Normalizing

Yesterday was my detox day.  I drank a few quarts of water, stayed away from double espressos (the double I had after first landing had more flavor in 8 ounces than I could get in a whole pot of American roasted coffee, yum), didn’t take any cold medicine, and only resorted to drinking wine at dinner (it was organic Shiraz, it was like drinking grape juice, right?).  I think it worked. I woke up at 4:30am with a clear head, clear nostrils, some energy, and the feeling that my body was a bit more in tune with the ebb and flow of daily Australian life.

Yesterday was a normal day. I love the word normal. I really do. It serves so many purposed for me when I write.  Well here, normal is a day where I’m not trying to do the next exciting thing, talk to the next interesting person, write the next great American novel, see the most breathtaking thing, no.  Normal was waking up in my parent’s flat, having a slice of Pavlova with my rice puffs (Rice Crispies just called different despite still being a Kellogg’s branded cereal, there are big issues with naming rights around here), Dad going to work, and Mother and I walking down the hill into town to pick up a few necessitates at the shopping plaza. 

Going shopping with Mother is a historical behavior. I remember walking next to her cart at the Great American on the corner of 281 and Mclean Rd, I think its some bullshit buffet now.  Only in Australia, I pushed the cart, and when I saw wine I wanted, I just put it in the cart.  So we picked up all sorts of stuff, Gurrumul’s latest CD, postcards, sunglasses, food, and scoped out the touristy ‘presies’ in the shopping plaza. 

Being that I’m on the top of the food chain, I had to find different sorts of large bodied animals that I can eat.  That sounds really macho, and it is, I’ve been watching clips from Epic Mealtime on YouTube, “I’m the saoooce boooss!  There is no such thing as too much bacon…We garnished it with Baconaters just because we are ****ed up like that.” Mom didn’t think “Woolies” would have kangaroo, they did, so we ate it.  I did the roo up Dinosaur BBQ style by throwing together my own red rub out of her on hand kitchen spices. Dad whipped up a tangy BBQ sauce out of ketchup, worcheschire sauce, cayenne pepper, salt, pepper, and jalapeno sauce. It was tasty and the first time my parents actually cooked their own roo.  I’m insisting on eating some croc, emu, or koala tonight.

 Although my parents said something about the koala being on the national endangered species list, I don’t know what they are talking about but they say it could lead to me getting arrested.  But if we hit one with our car or find one by the side of the road, I’ll break that little furry guy down in an instant. (Italics = sarcasm font, I’m afraid the Aussies will think I’m an evil American brute)

 The roo had the coloration of white tail venison and similar muscle structure.  The shish kebabs were tasty and I’d say with the amount of seasoning we used, indistinguishable between the continental variations of large creatures.

Back to normal, we were shopping by 915am and having tea and a muffin by 1030am. That felt normal, like people should take breaks to converse in the morning, sit outside in the sun at an outdoor café, and just relax for a bit.  The sitting gave me the pause to write down some notes about the sights, smells, and people I’d seen, look at the bounty I’d gathered over the last hour, and rest my back a little bit.  I think I was overdoing my posture or something, my lower back was killing me.  Or its still being out of synch with time and body.  I did start yawning heavily at noon, which was 10pm eastern standard time, Troutman standard bedtime that is.

Planking.  I don’t really have a need to try and explain this.  It started out as a joke from some guy taking pictures with clubbers and DJs. It was a big news story today because somebody died from planking off a balcony edge. Then a famous rugby player planked off a 40^th story balcony, bad role model was the feeling by the Aussie news. Dad and I decided to try it out , see what all the fuss was about.

I really like this tradies ute.  Simple, red, functional. Being that I’m a small truck owner I can really appreciate the Australian tradies concept of truck, ute.  There is no need for an oversized engine, an extended cab and bed, a gas-guzzler, a my truck is bigger than your truck penis comparing contest.  All the tradies have a ute like this that they get around in to do their plumbing, electricity, construction, and various other trades.  Of course there are sporty looking utes but you I’ve only seen one regular sized ‘truck’ since being down here.

 Then there are the range rovers with a snorkel, roof rack, roo-bar, jacked up suspension, and signature mud along the sides. These vehicles are serious outback equipment capable of carrying extra jugs of water/fuel, submerging the engine up to the steering wheel level, and traversing roadless terrain. I haven’t seen a lot of these up to this point but the few I have seen are impressive.

