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.