What's new pussycat? Nothing is new where I am. It's all old, weary, rotten; and there's not a thing to be done about it, but learn to love it. No, things aren't so bad - in fact it's quite good fun, apart from the whole being away from Carlie and my friends and my dog; from the beach, the shops, the football; from the realm of the sane man. The Kimberley is a hub of insanity, a Mecca to pilgrims strange and dangerous, and an accepting, womb-like hidey-hole for those on the run.
But who - this is a question that has been brewing in my head - is insane, and who is sane? And who does the judging? And how do we know they are sane? Mental state can not - must not - be thought of as a linear continuum, with sanity and insanity as the opposing end-members. Why? Because sanity and insanity so closely approach that to distinguish one from the other is an impossibility. Take the example of a man who has given up all his worldly possessions and resolved to walk the earth as a primitive man - I met such a man a few weeks ago at the Kununurra Hotel (he hadn't given up beer, obviously). Is he insane because he can't see the value and usefulness of modern technology? Or fantastically sane and clear-minded because he has recognised the evil inherent in a world run by machines? You decide.
I have decided that sanity and lunacy, if not one and the same, are at least kissing cousins. My driller is walking the blurry line that I speak of, after seven weeks out here with a total of three half days off to get supplies and spare parts from town. At the beginning of the program he fooled me a few times by saying things like "We have to stop the hole here (short of target depth) - there's too much water/the bit is broken/the ground is too hard" or "Oh no! If we stop the hole here (after a particularly short hole, which they find frustrating) then the rods will get bogged and we'll have to stand down." After about 10 seconds, or after I realised he was bullshitting me, he would laugh and tell me he was joking. He says the same things now, but with dull, pleading eyes, where before there was a sparkle; and the chuckling has gone, replaced by an uneasy silence, a scuffle of the feet, and a half-baked excuse to drift away. Yes, my driller is walking the line and beginning to list badly - towards the anoxic cesspool of insanity.
The good thing about this "isolation-style" insanity is its temporary nature. It allows a normally sane man to look through the foggy glasses of insanity; to crawl towards the edge of reason and sing "cooee" into the abyss. But, to paraphrase Hunter S. Thompson, the only people who really know the limits are those who have gone over the edge...
Monday 3 September 2007
Dear Chris [old workmate]
... Today as I staggered over yet another spinifex-matted gabbro outcrop, I asked myself this question (no, not aloud - I am not yet COMPLETELY mad): Is what I am doing living, or am I missing out on living? Is life the experience of walking through kilometres of thick, head-high cane grass in search of a high-magnetite gabbro, or is it the steady process of progression of work and play and meeting with friends for "a cup of joe" (I like that silly word that you taught me in the Norseman kitchen)? Or is it a bit of each? Who has lived more, by the common understanding: a man who spends every week of every year in the city, or a man who spends one thrilling week out of every four in the city and the rest of his time alone in the wilderness? Who is really missing out? Oh I do propose such leading questions don't I, and I think my feelings on the matter should be quite clear to you, if you have half the understanding of me that I believe you do.
The main goal I set for myself in my life is that I continue to add to my collection of stories, and that I also improve my ability to tell them, for I believe that all we can hope for in life is to laugh with and connect with those closest to us, and maybe add some new friends along the way. Maybe many people think this way, and that's why old grandpas and grandmas are always telling useless stories. Perhaps we should pay more attention and respect to old people. Nah, we shouldn't.
So how does one go about gathering stories? Do I simply walk the trail of life, picking up stories as I happen across them, or do I veer from the trail into the dampened thicket and return at some later stage - if at all - with a bloody great sackful? I'd personally like to think that even if I were to not leave this Coleman four-person tent (with vestibule*) for the rest of my days, I could still come up with a good story or two per day - true or false or somewhere in between.
I used to be a great believer that stories should be told modestly and accurately and with minimal foul language, but not any more. Any story can gain from a little embellishment, the addition of a hero or villain, or the skillful use - but not overuse - of the word "fuck" or one of it's many variants: fucker, fuckstick, fat fucken motherfucker, and so on. See how this letter has suddenly been brought alive by that sentence? Would the effect have been the same had I opened with "How the fuck are ya?" and carried on with the obscenity from that point forth? Hardly...
