Snippets, Slivers and Other Tidbits

So there I was one day, flipping through my old travel journals and scraps of paper capturing my thoughts and I decided to put together all the bits of ideas here. These ideas do not flow, they do not connect, but just some old words that I still enjoy. The words here all come from my journals written while exploring the West Coast of Australia and Indonesia.

The most beautiful deep blue sky hangs above me, dotted with puffy white clouds, and trimmed by lush green palm and terracotta roofs.

(April 10th)

Margaret River
Endless sheets of blue
Smeared
Blotches of white
Encompassing a bubble
White turns grey
From calm to a turbulent growl
Colliding
Covering the blue
Grey dominates now
Pushing out the rain
Winds on the verge
of violence
Whipping through trees
Carrying the scent of the sea
Salt, fresh
The ocean blue

"Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean - roll!"

BYRON

Days pass quickly and time, as usual, continues forward, waiting for nobody or any one thing. Sometimes I wish for the pause button; to be able to sit and reflect upon things that otherwise just pass through.

(June 13th)

Aboriginal Woman

I look into your eyes,

Dark, dark

Dark shades of brown,

And black,

Dark shades of beauty.

I see your warmth,

Your compassion,

Your pain.

Your fingers long

And spindly,

Which give you grace.

Your roots are strong

And your blood is thick,

Unashamed,

Proud you are,

And right to be.

Behind the Counter

"They're chips, not fries"

Okay, whatever pleases you.

"Would you like small or large?"

"For here or to go?"

"To go?"

"Yes, to go, or should I say take away?"

"Yah, take away."

Biting tongue, grinding teeth.

You ungrateful son of a bitch.

To you I am only the chicken girl.

Is this all that you can see?

Behind the red apron

You see my life

Revolving around serving you

and serving dead birds

Can't you see beyond that?

My life expands much further than you will ever know,

It reaches beyond these counters I stand behind.

But you would never know that

Nor would you really care.

I dream, you know.

"Quarter or Eighth of a chicken?"

I have aspirations too.

"Would you like gravy with that?"

Creativity harbours my imagination.

"Three or six nuggets?"

My passions consume me.

"That will be $1.40, thank you."

And go to hell,

Cause I'm just not the chicken girl,

I am me, a person.

Ode to Mark

The lethargy of the day's heat stiffles my mind. Thoughts of you drift through my memory; scattered pieces of a puzzle. Replaying our encounters like an old film, jumping and flicking during the story.

The colour of the sea mixes and blends into the sky. Hues of blue, so diverse, so deep, so true. I remember your eyes; honest and pure. They dance with the light, and smile with their innocent gaze.

Mark Parish, where are you now?

Are you driving illegal speeds in your Volvo?

Or hashing out the consequences of bygone relations?

Do you sip wines of red which stain your lips with its sweetness in trendy cafes?

Or do you still scamper along dunes of sand with waves crashing into the dark windy nights?

I wonder as I sit here now, absorbing the almost tropical sun, watching the hulls of boats bob with the gentle breeze and lapping sea. I wonder if things might have been different if we met sooner. And I wonder if we will ever meet again.

As the sun starts to progress west, my mind floats on. A slide show of memories, pressing the foward button, shuffling through. But as I jump from frame to frame, I reassure myself of several things:

I left Perth with some new found knowledge,

A journal full of stories, poems and writings,

An inspired mind,

An array of friends,

And best of all; no regrets.

Pavement,

Hot and grey

Slips beneath the ute

And stretches into the distance.

Wheels turning; we push along

The clanging and jostling

Adds to the sound of the diesel engine

Spitting out occasional gulps of black,

Dispersing into the dusty air.

Wild flowers, purple and yellow

Cling to the red earth,

Choking from dust spewed

by cruising tourists

And hide from the heat.

A Chance

Fading Away
Slipping through my hands
Trying to grasp at anything,
Grasping for you.
Am I just clinging to the memories
or diminishing hopes?
I wonder.
Or is there a chance,
You know the one.
Is there still one left,
With you and I?
Is there a chance to catch on
to the time gone past?
A chance to catch up
where we left off?
Standing on enigmatic ground
with fingers crossed
waiting to catch the ebb.


The Gypsy Spirit
Gypsy kings and queens, we travel in a caravan moving onward. Trails of thick red dust lurk behind and disperse into the clean air; unlike our adventures. Concrete memories built into our minds and envelope our lives. Further we go, the more we see and create.