Nough Said

This lil bugga was about 30 yards, ghmm, excuse me, 28 meters from our Holden.

Maurice Ravel's 2nd Movement of String Quartet in F (Bellbirdesque)

I woke up yesterday thinking of the bellbirds outside of my window. I could only hear them 'tinking' faintly in the background but they were there.  We've driven by localized groups of bellbirds and they are very loud.  They made me think of this piece of music.  I get the shivers when I listen to this piece and watch the intensity of the quartet.  

Wild at Heart by Birds of Tokyo

I went to the local CD store and looked at the music on hand for sale.  Mother talked to the clerk about ordering her a DVD version of the Rabbit Proof Fence.  The clerk informed her that they could order such an item but the store was going out of business. Mother asked why and the clerked explained that downloading off the Internet has really changed the business and made it difficult for small retailers, while I in my hand was writing down the words Birds of Tokyo in my journal to live stream it off the Internet that night.  The brilliance of real life irony is always my favorite. You can't make stuff like that up because no one would believe it. Although, live streaming is not illegal, and live streaming then recording with a digital music recorder is also not illegal, at least in America, so I didn't feel guilty about the moment from a legal point of view.

I like this track and video.  These chaps are from Broome I believe, capital of all things Australian pearl. They remind me of Live from the states in that they have drums, guitars, bass, singing that you can understand, and a fair mix of emotionality and intellectuality that gives their lyrics an ability to be interpreted.  Some of the other tracks on their album bored me but this one was worthy of a video watch and listen.

Mother tells me that musical artists in Australia consider being popular in America as the "Holy Grail."  She explained that she has found Aussie's are always trying to compare themselves to the states because they are so interested in what goes on there.  I listened and filed it under "Things my Mom has Random Opinions About." However, I have to validate this opinion. Twice while in public yesterday I had an Australian ask me, "What do you like better Australia or the US?"  I really couldn't believe it and I answered by saying I'd only been here for two days. Then they serenaded me with "Good Days, No Worries, Mates, You Rights?" 

Bombora

Tennyson pulled his lichen stained Holden into the spot that he and Ava had shared so many times before.  He was alone, alone from actual human contact, although he felt today as if he had the company of time for the first time in many years. Age and slowness in the marrow of his bones often made him feel like the morning gave birth to a stillborn. Tennyson could of course amuse himself but the fire of life’s burning sun didn’t seem to burn as bright anymore without her and without his youthful marrow.

He looked up the hill that overlooked the Pacific Ocean and Terrigal Beach.  A magpie was aggressively eyeing some bystanders walking behind his vehicle and poking fun at the late model Holden that was moldy and unclean with the codependent algae fungi blend. Tennyson chuckled, the beauty of age being a welcome mockery of self and others perceptions. He got out of the car and tried to kick the magpie.  The bird popped away before getting punted and he laughed at the time Ava nearly lost an eye from a blisteringly upset Magpie who wanted some of her Lamington, or was it Pavlova?  She loved the creamy texture of Pav in her mouth so much and he the coconut sponge of the Lam.  They ate both so often that the two desserts couldn’t be separated from one another.

The slope had recently received a sand stone walkway and steps, which Tennyson happily utilized.  The arthritis in his joints burned and he gritted his gums on the glued in dentures to bring the pain from his knees and hip into his head.  Here, in the head, the pain was meaningless and weak on its knees to the power of his resolve to climb and make remembrance a reality.  His pace was steady and the occasional group of round brimmed children laughed their way up and down the hill past his turtoiselike pace.

The Australian mothers, bronzen, clad in hiking thongs, laughing about life, and using the sun and hill to exercise their children, gave Tennyson a gentle smile and perhaps a small look of surprise at his prowess in climbing the stairs at such a climatic age.  He nodded and tried to suppress his panting in the Fall 15 degree air.  Tennyson was also battling a cold that made him resort to the bright red polka dotted handkerchief he kept in his back pocket. It had an aboriginal sort of look to it and he thought it looked much like Gurrumal’s dress during the 2017 World Music Awards, which he would have attended, if it weren’t for the birth of Heath, his first son, and third child.