* My bedside dictionary defines a vestibule as "a room or hall just inside the outer door of a building". My fieldy and I have been puzzling over it's meaning since we found it on the tent boxes.
The main goal I set for myself in my life is that I continue to add to my collection of stories, and that I also improve my ability to tell them, for I believe that all we can hope for in life is to laugh with and connect with those closest to us, and maybe add some new friends along the way. Maybe many people think this way, and that's why old grandpas and grandmas are always telling useless stories. Perhaps we should pay more attention and respect to old people. Nah, we shouldn't.
So how does one go about gathering stories? Do I simply walk the trail of life, picking up stories as I happen across them, or do I veer from the trail into the dampened thicket and return at some later stage - if at all - with a bloody great sackful? I'd personally like to think that even if I were to not leave this Coleman four-person tent (with vestibule*) for the rest of my days, I could still come up with a good story or two per day - true or false or somewhere in between.
I used to be a great believer that stories should be told modestly and accurately and with minimal foul language, but not any more. Any story can gain from a little embellishment, the addition of a hero or villain, or the skillful use - but not overuse - of the word "fuck" or one of it's many variants: fucker, fuckstick, fat fucken motherfucker, and so on. See how this letter has suddenly been brought alive by that sentence? Would the effect have been the same had I opened with "How the fuck are ya?" and carried on with the obscenity from that point forth? Hardly...
* My bedside dictionary defines a vestibule as "a room or hall just inside the outer door of a building". My fieldy and I have been puzzling over it's meaning since we found it on the tent boxes.
Postcard from Speewah
[This was sent to my workmates, who send "postcards" from wherever they are working. As you may be able to tell, this one was "polished" - drafted, re-written, unlike the letters]
It's a knife fight. Sanity in the blue corner; Lunacy resplendent in red. The bell rings; the opponents meet in a flash of silver. It's desperate. In the second round I notice something odd: Lunacy's trunks have taken on a blueish hue; Sanity's have reddened. By the third round both fighters are purple, indistinguishable. At the beginning of the fourth the combatants shake hands and call for tea and scones; in the fifth they dance a waltz.
I laugh maniacally. I laugh, and then I cry....
Cat Stevens - my lone companion and confidante - tells me thrice daily that "out on the edge of darkness, there rides the peace train". I tell Cat that had he commandeered a stallion, jumped the tracks, and flogged the whinnying beast until it's legs gave way - well beyond the edge of darkness - he'd have reached a place neither light nor dark; a place filled with God and, paradoxically, forsaken by Him. A place called Speewah.
Yes the Lord did some of His finest work when He created the Speewah Dome, pushing a large chemically-unstable mafic intrusion into flat-bedded sandstone, ensuring that the resultant ovoid valley would be fenced in by steep golden cliffs. It must be Eden in the wet season as water gushes in through the Dunham and Pentecost gorges and any number of waterfalls, but in the dry season the sunken ellipse becomes a coliseum; a super-heated crucible where Heathens - counseled only by Cat Stevens and fuelled only by sweetened condensed milk - are pitted against Brown Snakes amongst a thick mat of spinifex and spear grass*. And just when a Heathen, seemingly victorious, staggers punctured and bloodied from the thicket, his face torn with horror, Hell's Monsoon - "the other monsoon" - breaks and the creeks and rivers and waterfalls flow not with water but with despair - at first in a trickle but, before long, in a rampaging torrent that fills the cauldron to overflowing. Then, as quickly and unexpectedly as it began, the great surge ceases and all becomes quiet, still.
It is from the bottom of this Great Lake of Despair, from the lowest point on the valley floor, that I write to you now; my body, though literally tanned and upright, is metaphorically pale, limp, and laying prone in anoxic sludge, faintly idling at -273 C - absolute zero. I am embalmed in loathing; pickled in dread. But don't send help - I am comfortably numb. Forget me, please.
.... Round six and purple tuxedos are being worn for what looks like a banquet. Entree breezes by amid dazzling good manners and gaiety, but after a brief uncomfortable silence, anarchy erupts. The original colours are restored. Lunacy springs forth, plunging his desert fork into Sanity's eyeball and - oh the humanity! - splits his temple with a candelabra. It's a bloodbath!
