the day of my arrival in Hanoi, and I’ve just finished eating the second-worse bahn mi of my life. I suppose that’s neither here nor there though, as I didn’t open this journal to complain about a bad sandwich.

Weather is rather dreary today: cool, and raining on and off. Out on the rear patio of the cafe a soft light suffuses everything. The whitish walls of the surrounding buildings glow cool and gentle, and the wet leaves of the plants out here glisten invitingly. Yet everyone that works here looks miserable. Probably doesn’t help that there are exactly four customers, excluding myself, and more people than that on staff.

Yesterday was something else. Had a wander around this magnificent city filled with such a frenetic energy. A crazy energy! It’s amazing that anyone can find a spot of peace in the chaos, but they do, because it’s inside each and everyone one of them, thus it’s everywhere they go, rolled up a like a light jacket or a sweater, and tucked away in a backpack or beneath the seat of their scooter.

But the city! That energy I mentioned! Everything in the world happening all at the same time constantlyconstantlyconstantly! And everyone and everything packed so damn tight that we’re all on top of each other: chickens crammed in cages or strutting around the sidewalks, dogs lying on the pavement and sidewalks, scooters everywhere moving or not, all honking and the honks have different meanings from “get the hell out of my way” to “go ahead” to “I’m just behind you”—all sorts of little subtleties—and then the cars in the way slowing things up some, but really they have rank over the scooters, so if you’re on a scooter you better get out of the way, and after the cars there are the buses, particularly in the old town, and they really back everything up and cause traffic jam after traffic jam in an area that’s already enough of a cluster fuck so that one can hardly move even if he’s just walking.

Trash just seems to get tossed about anywhere, and the washing of pots, pans, bowls, cups, utensils gets taken care of on the sidewalks which is where most people eat, and you figure that soapy water goes down the gutter into a drain and out into a lake or river likely.

But there are quiet places to be found, external to one’s self. It’s just necessary to look through every doorway, every alley, and every side street.

Last night on my long meandering walk home I came upon a fellow seated on a plastic stool, as all Vietnamese sit on low plastic stools for eating or just relaxing and watching the world spin by, and so this fellow was relaxing and smoking something, something quite strong I suppose, out of a sort of bong. As I’m walking past he waves me over and pointing to the “bong” offers me a smoke. Now it’s not something I normally partake in, but I have smoked a bit of weed in my life and so I thought this might be a fascinating experience to add to my Life List of Fascinating Experiences and so I obliged him by taking a long, deep draw. A very much too deep, very much too long draw, so that I damn near fell over almost immediately after, and had to hold myself up by the wall—my head was spinning so crazily I thought I was going to pass out—until the man offered me to sit down on a stool and brought me some cool water, which helped my slightly dry throat but didn’t do anything for my wretched light headedness and the queasiness of my stomach. Of course the man thought this was funny, and I can see why, and presumably his son thought so as well, but they were nice enough to invite me in to share with them their dinner, wonderfully simple fare even if I do eat primarily plant-based, but the humbleness of the meal was something beautiful, and that it should be shared with me made it even more so. Chunks of fatty pork and quail eggs in some sort of chili oil, rice, and cabbage with a sort of brine to dip in. He cracked open a beer for me and we cheers’ed but by this point I had broken out into a cold sweat and had begun sweating through my shirt and was dripping from my brow, and my stomach was feeling particularly bad so that I had no appetite even though I was starving five minutes ago, and was struggling to keep down the food and beer. My mouth was cotton dry, and there they were trying to feed me more, adding morsels of meat and eggs to my small bowl of rice. Eventually though, and unsurprisingly, it became too much and I had to run out into the street and puke everything up. I felt a good deal better after that, but we all agreed that it was best that his son drive me home on his scooter, as it was only five minutes away, versus twenty-five if I walked. I attempted to get a broom or something from the lady of the family to clean up my mess but she would hear nothing of it. Was probably just disgusted with me and wanted me out of her sight. I managed to snap a few pictures of the spread and my new friends before hopping on the back of the boy’s scooter and being whisked away home. The flow of the still warm air over my skin was quite bracing, considerably more so because my shirt was soaked through completely by this point, and I was feeling good, so good in fact that I managed to shoot a couple videos on my phone while weaving through traffic. I was then left in front of the alley. We shook hands and he sped off. I stoopled down the dark alley and took my time getting the key into the padlock on the other side of the gate, crept up the stairs into the apartment, cleaned the rice from my sandals, took a cold shower, and fell into bed.

Version 0.37 (Tranquil)

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02-16-19

My first proper day in Hanoi. If I can’t get my computer working or a replacement, a one month stay here will be, while I am unwilling to say pointless, perhaps longer than necessary, considering my reasons for coming here, which weren’t to vacation and be a tourist (not that the photography hasn’t been brilliant already in just two hours).