A unique way of life. Nature's nomadic children, we live on the land, and explore the beauty surrounding us. She wraps us tight with trees and clouds and bathes us with crashing oceans and calm ponds. Warmed by the sun and cooled by the breeze, the wind blows through out hair as we drift on. The earth is our provider and graciously we take, but with unconditional respect.

Did ye not hear it?--No. 'Twas but the wind, or the car rattling over the stoney street; on with the dance! Let joy be unconfined; no sleep till morn; when you and pleasure meet to chase the glowing hours with flying feet.
-BYRON

Windjana Gorge..
I've always been fascinated by the way people meet, but this time in particular I was most intrigued. We never really formally introduced ourselves, but more or less stumbled into each other. Pieces of a puzzle drifting and when joined, fit. It's strange, we are all unique and different people, and get along well. To be honest, I am unsure of what brought us together, but I am beginning to understand what binds us.

Some would say that the reason we get along is the fact that we are all disillusioned youth coming from the same lost generation. It's true, we may not know what we want, but we know what we don't want; the complexities of our modern society. Perhaps we are just running from things, a form of escapism, or maybe we are just searching for something better, but can you blame us? Life is much, much simpler our way.


September 26th - Timor Sea

It has been 3 days since the crew began to disassemble, and since I left Australia. I left on a great note. No regrets and loads of memories. The friends, the crew of nomads may be gone physically, but I take a piece of them with me which I will cherish forever. And from all of you this is what I take:

Pete:: Your adventurous spirit is contagious. Always pushing the boundaries for more hedonistic fun.

Craig:: Your ability to seek out the best in any situation and be content with the simplest results. Not only have you made me see this, but also to see the best in anyone and the best in me.

Dave:: Your easygoing, laid back attitude. You would do anything for anyone without batting an eye.

Danny:: Your quiet introspection and watchfulness. You gave me comfort in seeing the ways to communiate without words being shared. You made me look.

Mel:: Your confidence of being a strong woman. Your smile that sparks anyone's spirit and the pressence of beauty.

Neale:: Your passion for life. To suck the marrow, to lap up every drop.

Jo:: Your kind words, your gentle touch, your joie de vie. I never thought I would meet my twin, but am glad to call you a sister.

It is an honour to call of you friends. It was an experience of growth and the essence of life we lived for over a month together. A memory that will stay with me forever, and am glad that I have shared that with all of you.

Cheers to all of you.

Memories of Cambolin

Blazing fire

The centre of our momentary world

We sprawl around its warmth

The light reflecting upon our faces

Eyes dancing, smiles forming

Ready to perform

Makeshift instruments,

Start to tap a beat

Echoing into the night

Carried by the river

Percussion concerto

The water drum hums

The sticks join in

A tin can

Snaps of thumbs

Stomps of feet

The cooler

Play for ourselves and

Anyone who happens to hear

A release of energy

Yet returning to us

To keep the rhythm going

Into the night

Odd to The Lady in the Boat
There you sit, so pretty, so proper
In your wooden boat
Afloat on a pond with lush green trees amungst you
Like your chin, your parasol held high shading the sun
A faceless visage and a stiff upper lip
So dignified you are.
But wait...
Is that a smirk I see?
Of course!
You know all to well
The poison for which you pose
You know how it stirs anger,
Induces foolishness,
And creates havoc within one.
You know, don't you
Lady in the boat,
You are one sly bitch.

There is a wine that you buy in a box called Coolabah. The aboriginals don't call it by the proper name, but refer to it as "Lady in the Boat" from the picture on the box. The Lady in the boat was our staple. It washed away the dry thirst from the red dust and enhanced the atmosphere of our nightly campfire in the middle of nowhere.


TED

Ted was his name. He introduced himself as our new neighbour. This Midwestern corn-fed kid with the whitest corn-fed teeth you have did see had the most innocent eyes. Pools of brown; drawing you in.

Looking into his eyes you could see the tall sprawling fields of green fading into the vast horizon. This was the place of his childhood. The place where he spent countless lethargic summer days around the farm, swigging back bottles of coca-cola quenching his thirst from the hot Midwest sun. And as the summer days of baseball changed into autumn, his days of freedom would end. He would return to school and await the following summer.

The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.

-PROUST