I stop my Toyota to scream at a cow. She bucks with bewilderment and staggers backwards, her bovine sensibilities severely jangled. "Holy Jesus", her limpid eyes imply, "A madman!" I frown momentarily as a small voice - soft, fading - suggests that the cow may be right: I have gone crazy. But my own sane, sane, sane laughter drowns out the whisper and I speed onwards in a cloud of dust. But again I step on the brakes as I see a black dog in the bushes - the same black dog I have seen each of the last two days. He watches me without expression from his beady black eyes, as I begin to wonder: Is it just a black dog, or is it The Black Dog; Churchill's Black Dog; Led Zeppelin's Black Dog? My laughter is gone, replaced by solemnity, and as I chug away down the track, the dog patiently, knowingly trots behind.
* A tall savannah cover that dispenses it's all-penetrating seed pods at scrotum height.
It's a knife fight. Sanity in the blue corner; Lunacy resplendent in red. The bell rings; the opponents meet in a flash of silver. It's desperate. In the second round I notice something odd: Lunacy's trunks have taken on a blueish hue; Sanity's have reddened. By the third round both fighters are purple, indistinguishable. At the beginning of the fourth the combatants shake hands and call for tea and scones; in the fifth they dance a waltz.
I laugh maniacally. I laugh, and then I cry....
Cat Stevens - my lone companion and confidante - tells me thrice daily that "out on the edge of darkness, there rides the peace train". I tell Cat that had he commandeered a stallion, jumped the tracks, and flogged the whinnying beast until it's legs gave way - well beyond the edge of darkness - he'd have reached a place neither light nor dark; a place filled with God and, paradoxically, forsaken by Him. A place called Speewah.
Yes the Lord did some of His finest work when He created the Speewah Dome, pushing a large chemically-unstable mafic intrusion into flat-bedded sandstone, ensuring that the resultant ovoid valley would be fenced in by steep golden cliffs. It must be Eden in the wet season as water gushes in through the Dunham and Pentecost gorges and any number of waterfalls, but in the dry season the sunken ellipse becomes a coliseum; a super-heated crucible where Heathens - counseled only by Cat Stevens and fuelled only by sweetened condensed milk - are pitted against Brown Snakes amongst a thick mat of spinifex and spear grass*. And just when a Heathen, seemingly victorious, staggers punctured and bloodied from the thicket, his face torn with horror, Hell's Monsoon - "the other monsoon" - breaks and the creeks and rivers and waterfalls flow not with water but with despair - at first in a trickle but, before long, in a rampaging torrent that fills the cauldron to overflowing. Then, as quickly and unexpectedly as it began, the great surge ceases and all becomes quiet, still.
It is from the bottom of this Great Lake of Despair, from the lowest point on the valley floor, that I write to you now; my body, though literally tanned and upright, is metaphorically pale, limp, and laying prone in anoxic sludge, faintly idling at -273 C - absolute zero. I am embalmed in loathing; pickled in dread. But don't send help - I am comfortably numb. Forget me, please.
.... Round six and purple tuxedos are being worn for what looks like a banquet. Entree breezes by amid dazzling good manners and gaiety, but after a brief uncomfortable silence, anarchy erupts. The original colours are restored. Lunacy springs forth, plunging his desert fork into Sanity's eyeball and - oh the humanity! - splits his temple with a candelabra. It's a bloodbath!
I stop my Toyota to scream at a cow. She bucks with bewilderment and staggers backwards, her bovine sensibilities severely jangled. "Holy Jesus", her limpid eyes imply, "A madman!" I frown momentarily as a small voice - soft, fading - suggests that the cow may be right: I have gone crazy. But my own sane, sane, sane laughter drowns out the whisper and I speed onwards in a cloud of dust. But again I step on the brakes as I see a black dog in the bushes - the same black dog I have seen each of the last two days. He watches me without expression from his beady black eyes, as I begin to wonder: Is it just a black dog, or is it The Black Dog; Churchill's Black Dog; Led Zeppelin's Black Dog? My laughter is gone, replaced by solemnity, and as I chug away down the track, the dog patiently, knowingly trots behind.
* A tall savannah cover that dispenses it's all-penetrating seed pods at scrotum height.
