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So last night I was teaching you to hang glide, and we were at a snow-covered valley in the Rockies. But when we got cold, you put on your jacket and turned into a dog.
You didn't want me to know, so you took your jacket back off, handed me a package of crackers, and told me to go home.
I ended up walking to your house and climbing on the sign you have out front. Your mom got mad and shook her fist at me.
Meanwhile, you've turned back into a dog and are living in a trailer home. I follow you back to your place, utilizing my mad hang glider skills, and investigate your refrigerator, which is full of garlic sprouts growing on a bonsai tree and uncooked sausages.
You reappear, we get all of the messy, 'I love you despite the fact that you turn into a stinky dog' stuff out of the way, but then your house catches on fire, so we escape into the blizzard.
We jump off a cliff, but apparently still have our gliders on, and spend several months in the air.
Somewhere we get a newspaper, and discover that our mothers have both been arrested and opened up a fire department.
We land in the city and go see your mother first. She is at home, and gets mad at me again for destroying the back of one of her antique chairs. So we go see my mother at the fire department, and end up chained to the wall with barbed wire around our ankles.
Apparently we've become disruptors of the peace...
[and an edit - this is what it looks like.]
so we're on flood watch right now, where i am, in kensington.
out west from here and north they're already on flood warning.
i was in balmain earlier this evening, for a friend's going away party. when i went to leave, it was pissing down outside. got to the bus stop, was already soaked. had to change buses in the city, and on the second bus, we started listening to the flood warnings on the radio. something, blah blah blah, something, blah ROAD CLOSURES IN KENSINGTON blah blah something.
oh shit.
so we get to anzac and alison roads, and they're rerouting all traffic. they turn our bus back around to they city. so we get off the bus and start to walk home.
only about a 20 minute walk, but this goes above and beyond.
the water is completely covering the road. you can see no pavement.
keep walking.
the water is completely covering the median in the road. no grass, no median.
keep walking.
the water is completely covering the sidewalks on one side of the road, and is about halfway to the sidewalk on the other side, as that side's on a hill. no walkways.
keep walking.
there is a policeman walking down the middle of the road, poking at something with a shovel. the water comes up to ABOVE HIS KNEES.
keep walking.
there are a couple cars in the road, that obviously got caught in the storm and won't restart. their car door is open. the water comes up to THE SEAT OF THE CAR.
keep walking.
arrive home!
look like you've gotten out of the shower with your clothes on, go directly downstairs to tell angie the story.
angie's room has flooded.
the water in her room comes over the carpets. they have evacuated all important things, like computers and books on the bottom shelf, to the spare bedroom upstairs.
and as i've been writing this, power has gone out in the city and the northern suburbs. no electricity, no traffic lights.
rain, rain, go away...
actually, i like rain.
(it makes me want to run around outside and frolic.
possibly naked.)
as long as it is not damaging property and wreaking havoc.
which it is.
but i still enjoy it.
I strip and I'm pretty. And the little useless pieces of paper fall, fall.
I turn round and am startled;
There's someone standing behind me. As I approach, so does she.
Her brow furrows and she grimaces; this isn't the time for company.
Book titles.
Supermarket lists.
She is so silent; I wonder if there exists in her mind the myriad thoughts in mine.
They don't show.
*giggle*
She fits perfectly behind her wall.
I wonder if she'll give in to torpor.
Watch the carpet, love. It can burn.
New songs.
Addresses.
Find the yellow one down there, will you? It has a sticky back.
I knew i'd been dreaming a lot lately.
but they haven't been writing well.
no, maybe that was me.
there's nothing more.
not without you here.
but if i left?
you put on her tail.
her mermaid's tail.
it changed your DNA.
your language.
you kicked me out.
i had to leave my bike.
my mattress.
it was my garage.
you left with her.
you're changing everything.
the daylight burns.
it is apposite.
I am exceedingly soft and warm and cuddly. I have curves in all the right places, and I smell good. The sheets are clean, and the bed is always big enough. The fan is on, the temperature is a nice mid range 25 C. It's not a white christmas, but at least it's raining. Locals disdain rain during the holidays, but I reckon it's the best alternative of all our possibilities. Remember lying in a cabin, back amongst the trees, with the wind blowing through the fly screen, and the rain falling ponderously down on the tin roof?
That's one of the most romantic sounds in the world.
What's wrong with this picture?
Do you ever wish you could uncomplicate relationships? Not specific to romantic relationships, but just... in general?