Pain wasn’t something that he got rid of, ignored, defeated, or changed. It was endured.  Tennyson rolled back the sleeves of his white shirt and wiped some sweat from his forehead, as he got closer to the lookout point.  Some students were taking leaf samples from the stringy bark gums near the edge of the path. He stopped and looked back down the hill.  The Christ like tops of the Norfolk pines by the Terrigal Trojan Rugby Club stretched up to the heavens.  The limbs arched imperiously into the sky, stretching, driving, yearning, to be closer to the giver of chemical energy for mother earth’s mother’s milk, photosynthesis, her ultimate green machine fuel for all of life, the bottom of the food change, the foundation, and here in this tree Tennyson loved how unabashedly the life form curled itself into the sky to be a part of it all.

He reached the summit where a blue steel fence boxed in the lookout area. No one else was there.  Australian blue skies as far as his eye could see. “I need a Boag’s,” Tennyson grumbled as his parched lips thirsted for the effervescent spirits of the south.  He looked out onto the horizon looking for the breaching of the ocean’s surface by a school of humpback whales.  It was early in the whale watching season and he kept his eyes out just in case he caught some early travelers heading north to the warmer equator waters for the releasing of their calves.

Terrigal’s beach was fairly empty, tourist season over, some young men surfing near the breakwaters by large outcroppings of bone crunching rock, some people walking their dogs on the beach, but mostly just squeaky sand and ocean.  Tennyson had convinced his daughters early in life that the sand was full of little spirits that let out a squeak when you stepped on them.  Ava disapproved of the indigenous like sand spirits but she allowed it because the children loved running around and seeing how the clamoring of their feet strung the cords of the sand spirits into a cacophony of petty squeaks.

Tennyson looked out over the ocean , beyond his sight toward where Killcare beach lay, and recalled his lies about the mighty Bombora that lay in the Killcare bay.  He had brought the kids there often to show them where the waves broke in random directions in the middle of the bay. Tennyson led them to believe that a giant sea turtle lay just underneath the water. The turtle was so large that it couldn’t move anymore and his great great great great great great great children were tasked each day with bringing the Bombora turtle food.  His shell was so massive that the waves would be forced to break around him and he shifted his weight slightly because of his amphibian arthritis, which caused the infinitely complex and seemingly chaotic pattern of wave breaks. The kids listened, sometimes not, picked up red rocks and sand stone, looked for fire burned tree trunks, and wondered if the giant sea turtle needed a doctor for his ouches.

Tennyson closed his eyes, sat down, and listened.  He heard the waves, the children, the drone of a plane in the sky, the bristling of birds in the eucalyptus infants next to the sandstone pathway, and the murmuring of his heart.  He continued to listen until it all quieted and he stayed still in case he could here the ping of bellbirds in the distance. Tennyson liked the bellbirds because they were so easily heard and almost never seen by the average passerby. 

Gurrumul-- Australian Music Find 1

We stopped at a scenic overlook above Killcare beach this afternoon. I was in a sleepy daze and trying to calculate ways to stay awake until 8pm before going to sleep. Jet lag, a full belly of Lime milkshake and Thai Prawn pizza, and a lingering headcold were bringing me down.  I learned about Geoffrey Gurrumul from an advertisement next to a small art gallery in Killcare. We might go visit it tomorrow.  I was able to get my second wind tonight from listening to his music.  You can find him on Grooveshark.com for free or his second album Rrakala can be found on itunes at http://itunes.apple.com/au/album/rrakala/id426110922.

Literary Adultery

I do have to give the people at Microsoft a little credit for full screen typing mode with a 200% zoom level on my Macbook. It’s the blank canvas of the painter made palpable for the writer.  The screen is bright, the keys are lit up, all that white to be edited with my finger tips, finger painting for the adult, instant literary adultery, I’m cheating on my self with my this sexy little computer.  Secretive and mysterious.

I recently spent two and a half days away from work.  I was enjoying my family in Philadelphia and came home early enough to be home by 6pm on the third day.  I felt like I had been in “vacation mode.”  I have often used the word ‘mode’ to describe the state of mind shift I experience from going from a man focused on his household chores and professional duties to a man without focus, without concern, with a dedication to the moment, eating when he needs to eat, laughing frequently, and only managing his own life without concern of getting things done or making decisions for others.

This feeling made me excited for Australia.  I realized that I could completely let go and be in vacation ‘mode’ for an extended period of time. Sure there would still be the stresses of flights, following the Troutman travel itinerary, following the Bungle Bungle itinerary, and the general out of culture experiences but that could all come in stride while living for the sake of living.