Dear Adrian [old workmate]
[I butchered some of the lyrics, but you'll get the point]
I have two tapes in my shambolic Landcruiser wagon, but I will only listen to one of them: The Best of Cat Stevens. The other tape - The Best of UB40 - rests in the magazine slot of the driver's side door, destined never to be played again and, quite frankly, that tape is lucky it hasn't been smashed and burnt, such is my disdain for the band. I WAS happy to listen to it - after all, I bought it - until I read the tape cover during a quiet day and discovered they were white men - well one token black man and five or six white men. And they are English, not Jamaican. Who knew? Not me, and boy did I fly off the handle when I found out. Here I was all this time - years Adrian - with a picture in my head of three or four stoned Rastafari tapping on steel drums, up-strumming their guitars on the off-beat, laughing, crying, and eating two-minute noodles, and then I find out they are pasty white, skinny English geezers who wear dark sunglasses. Can you imagine my fury? I don't think you can, but you might get close if I tell you I paid $15 for that tape (and for Cat Stevens) from Kununurra Music, and that both had "45 rupees" stickers on them, meaning I should have paid around $1.50...
So given that UB40 is getting no airplay - I have resolved to burn that tape tomorrow when I brew my morning tea - and my radio doesn't work, it must be clear to you that I am hearing a lot of Cat Stevens at the moment. This is not an all-together bad thing, yours truly having been a fan for some time, but it would be fair to say that The Cat and I have been experiencing some turbulent times. I have begun to see The Cat as something more than a friend or a fling or a passing interest, and this kind of relationship change is not without its problems. Allow me to quote from The Cat's own work:
"Remember the days by the old school yard,
We used to laugh a lot.
Oh, don't you remember the days by the old school yard?
When we had simplicity,
And we had warm toast for tea,
And we laughed and needed love,
Yes I do, oh, and I remember you."
Don't you see Adrian? Can you fathom the relevance of those words to my situation; their astounding foresight? For years The Cat and I have had what one might call an open relationship: a bit of Cat here, a bit of Cat there; a bit of Pink Floyd or Led Zeppelin or The Beatles or Jeff Buckley; a few weeks of silence; a bit more Cat beside the fire after a cask of port; and so on. It used to be so simple and carefree. I would generally just get drunk with the boys, have a bit of Cat, and then go to bed - no strings attached. I think Cat was just happy to be let out of the bag, so to speak. But now we're full-time, basically living together, and he wants more. Where before I just sang along, now he wants me to listen and understand. I'm not sure I want that, but The Cat's all I've got and silence is not an option - again, The Cat says it all:
"Another Saturday night and I ain't got nobody.
I've got some money 'cause I just got paid.
Oh how I wish I had someone to talk to.
I'm in an awful way (he's in an awful way)."
Oh Cat, how can I question my need for you when you are so wise? I will always love you and need you - I can't believe I ever doubted it!
Sorry Adrian. I am trying harder to listen and understand The Cat. For instance, I am trying to piece together the puzzle of how The Cat became a convert to Islam: listening for clues in the songs, thinking about the year they were written. In songs like Morning Has Broken, Here Comes My Baby, and I Love My Dog, there is little hint at any religious awakening. Then there is what I call "the tipping point" songs, where The Cat is sombre and full of warnings - Wild World is the type-example. In these songs he is disenchanted, struggling, helpless, but in the third series he is reflective, as if looking back at the world he has left behind eg. Where do the Children Play. My ultimate goal is to find the actual specific drum beat where The Cat becomes Yousuf Islam, and I think I'm just about there.
The Cat IS giving me more love than ever, but we do still need a couple of hours apart each day, just to renew our feelings for one another. It's been good getting to know him more intimately - certainly better than 1/4-knowing 10,000 songs off an ipod. And, as with most occasions, he has the right words to end this letter:
"Whoever I'm with boy*, I'm always talking to you.
Always talking to you, but I can't think of right words to say.
And whenever I'm near boy*, I will put my arms around you.
Put my arms around you, like the sea around the shore."
Cant fit the rest [the page was running out]. Ciao.
* "Girl" in the song, but that wouldn't have made sense.