So that when you tell someone, "I'm irritated with my roommate because he/she was up drinking all night with his/her visiting friends and they were singing loud drinking songs at 12.15 am," people will react objectively? They can tell you what they really think or if you're just whinging. Because it doesn't matter if they offend you, or your roommate, or have complete shit advice, because they don't know you well enough for it to matter.
Maybe it's not a desire for some relationships to be uncomplicated; that is inaccurate. I am always grateful for the people I know well enough that they understand exactly what I mean (even when all I do is garble at them) and their continuing support.
There is just a... craving, maybe? A desire? To talk to someone who knows nothing about you or your life and likely will never care. They can keep you in line, prevent you from wallowing in the depths of your own misery.
Real friends are great, but it's harder for them to blow you off.
What if you need someone to slap you in the face like that? Cause you're sick of yourself?
I need a stash of objective, replaceable conversationalists.
I figure parallel universes have to exist.
There are so many what-ifs in life; there wouldn't be a point to being able to think about what-ifs unless there was some way they could all be validated. Consider all the times you've wondered, how would your life be different if you'd gone to this university? Moved to that place? Dated this person? All in place of your current university, location, significant other. And for each decision that changes, every subsequent decision could stay the same, or could change as well. The number of alternatives increases exponentially. Does it have to be set in stone?
It's really all just a game. In some other universe, maybe even just another world, there has to be an equivalent but opposite version of events taking place.
I think a lot of people decide not to believe in parallel universes not because of the supposed improbability of it all, or because of the ensuing God issue, but because it trivializes our lives. If there are multiple versions of us out there, each making different decisions and living completely different (similar?) lives, we cease to be unique. And uniqueness is one of the primary characteristics of being rational, conscious beings.
To the best of our knowledge and ability to understand, the universe is infinite. We have not yet found an 'edge' of the universe, nor does anyone have any worthwhile, legitimate theories about what is then beyond the 'edge'. We are incapable of viewing even a tiny percentage of the universe. What we can see, when we look at the horizon, is at most about 14 billion light years away, because that's how old the universe is estimated to be. Now change our reference frame; if we were on the most distant star in our visible universe, what would we see? What defines the visible universe from that point, from the 'edge' of our visible universe? We have no way of knowing how much farther it goes, or where it stops. Maybe it takes a turn at 50 billion, like a mountain highway. Maybe it drops for a few light years, like the edge of a cliff. But in all that space, even just to our horizon, doesn't it logically make sense to assume that there is an equally infinite (or finite, if you insist) number of possible states for us to exist in, rather than an infinite number of identical states? Also, these considerations are only spatial. The likelihood of all this, yet again, increases exponentially if we consider a greater number of dimensions that define reality, or if we consider time travel.
To an arthropod of your choice, the universe is likely limited to the area it travels throughout its life. Perhaps it does have some concept of existence, and maybe it has a sense of community. But beyond its own life, it can't encompass anything more. I think we are like that. We are the arthropods of the Earth. We understand our own existence relatively well (some of us do), and we pretend to be enlightened and have some knowledge of the universe around us. But really? We can't pretend to understand what we don't know exists.
So yah, I reckon parallel universes are a must have. Cause if this is the only version of life I get, there damn well better be another version of me out there somewhere who's doing a better job than I am.
I wish we could weigh words.
You can feel them when they come out of your mouth.
Some of them float, and migrate themselves upwards to hang out with the cobwebs.
Others sink, straight to the bottom of your existence, where you tread on them and grind them into the floorboards.
Difficult to classify particular words, cause it would be different for every person.
But consonants, for sure, are much heavier than vowels.
So whenever you speak, both the literal weight of the word, in terms consonants and vowels, and the psychological connotation unique to you, must be considered.
How much do you weigh now?