I’ve finally eaten today, even if it is just a slice of orange bread with a flat white. I’m sitting in the most cozy and peaceful and adorable cafe in the Old Quarter, called Tranquil. Books & Coffee. For what I feel that I want at the moment it is absolutely perfect. Flat white was bad, though—too milky, too flat, too little coffee (that would be the same thing as too milky…). Maybe their espresso doses are small… The orange bread slice was magical, however, though I should probably eat a proper meal soon.

Jazz is playing softly in the background, injecting just enough rhythm and energy into the space to keep it from turning into a naptime nursery. A mellow voice and a light piano. I don’t know who it is, because I don’t know jazz, but I do know that it fits the mood here. Tranquil is precisely the thing necessary when one wishes to escape the chaos of the Old Quarter streets. It’s a damp, cool cloth to an overheated forehead. It’s a balm to a frenzied mind.

My elbow rests on the small, square table in front of me, and my chin—the full weight of my wearied mind—rests in the cup of my hand.

I’m gazing at the wooden counter, unseeing.

Breathing only.

The sole, familiar sounds in here are the radio, the grinding of coffee, the tinking and tapping of coffee implements, the pump of the espresso machine, the aerating of milk, the stacking of ceramic cups, and the quiet which envelopes myself and each of these individual sounds and which acts as space for them to express themselves, a conduit by which they might move from source to sea—my interpreting brain via the canal of my ear. Silence, like space, is a fecund ground from which life may spring. Without silence there is only chaos, a solid wall of noise, uninterpretable, like trying to see through the solid rock of the Alps.

Right now, in my inner and my outer worlds, I am drifting; swimming a bit too, pulling an arm effortlessly, lazily through the warm waters of my world, kicking a leg easily. Swimming in space, and swimming in a silence whose veil is intermittently pierced by sounds the likes of which become pleasurable against the silence cradling them.

They are like arrows shot, puncturing air, gliding through space.

Shimmering diamonds.

A falcon dives. The stars in the night sky sparkle.

Space may be black but silence is white.

Version 0.36 (Early Moments, Hanoi)

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02-15-19

I’m shocked. I’m within a page or two of the end of this journal. Soon there will be a time when I open a fresh page in a fresh book. But not just yet.

I am finally in Hanoi, after five hours of flying, eight hours of waiting through the night and the small hours of the morning, and another three hours of flying. After that there was getting through immigration, purchasing a SIM, making a mess of getting a Grab, the subsequent twenty-odd minute drive to the alley which my apartment is supposed to be on, and wandering around for a bit trying to get a grasp of where things are and where I am in relation to them.

However, I am finally here!

But I can’t get into the apartment. But that is fine! The apartment is down an alley whose wall literally abuts one of the best sandwich shops in Hanoi (according to reviews); which happens to be where I sit writing this.

It’s a relief to be sitting down (and not on a plane or in an airport) luxe, calme, et volupté with a beautiful mug filled with coffee, and a beautiful pastry filled with chocolate, more or less carefree, thrilled to no longer be in transit because when one is in transit, most particularly to a foreign country where one doesn’t speak the language, one is apt to worry and fret needlessly over silly things, but even if one is not worrying there is still a certain level of stress involved in wandering for hours around an airport and sitting for hours in a small seat in a plane in such an unnatural spot as 30,000 feet above the earth. It is in a sense similar to the state of being always, always, always on the move, like traveling by bicycle, or walking—whatever mode one may choose to convey oneself by. I wrote previously about the stresses of being constantly on the move, without a center, without a central node to call home that one may sally forth from on forays and adventures. There is a similarity here I think. The difference being (and these differences are so starkly opposite as to be identical) that in one instance one is confined to a single space thus having very little freedom of movement, and in the other instance one has such freedom of movement that there is too much of it and thus it becomes constant. But everything is beautiful now, and soft and smooth as velvet.

The cafe is a real charmer. Clay tile floors that extend into a small courtyard through the rear glass doors where are setup some simple wood and steel tables and chairs. Along the perimeter walls are planted some wiry shrubs that glow with a vibrant green light that shows brightly against the white-washed walls. Inside the cafe are several sofas, a few chairs and some tables that wouldn’t look out of place in old photographs of China (or, obviously, Vietnam). The main room is white and spacious enough with the ceiling twenty or so feet high, and a staircase in an adjacent room, beautiful, simple, yet somehow ornate, which winds up to a mysterious second level. Through the front entrance just off the street lies a gated courtyard where people may gather or just park their scooters. Right now I’m the only person here, but I suppose it must get busy at some points. Most of the customers I’ve seen coming and going have been westerners. Not too surprising though, as this is a part of the city that is popular for expats to live.

 

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.