I have two tapes in my shambolic Landcruiser wagon, but I will only listen to one of them: The Best of Cat Stevens. The other tape - The Best of UB40 - rests in the magazine slot of the driver's side door, destined never to be played again and, quite frankly, that tape is lucky it hasn't been smashed and burnt, such is my disdain for the band. I WAS happy to listen to it - after all, I bought it - until I read the tape cover during a quiet day and discovered they were white men - well one token black man and five or six white men. And they are English, not Jamaican. Who knew? Not me, and boy did I fly off the handle when I found out. Here I was all this time - years Adrian - with a picture in my head of three or four stoned Rastafari tapping on steel drums, up-strumming their guitars on the off-beat, laughing, crying, and eating two-minute noodles, and then I find out they are pasty white, skinny English geezers who wear dark sunglasses. Can you imagine my fury? I don't think you can, but you might get close if I tell you I paid $15 for that tape (and for Cat Stevens) from Kununurra Music, and that both had "45 rupees" stickers on them, meaning I should have paid around $1.50...
So given that UB40 is getting no airplay - I have resolved to burn that tape tomorrow when I brew my morning tea - and my radio doesn't work, it must be clear to you that I am hearing a lot of Cat Stevens at the moment. This is not an all-together bad thing, yours truly having been a fan for some time, but it would be fair to say that The Cat and I have been experiencing some turbulent times. I have begun to see The Cat as something more than a friend or a fling or a passing interest, and this kind of relationship change is not without its problems. Allow me to quote from The Cat's own work:
"Remember the days by the old school yard,
We used to laugh a lot.
Oh, don't you remember the days by the old school yard?
When we had simplicity,
And we had warm toast for tea,
And we laughed and needed love,
Yes I do, oh, and I remember you."
Don't you see Adrian? Can you fathom the relevance of those words to my situation; their astounding foresight? For years The Cat and I have had what one might call an open relationship: a bit of Cat here, a bit of Cat there; a bit of Pink Floyd or Led Zeppelin or The Beatles or Jeff Buckley; a few weeks of silence; a bit more Cat beside the fire after a cask of port; and so on. It used to be so simple and carefree. I would generally just get drunk with the boys, have a bit of Cat, and then go to bed - no strings attached. I think Cat was just happy to be let out of the bag, so to speak. But now we're full-time, basically living together, and he wants more. Where before I just sang along, now he wants me to listen and understand. I'm not sure I want that, but The Cat's all I've got and silence is not an option - again, The Cat says it all:
"Another Saturday night and I ain't got nobody.
I've got some money 'cause I just got paid.
Oh how I wish I had someone to talk to.
I'm in an awful way (he's in an awful way)."
Oh Cat, how can I question my need for you when you are so wise? I will always love you and need you - I can't believe I ever doubted it!
Sorry Adrian. I am trying harder to listen and understand The Cat. For instance, I am trying to piece together the puzzle of how The Cat became a convert to Islam: listening for clues in the songs, thinking about the year they were written. In songs like Morning Has Broken, Here Comes My Baby, and I Love My Dog, there is little hint at any religious awakening. Then there is what I call "the tipping point" songs, where The Cat is sombre and full of warnings - Wild World is the type-example. In these songs he is disenchanted, struggling, helpless, but in the third series he is reflective, as if looking back at the world he has left behind eg. Where do the Children Play. My ultimate goal is to find the actual specific drum beat where The Cat becomes Yousuf Islam, and I think I'm just about there.
The Cat IS giving me more love than ever, but we do still need a couple of hours apart each day, just to renew our feelings for one another. It's been good getting to know him more intimately - certainly better than 1/4-knowing 10,000 songs off an ipod. And, as with most occasions, he has the right words to end this letter:
"Whoever I'm with boy*, I'm always talking to you.
Always talking to you, but I can't think of right words to say.
And whenever I'm near boy*, I will put my arms around you.
Put my arms around you, like the sea around the shore."
Cant fit the rest [the page was running out]. Ciao.
* "Girl" in the song, but that wouldn't have made sense.
Dear Brendan [old housemate]
I write to you from aboard QF1074 enroute from Perth to Broome...
... There is a swollen sickness in my guts at the moment, due, I think, to the eggs and gnocchi I had for breakfast, and the sweet, milky coffee that I felt obliged to drink at the airport. Do you feel this obligation to drink coffee? The drink physically sickens me and mentally disgusts me, but I drink it regardless because everyone else seems to be doing it. This behaviour disgusts me because it shows me that I, too, am a bloated consumer and slave to fashion. I don't need the caffeine - I'm sure it's not a physical addiction - but I need the camaraderie with my fellow hollow shells of people, who took up the habit, like me, after seeing Americanos - Nicole Richie, Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, Eva Longoria, George Clooney, Matt Damon, Brad Pitt, Adam Sandler, and other such modern icons - drinking the stuff by the litre in mindless journals of our time like the favourite of Carlie, you, and I, New Weekly. Everyone's doing it man, and we'd be fools to do any different.