The train car was spinning, round and round, like a teacup ride at an amusement park, even as the train continued its forward travel on the tracks. I guess that’s how this train worked, because no one seemed bothered by the irregular motion. My mum, sister and I kept traveling to forward cars. Forward, ever forward, putting more distance between them and us. We lurched as the brakes squealed, and the momentum of the train slowed, slowed, until it came to rest at an empty station. We disembarked. Can’t stop moving. The train behind us started again, the cars spinning as the whole thing disappeared into the distance. We headed towards the only building in sight; a department store, standing out against the dusty backdrop of nothing. Perhaps that was where they wanted us to go. Doesn’t matter. There were no alternatives. We hit the doors running, up the escalators at the back. Knocked into a man on the way. Sorry, guy. No time to be polite. We kept moving up, past the service desk, past the shoes, past the brassieres, past the toothpaste. Who needs a choice from 150 different kinds of toothpaste? To the fifth floor, against the north wall, lay our destination. A utilities cupboard, to the unsuspecting; so much more, to someone in the know. Someone like me. But how to get them in? I could get into the closet, no problem; I had my key. But I couldn’t get them past that point, couldn’t get them through the next passageway, without help. There was only one person left who could help me. And he wasn’t here. But as we rounded the last corner on the fifth floor, skirting the laundry baskets and the colored plastic clothes pegs, there he was. Coincidence? Perhaps. Maybe he needed laundry detergent and heard me running. The pattern of my footfalls must be familiar to him after all this time. He met us at the entrance to the utility closet. Inside, we shut and locked the door behind us. Now came the tricky part. The entryway was still there, at head height, behind the bleach bucket, like I remembered. A small door, set in the wall, only 12 inches high by 12 inches wide, with a plastic handle. No key to open this door. I pulled it open. The hinge was a little rusty. Clearly, this one had been forgotten. Behind that door was another, this one only 10 inches by 10 inches. And set inside the second door lay the third, 8 inches by 8 inches. As the third door swung open, he and I froze. There were people inside the room. There should not have been people inside the room. We could see their faces, staring back at us, and smell the stink of unwashed bodies in an unventilated, confined space. It was a big room, but there had to be, what, 50 of them? Before I could figure it out, he knew what had happened. He always was quicker on the uptake than me. He said this must be the last lot. The final group of people two of our comrades were moving, almost a year ago. They had been killed in the war, presumably after getting these people into the room, and no one else had been aware of them to get them back out. I had no idea how they’d survived this long. It took… special talents, to move regulars. I hesitate to call it magic, because, what is magic? Here, it was just an ability a few of us had, the ability to move people through a series of miniature entryways to a hidden room only a few knew about. Sounds silly when it’s written out. We could get in on our own, he and I, but it always took a second to move the regs. We got my family in, and promised to be back for all of them. It was convenient to pretend, for their sakes, that we were in control of our futures.
Outside, the black figures had drawn closer. They were here.
***
The house may have been my dad’s, in a different life. The front room, where we stood near to the wall, was the same. The door, the fireplace, the lounge. But the floors were wooden; that was different. They should have been carpeted. But it didn’t matter. He was with me, and the sun was streaming in the open windows. The music swirled around our heads before disappearing up the stairs. I closed my eyes, and the light reflected inside my eyelids, so I opened them. It was nicer to see his face anyway. And the rest of him, as it was no longer restricted to the confines of his outfit. A breeze blew in from the windows behind the couch, but it was not chilly. A strand of hair came to rest across my face. It was an excuse for him to touch me. To raise his hand and sweep the curl back behind my ear, to follow the contoured lines of my neck down to my shoulder, and rest his hand around the nape of my neck. There was no thought behind the movement. His other hand slipped around my waist and settled against the small of my back. It was only natural to close the distance between us, to take that step forward. To resist his arms, his embrace, was not an option.
[Edited for explicit content.]
***
The liquid kept falling. More and more, falling into a basin that could only hold so much. And then it stopped falling, but the basin started to overflow anyway. We were upstairs, in a bathroom the size of my last apartment. One side of the room was made of fly-screen, and looked out to a forest. Ordinarily, quite refreshing. It was nice to look out at the trees while in a bath, or doing whatever else needs doing in a bathroom. But right then, the basin continued to overflow. I’ve no idea what it was filling with, or from where the liquid was coming from. But the drains weren’t working. The drain in the shower, the sink, the toilet... none of them were draining. The level of liquid in the bathroom was rising at an alarming rate. Already, we were standing in 4 inches. You were with me, and had no suggestions. My suitcase rested on the floor behind us. It was imperative that the contents of my suitcase remain dry. When there is no recourse, actions are made of desperation. You and I retrieved our plastic yellow and green containers, with Yoplait written across the side, and bailed out the bathroom. It was perhaps not the best use of recycled yoghurt containers. But it worked. We bailed and bailed, until the ground outside, below the screen wall in the bathroom, was coated in a layer of wetness. And the sun shone, shone, and all the millions of water droplets, busily refracting the light, pondered their immortality.
Generally speaking, I have recently found myself to be in a state of contendedness.
