Who would have thought I would make it this
far? If anyone other than me gave any thought to it, you have far too much time
on your hands and should try collecting stamps or something. My abacus must
have a virus because journal entry number 100 is actually a miscount. As the
applause in my head stops suddenly in confusion, I state that all the entries
from Mongolia were deleted to become part of the fabled first novel. The novel
which sits dormant on my laptop awaiting a change in my financial landscape
like a vacant graveyard plot.
Irrespective of what number this entry
actually is, I am going to use it to review my experiences that are detailed on
this site, starting of course with my most recent trip to Asia. Plans are still
floating vaguely in the ether for a return there soon, if only to be able to
write about something other than everyday life in Australia. South America's on
the agenda too, as is Ireland possibly. While I'm dreaming, a trip to the moon
or the 16th century is just as likely as those three destinations
becoming part of the next 20 or so journals.
What became of some of the characters my
travels have brought me across? Harry and Volka have become victims of good
intentions versus computer illiteracy. Adam suffers a similar condition and our
close friendship often endures long periods of silence. He is still carving a
zig-zagging path through Port Macquaries liquor supplies and is nicely
ensconced there for the foreseeable future. Gemma lost all relevancy once her
and Adam parted ways and I could not even speculate where her path through life
has taken her. Contact with Steph is less frequent than a flyby from Halley's Comet but I know she has found
another Australian` boyfriend and together they are volunteering in Tanzania
with my well wishes and envy.
Most other people my travels have brought
me across cling to memory through Facebook alone. That interesting social
experiment has revolutionised laziness as a sentence or two on your wall seems
to count as keeping in contact now. I disagree, and only people that warrant a
few paragraphs of news are considered to be any part of my current life. My
America G.I. pal Shane is still slaving away in a wine factory in New Zealand
and Laura still endures my stupidity on a daily basis in our house. All other
people from Caboolture, Orbost and Bowen may still pass infrequently through my
recollections but their lives barely arouse my interest any more.
Unfortunately and despairingly, Rachel has
opted out of being an enduring feature of my immediate future. Long distance
relationships are never a great idea and the only one that has lasted a
significant time is my ongoing affair with Asia. The recent trip to Bowen has
left a lingering legacy of crippling debt but I wouldn't change a thing about
it. Like me, Rachel is considering a return to Broome next year so Fate's
rolling the dice and I'm cautiously placing a small emotional wager on a
reunion. My lesson in life is learning to 'let go' and only the rewards that
come from non-grasping justify the pain that accompanies letting go of such
amazing people and experiences.
I feel that the hedonistic trajectory of my
life is balancing out to a more middle-of-the-road approach, all evidence to
the contrary. Intoxicants seems to play a rather significant role in many of
the journals, largely because they either catalyse the humourous events
detailed, or help me dialogue them in an even more bizarre fashion. My
spirituality is gathering momentum to return me to a life closer to the one I
lead while living in Buddhist communities for three years. Not exactly the same
sort of lifestyle, or else I'll have to go on another seven year bender to
balance everything out again.
As for the journals themselves, by far the
most widely read and controversial was 'Satan's summer range of swimwear'.
Quite a few people took exception to my criticism of Western perverts, and many
shared their resentment with me. One intelligent American built an argument
around his patronage of hookers being a positive contribution to the local
economy. Easily dismantling his argument on moral grounds alone, he still
refused to see any fault in his actions, and claimed to have taught me a lesson
in the process. Yeah mate, full points to you.
It is hard for me to pick a favourite entry
because I love the process of writing so much that I enjoyed writing all of
them. A lot of the time I head off in tangents so bizarre I can't rightly
expect anyone to understand what the hell I am on about. With the exception of
my old mate Stowaway, no one seems inclined to leave any sort of positive
feedback, so I just assume no one likes my journals and write for my intended
audience of about 5 friends and family members. At the end of the day, it
doesn't really matter as long as I find them funny. If you can't make yourself
laugh, what hope have you got of making others?
The Mongolian novel is actually doing the
rounds at present. Not of publishers or manuscript appraisers as you would
expect, but of friends. Draft number 5 in 3 years has appeared in $10
Officeworks printed glory and I hope is inching ever closer to finding its way
into legitimate print. If anyone can recommend a good manuscript appraisal
service, I am more than willing to inflict my particular brand of humour upon
them?
The only recent news of any relevance is
the arrival of the rain in Broome. Huge towers of electrical fury roll into the
bay and occasionally smother Broome in a deluge that fills our pool to
overflowing. Adding more water to the atmosphere has made the days into a humid
hell hole that has everyone feeling amphibious. And smelling accordingly.
Staggering back from my first incursion into Broomes' nightclub scene rewarded
me with a thunderous light show of unbelievable magnitude and frequency.
With orange tipped cumulus monoliths
framing Cable Beach's horizon, sunsets have gone to another level of
incredible. The best one yet ended a rather shit day yesterday after
dislocating my toe on an innocent inanimate object of cunning placement. Every
cloud imaginable was in attendance from windswept whisps up high to ominous
storm clouds darkening the horizon. All took on different shades of pink or
orange depending upon their altitude and partially concealed a sky that ranged
from egg shell blue through lilac to a deep cobalt blue. After drunkenly
dropping my 6 month old camera into the ocean just to set a new bench mark in
stupidity, the camera on my phone had no chance of doing the vista any justice.
So I gave up trying once the sun had sunk into the Indian ocean and dived into
its warm embrace myself. The sky continued to morph into something even more
magical and had I not been impelled to catch a passing wave which gave me the
best body surfing ride ever, I would have just stared at the sky in awe for
hours.
Riding home, with the extremes of the day
behind me, the passing wind whistled through my ears to clear some of the
cobwebs that have been gathering of late. An epiphany struck me, as it has done
with such regularity lately that its more like a habit. How amazing is life!
Even having my heart broken, my toe dislocated, my camera drowned, my bank
account humiliated and my head balding cannot stop me from being appreciative
of everything life gives me every day. With 100 odd journals to my credit,
showcasing a wide array of idiotic and crafty schemes all considered worthwhile
for the experience alone, I pray for the courage to do more of the same, the
awareness to remain open minded at all times, the inclination to keep
documenting everything for the sheer joy of it and the grace to be appreciative
of life itself, and every manifestation that illustrates it diversity.