My nine days off in Perth were cluttered with the sorts of disgusting excesses that had become fantastically foreign to me during the preceding three weeks: sweet, milky coffees, as discussed above; thick, rich pastas and Asian dishes; cakes of all descriptions; sublime and ridiculous bouts of alcoholism, where I felt compelled to continue drinking, far beyond any reasonable limits, whether they be internal or imposed upon me by others; and, of course, all of this was underlain by a base of sedentary living. Sleep-ins were the norm; even the smallest task was too much. So, as I return to the bush now, I do so carrying extra weight around my waist - though I am still, as many folks observed, skinnier than usual - and, more disturbingly for me, weight around my brain.
At the end of my last three weeks, my mind was sharper than that of a fox. I felt able, in an instant, to slice through difficult situations, removing slabs and swathes of useless information with one or two sweeping strokes of my mental sword - the "slash" finale of the bayonet technique you once taught me in the loungeroom - leaving only the meaty core of the issue at hand. But the city, Brendan, the city dulled my blade almost instantly, and I couldn't summon the will to tend to it, or even the will to care...
... There is a swollen sickness in my guts at the moment, due, I think, to the eggs and gnocchi I had for breakfast, and the sweet, milky coffee that I felt obliged to drink at the airport. Do you feel this obligation to drink coffee? The drink physically sickens me and mentally disgusts me, but I drink it regardless because everyone else seems to be doing it. This behaviour disgusts me because it shows me that I, too, am a bloated consumer and slave to fashion. I don't need the caffeine - I'm sure it's not a physical addiction - but I need the camaraderie with my fellow hollow shells of people, who took up the habit, like me, after seeing Americanos - Nicole Richie, Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, Eva Longoria, George Clooney, Matt Damon, Brad Pitt, Adam Sandler, and other such modern icons - drinking the stuff by the litre in mindless journals of our time like the favourite of Carlie, you, and I, New Weekly. Everyone's doing it man, and we'd be fools to do any different.
My nine days off in Perth were cluttered with the sorts of disgusting excesses that had become fantastically foreign to me during the preceding three weeks: sweet, milky coffees, as discussed above; thick, rich pastas and Asian dishes; cakes of all descriptions; sublime and ridiculous bouts of alcoholism, where I felt compelled to continue drinking, far beyond any reasonable limits, whether they be internal or imposed upon me by others; and, of course, all of this was underlain by a base of sedentary living. Sleep-ins were the norm; even the smallest task was too much. So, as I return to the bush now, I do so carrying extra weight around my waist - though I am still, as many folks observed, skinnier than usual - and, more disturbingly for me, weight around my brain.
At the end of my last three weeks, my mind was sharper than that of a fox. I felt able, in an instant, to slice through difficult situations, removing slabs and swathes of useless information with one or two sweeping strokes of my mental sword - the "slash" finale of the bayonet technique you once taught me in the loungeroom - leaving only the meaty core of the issue at hand. But the city, Brendan, the city dulled my blade almost instantly, and I couldn't summon the will to tend to it, or even the will to care...
Dear Andrew [brother]
... In addition to the incomprehension and taking of offence over my decision to bathe in the river [rather than using the shower cubicle], there is also an unspoken conflict over the quality of drinking water being collected. While the two field assistants wade out into the deepest pools to collect the purest water, I take mine from a fast-flowing, oxygenated, and sediment-charged section of the river. In my area, what I am collecting is not so much water as it is what I like to call "Dunham Juice".
Dunham Juice is painstakingly collected to ensure a complete lack of consistency in the end product, with the theory being that the drinker will imbibe whatever the river decides to deliver into the jerry can: one mouthful will be pure water, the next will be 10% leaf matter, and the last may be slightly damp sand and algae. Regardless, I will drink it, wiping the muddy remains from my face and giving a loud "Aaah, fuck yeah" after each mouthful; as far as I am concerned, a high solid content is a good thing, and a sure sign that the drinker is capturing all of the river's vitality, minerals, and water-borne diseases. The water SHOULD taste like humus, fish shit, dead cow, and seven different strains of meningitis...