I am adapting to Oz, carving out a niche for myself, and making friends. I have a nice flat, and I love my flatmates. I have a regular schedule, which helps my sense of being grounded. While not enrolled, I occupy myself with stromatolite and cyanobacterial sequencing at the University of New South Wales. I have an office I am at by 8-9 every morning, and I leave around 6. I have a bicycle, and this acts as an excellent physical outlet. I have my slackline, which I have finally succeeded at using. The other members of my lab are coming to accept me, which is great. Why, the other day, Jason flicked ice at me again. In the BAN lab, this is a clear indication of acceptance.
Last weekend, Michael and Tamsyn and I went canyoning. 'Twas Tamsyn's first run, and she thouroughly enjoyed it and wants to go again. This trip was over Kalang Creek, and was more of an abseil trip than a proper canyon. No standing water, but waterfalls all the way down, and 11 abseils of 50 meters. (Working on posting a few pics, just not there yet.)
It is amazing, though, how quickly a feeling of contentment may be shattered by the removal of one obligatory comfort. Money.
This semester has been great, in terms of starting research and being at school. The plan was to apply for an IPRS, the big international post-grad scholarship, which includes a living stipend and pays for tuition and fees.
I recently learned, though, that there is only one of these scholarships given out, every year, for the entire uni. And while I find myself a contending candidate, I do not leap off the page as being 'the one' for this scholarship.
So the notification week has passed, and I have not recieved word, which means no scholarship for me. Which means... what?
I do not know.
Tonight, I am filled with disgust.
It makes me grit my teeth and clench my jaw,
my toes curl and my fingernails dig into the soft flesh of my palms,
as I look out upon the vastness of "civilisation"
through my cloudy, paraffin-sealed, graffiti-covered pane of glass
next to my well-worn, stained, gray bus seat.
Why the fuck are we doing this?
We have created a rat race for ourselves, that we mockingly call life,
but unlike the rats, there is no prize waiting for us at the end.
Look out your window.
What do you see?
Light pollution obscuring your view of the stars.
Smoggy haze misting throughout the city, leftover from the daily oil uptake and exhaust production of our common lives.
Electrical wires crisscrossing overhead, obscuring the remaining glimpse of sky through the murk.
Since when did glimpsing a tree through the multi-story, steel, and glass, and painted buildings become a novelty?
And the smell!
Hardening cement, week old oil in the deep fryer, a pool of leftover diesel discarded and forgotten on the ground.
Cars zoom along next to you at 80 kilometers per hour, with no thought or concern about anyone as they pass, absorbed in their own little worlds.
There is no natural inquisitiveness as to the well-being of fellow humans.
Or if there is, it is well concealed, smothered by the facade that dictates nonchalance.
Neon signs flash in your face, and rubbish gusts gently across the path in front of you.
But do not worry about it. At no point should any of us despair to ever regain a semblance of the humanity we once boasted.
This is not life.
This is habituation with standards set by those who are even more farther in than we are.
This is faithlessly conforming to the expectations of others and the revolvement of our society around a predescribed set of rules. Around money. Around "progress".
Rush, rush, rush.
Get to your job on time.
Finish your homework.
Go to class.
Cook your middle class family dinner every night.
And do not forget to pay your rent.
Complete every task everyone expects of you, having performed them for so long you have forgotten the reasons why. Having lost sight of anything else. Of everything else.
Walk the well trodden path,
along the black asphalt road,
and over that glass bottle and plastic sack laying discarded on the grass.
Allow yourself to be inundated with the flashing lights and flapping signs, the flow of the world around you.
After all, we designed this.
Is this not what we wanted?
Alyssa friend game:
match each action or object to the person that matches best
1. chicken soup
2. slow motion
3. a day without rain
4. lime squeezed over an open wound
5. lime squeezed over a closed wound
6. umbrella
7. double sided duct tape
8. mirror
9. reflection in mirror
10. tidal pool
ambiguous? yes. open to interpretation? definitely.
some friends may be compared more than once.
others not at all.
see if you can find yours,
or see if you can match them all!
Vacillating between:
Estuans interius
ira vehementi
in amaritudine
loquor mee menti:
factus de materia,
cinis elementi
similis sum folio,
de quo ludunt venti.
Cum sit enim proprium
viro sapienti
supra petram ponere
sedem fundamenti,
stultus ego comparor
fluvio labenti,
sub eodem tramite
nunquam permanenti.
And
Count me out, when it's clear
that I, find it hard to say.
And you, find it hard to care.
I wanted to see something that's different,
something you said would change in me.
Wanted to be, anything different,
everything you would change in me.