Dunham Juice is painstakingly collected to ensure a complete lack of consistency in the end product, with the theory being that the drinker will imbibe whatever the river decides to deliver into the jerry can: one mouthful will be pure water, the next will be 10% leaf matter, and the last may be slightly damp sand and algae. Regardless, I will drink it, wiping the muddy remains from my face and giving a loud "Aaah, fuck yeah" after each mouthful; as far as I am concerned, a high solid content is a good thing, and a sure sign that the drinker is capturing all of the river's vitality, minerals, and water-borne diseases. The water SHOULD taste like humus, fish shit, dead cow, and seven different strains of meningitis...
Dear Darryl [brother]
Do you remember the old Hale School chapel song about not building your house on the sandy lands? Here it is, in case you don't remember:
"Don't build your house on the sandy lands; Don't build it too near the shore.
Well it might look kind of nice, but you'll have to build it twice.
Oh you'll have to build your house once more.
"You'd better build your house upon a rock; Make a good foundation on a solid spot.
Oh, the storms may come and go, but the peace of God you will know."
Quite a catchy tune, I'm sure you agree, though not as catchy as the one that started "He may be short, fat, red-haired and freckle-faced...", which I used to say was about Nick John. That bizarre thing about THAT song, looking back, is that it was about tolerance, but it's very words imply that being red-haired, for example, is something that must be TOLERATED. It treats gingerness as an undesirable trait, but one that some poor souls are afflicted with, and asks that we try to find it within our hearts to treat them as equals, however difficult that may be. Quite rightly too, I might add. Bloody rangers.
But back to the point, which is that I built my four man tent on the sandy lands on the bank of the Dunham River; right on the bank, and in coarse, loose quartz sand. And yes, in keeping with the song, it does look kind of nice. Perhaps I will have to build it twice after a storm; perhaps God will choose to destroy my dwelling in a fit of tempest. I will cross that biblical bridge when I come to it, and in the mean time I will not be moving my tent to a rock. I'm certain that God wouldn't wish a bad night's sleep on a loyal subject after said subject had toiled hard all day and not engaged in any devil's activities, besides pooing down old drillholes, bathing naked without shame, taking nips of Stone's Green Ginger Wine, clubbing pesky bugs to death with an empty bootleg cane spirit bottle, and coveting thy neighbour's Sunrise fruitbox.
No, He is a happy god, because I am in His country, not just passing through it or admiring it from afar, but living in it, breathing in it, eating in it, pissing and shitting in it, fishing in it, bathing in it, exploring, feeling and loving it, and immortalising it in words for my brethren. He is a satisfied god, because He knows that wherever I look, from the river valleys to the sandstone peaks, from the scorpions to the crocodiles, and from the light to the dark, I see Him, or at least something like Him...
"Don't build your house on the sandy lands; Don't build it too near the shore.
Well it might look kind of nice, but you'll have to build it twice.
Oh you'll have to build your house once more.
"You'd better build your house upon a rock; Make a good foundation on a solid spot.
Oh, the storms may come and go, but the peace of God you will know."
Quite a catchy tune, I'm sure you agree, though not as catchy as the one that started "He may be short, fat, red-haired and freckle-faced...", which I used to say was about Nick John. That bizarre thing about THAT song, looking back, is that it was about tolerance, but it's very words imply that being red-haired, for example, is something that must be TOLERATED. It treats gingerness as an undesirable trait, but one that some poor souls are afflicted with, and asks that we try to find it within our hearts to treat them as equals, however difficult that may be. Quite rightly too, I might add. Bloody rangers.
But back to the point, which is that I built my four man tent on the sandy lands on the bank of the Dunham River; right on the bank, and in coarse, loose quartz sand. And yes, in keeping with the song, it does look kind of nice. Perhaps I will have to build it twice after a storm; perhaps God will choose to destroy my dwelling in a fit of tempest. I will cross that biblical bridge when I come to it, and in the mean time I will not be moving my tent to a rock. I'm certain that God wouldn't wish a bad night's sleep on a loyal subject after said subject had toiled hard all day and not engaged in any devil's activities, besides pooing down old drillholes, bathing naked without shame, taking nips of Stone's Green Ginger Wine, clubbing pesky bugs to death with an empty bootleg cane spirit bottle, and coveting thy neighbour's Sunrise fruitbox.
No, He is a happy god, because I am in His country, not just passing through it or admiring it from afar, but living in it, breathing in it, eating in it, pissing and shitting in it, fishing in it, bathing in it, exploring, feeling and loving it, and immortalising it in words for my brethren. He is a satisfied god, because He knows that wherever I look, from the river valleys to the sandstone peaks, from the scorpions to the crocodiles, and from the light to the dark, I see Him, or at least something like Him...
Dear Gerard [former workmate]
How are things in the Barrick-sphere; the solemn and holy depository of geological knowledge; the impenetrable citadel of all that is known to be good and true? I know that, due to company policy, you are unable to divulge anything - not even what day it is there - but that's why letters are so great, and why I am single-handedly restoring them to power: nobody can filter them, unless you are in prison or North Korea. Fuck, shit, nigger, cunt, filthy jew, PIMA, geochemistry [those last two are a geological "in-joke"]. See?
Working out where I am - [specific description of place] in the East Kimberley - there are no rules or regulations or people watching over your shoulder. It's amazing to see what happens to a man when he is released into a world of freedom and personal responsibility, from a tightly regulated world where he is mothered and dictated to. At first there is a period of excess, in the manner of the teetotaler who leaps from the wagon, where the subject feels compelled to work in the most hazardous manner imaginable: riding on the back of utes, wearing singlets on drill rigs, walking barefoot through what the aboriginals call (adopt aboriginal accent here) "the long grass" (end aboriginal accent) - home to snakes of all descriptions.
But following the excesses - and this is where it gets interesting, and the stage I find myself in as we speak - there is a period of sobriety, to continue with the drinking analogy, where the subject reflects on the past and present and settles on a sensible middle-ground. This concept of "personal responsibility", foreign to me for so long, is a revelation, and tremendously empowering. It spreads from safety behaviour to geological behaviour to fiscal behaviour to romantic behaviour, moving through one's life like a slurp of Stone's Green Ginger Wine through the bloodstream of a man freshly emerged from his evening bath in the Dunham River.
The increased geological responsibility and empowerment are a God-send to me and, in tandem with the nagging pressure of contract work, have transformed my waning lust for rocks into a violent and unstoppable cinder cone of productivity. Where in the past I would have sat in the ute reading high-brow literature between drillholes, I now switch on the GPS, don my mapping jacket, and scale the sandstone ridges, paying heed to all I see and, if possible, measuring it's orientation with my brand new (now slightly soiled) Frieburg compass. I am doing the best geological work I have ever done...
Working out where I am - [specific description of place] in the East Kimberley - there are no rules or regulations or people watching over your shoulder. It's amazing to see what happens to a man when he is released into a world of freedom and personal responsibility, from a tightly regulated world where he is mothered and dictated to. At first there is a period of excess, in the manner of the teetotaler who leaps from the wagon, where the subject feels compelled to work in the most hazardous manner imaginable: riding on the back of utes, wearing singlets on drill rigs, walking barefoot through what the aboriginals call (adopt aboriginal accent here) "the long grass" (end aboriginal accent) - home to snakes of all descriptions.
But following the excesses - and this is where it gets interesting, and the stage I find myself in as we speak - there is a period of sobriety, to continue with the drinking analogy, where the subject reflects on the past and present and settles on a sensible middle-ground. This concept of "personal responsibility", foreign to me for so long, is a revelation, and tremendously empowering. It spreads from safety behaviour to geological behaviour to fiscal behaviour to romantic behaviour, moving through one's life like a slurp of Stone's Green Ginger Wine through the bloodstream of a man freshly emerged from his evening bath in the Dunham River.
The increased geological responsibility and empowerment are a God-send to me and, in tandem with the nagging pressure of contract work, have transformed my waning lust for rocks into a violent and unstoppable cinder cone of productivity. Where in the past I would have sat in the ute reading high-brow literature between drillholes, I now switch on the GPS, don my mapping jacket, and scale the sandstone ridges, paying heed to all I see and, if possible, measuring it's orientation with my brand new (now slightly soiled) Frieburg compass. I am doing the best geological work I have ever done...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)