Got this way, upfront but never true.
God I'm wrong, it's just the way I am.
Crashing down, any chance you hear.
Caving in, any chance that you, could see inside of me.
So yesterday we did Claustral Canyon, just outside Sydney proper. This is an 8 hour canyon, from start to finish, not counting drive and prep time. Michael, the neighbor guy I’ve been going canyoning with, is leaving for Canada in 2 days, so this is his last canyon for a while, and I’m always up for it. We arose at 6 am and drove around yawning at each other for a while, and then arrived on Mount Tomah, the tallest mountain in the Blue Mountains at just over 1,000 metres.
Our destination was Claustral, as in ‘claustrophobia’, out of respect for the section of canyon referred to as the ‘Black Hole of Calcutta’. The Black Hole is home to the three abseils (Americans read: repels) in Claustral. Claustral Canyon is probably the hotspot canyon for keen canyoners to hit. It is relatively easy to get to and the most beautiful. Do understand, this is also a level 4 canyon, with running water. The threats of hypothermia, drowning, getting lost (we are in the middle of the bush), flash floods, and things of this nature are high. About 2 hours into the canyon, I’ve been terrorized with the tales of the deaths of the previous 5 people to kick it in this desolate place.
Anyway, we’re walking along the ridge on the way to the saddle, where we will dip down into the canyon, and a frigging lyrebird runs across the trail in front of us. These birds are really rare ground dwelling birds that can mimic anything (including a 35 mm automatic camera shutter). In Michael’s 30 years of doing canyons around Sydney, he’s seen two. Good start to the morning. We walk for a while longer before we get to the first pool, which you have to swim through. Out come the wetsuits, and the 15 minutes it takes us to get them on. We arrive at the Black Hole, and I start to get nervous. I’ve done wet canyons before, and I’ve done abseiling before, but this was my first trip doing abseils in a wet canyon, with water pounding down on me as I’m lowering myself down these 10-20 metre cliffs. You take a step over the edge, and your first thought is, ‘oh please let my anchor hold’, but then you can’t even worry about this ancient log that’s supposed to hold you up that has scars from so much use, because you’re trying to not slip down the 80˚ wet incline. And when you slip, which of course you do, you have to think ‘ok, just let yourself hang upside-down over nothing with water rushing up your nose, but don’t you dare let go of your brake hand!’. Quite the adrenaline rush. The three abseils are all right after one another, but because it was only Michael and myself, we only had one rope. As a result, the going was kind of slow in between pitches, but that just gave me more time to appreciate the beauty. By the end of the third pitch, we were well into the heart of the canyon. We were standing in a metre of water, with the roar of the waterfalls behind us. The canyon is only a metre wide, and the only light is filtering down from 60 metres over your head after having made it through a tangled mass of tree ferns growing out of the sides of the sandstone cliffs. And cutting into the sandstone there were these iron deposits, these really thin layers of sedimentation from millions of years ago, that zigged and zagged their way across the walls of the canyon. The place flash floods fairly often (always make sure you go to this canyon when there is zero chance of rainfall), so there are boulder fields and fallen log fields all through the canyon. In several places, the water was too deep to walk, and there were obstructions in the way, so you had to throw your pack into the pool below you and then jump after it, hoping that you weren’t right on top of some hidden menace below the surface of the water. A couple other little waterfall places are right in the middle; they’re not bad enough to necessitate an anchor and an abseil, but they are too far to jump, or too shallow. So a lot of these places have handropes, left there by previous canyoners, and you down climb carefully over the waterfalls. One of these waterfalls claimed a man’s life just recently – he got his foot stuck in the crack between two boulders in the middle of the falls, slipped on his way down, ended up upside-down, with his head below the water level of the pool below. The force of the water prevented him from righting himself, and he drowned before his friends could get to him. (As a side note, Michael told me this story after we made it down the falls, merely advising me prior to the activity to not place my feet directly in the crevice.) Lots of little tricky places, where you have to crawl through small spaces under boulders, and climb through cobwebs and things like this.
I mentioned the lyrebird, right? In 30 years, Michael’s seen 3, now? Also in those 30 years, he has never, not once, seen a leech. He’s done Claustral a huge number of times, and fifty other canyons, besides. In the 8 hours we were in Claustral, Alyssa picked up 4. Two of which were apparently the red-backed or racing-striped or some such leech, which excited Michael to no end, cause they’re supposedly rare. The first one was really big, and was on my shoulder. I only noticed him when he came off, and I put my shirt back on, and Michael observed a rather scarily large quantity of blood smearing all over the back of my shirt. The other three were fairly innocuous, and were pried off my ankles with a pocket knife. These also bled outrageously, though, as all leech wounds do. (Leeches introduce an anti-coagulant into your blood system when they feed, so when they come off, blood goes everywhere.) What other wildlife was there? Michael decided I was good to have on these trips, cause all the animals you rarely see, we saw. There were the leeches, the lyrebird… We saw a dead snake, black with yellow boxes. There was a live thing that I called a snake, but was apparently a legless lizard. There were big crayfish, a random freshwater fish swimming in a pool, and some tadpoles, which I caught, just for fun.
Anyway, after climbing down, through the waterfalls and abseils and stuff, you always have to go back up, right? The last 2-3 hours of this trip is a 1,000 m climb out. And it’s frigging hot. And you have to carry a soggy rope and wetsuit.
But oh, the fun! This was the best canyon I’ve ever done, hands down. Longer, harder, tighter, more water-y, more fern-y. Covered in blood (not just from the leeches) by the time we got back to the car, and so sore I couldn’t bend over to take my shoes off. I loved it. And when anyone ever makes it down to see me, this is where you’re going.
So a cute guy smiled at me today. I was in the car, being driven back from a most wonderful Italian dinner, and we stopped at a light. There was the most attractive middle to late 20-something guy walking along the side of the road. Alyssa’s window is rolled down, naturally, in this 40 degree weather. Guy looks right at me, and smiles. I smile back, one of those close-lipped, crooked smiles, and his smile gets even bigger. I have time to take in his nicely defined biceps, their tawny color, his sandy shaded hair, and his rather tasteful wardrobe, before our light turns green and we zoom off.
Why didn’t I throw myself out of the car?
You know people say it's impossible to touch your elbow with your tongue?
And then they say that 70 % of people who read the above statement will go off and try it?
I have been sitting here for hours pretending to study for my micro final which is now in... 2 hours, extremely unmotivated to study.
But guess what? I can touch my tongue to my elbow!
Pretty legit, right?
But only on my left side.
How could he know?
I look at him with my head lowered, lips parted,
through my eyelashes caked with blue glitter.
My heart thunders while his stops.
How could he know?
I remember.
I can feel his skin pressed against mine, moist where we've been lying entwined for too long.
I can feel his breath playing over the skin at the base of my neck,
his hand thrown carelessly over the curve in my spine.
He always sleeps, after.
My hair drapes over my face,
and I move slowly to tuck a lock behind my ear.
The movement disturbs him ever so slightly, and he opens his eyes.
Until next time.
Dream: Ron, Sean, Andie, Jesse, myself. Walking along a fairly secluded river, very green and kinda soggy. We pass a group of people that are dismantling a car, salvaging parts. Carry on walking, get to a bend in the river, find something that looks like a giant dumpster. This is apparently what we were looking for. Mike is already there, and he and Ron start going through the stuff in this container, pulling out what we want. Most of the stuff seems to be old, but pre-packaged, food. Lots of bread. They pull out loaf after loaf of pre-packaged bread, discard some loaves that are yucky, and throw the good ones to myself and Sean. Jesse and Andie have scrabbled around finding wooden planks and something we can use for wheels, and have erected a rudimentary transport system for the bread. Sean and I stack the loaves on this wheely thing, and we all start to walk the bread back up the river until we get into town. Scene change: Ron has short hair, but a rat tail thing in the back that's up like a ponytail. We are in the city, trying to get into a bar to get a drink, but we spent too much time with the bread and all the bars are closed. Our last option is to go to a bar where Ron works, he thinks he may be able to get us in tha back. We go there with the bread, but the lady is just finishing cleaning up the place and won't let us in. End.
Tasmania: Alyssa is going to Tasmania!! Jesse and I have our last final on December 1, and we are flying from Sydney to Hobart, Tasmania on December 2. We'll be there for a week, and are going to rent a car and just travel around and see all there is to see! Plane back is December 9. Round trip ticket = $150. Not too shabby, eh?
Party: Went to a party! I don't do this often, as everyone knows. Kinda lame that way. But last night was a pirate themed goodbye party for all the international students. Tickets were $10, and you get two 'free' drinks. Manuel, Jesse, Silke and myself wandered around Sydney for a while, had a pizza and a bottle of wine, nice views of Darling Harbour and the opera house. Showed up at the party place a couple of hours late, in time for the real party to start. We were there from about 10 til about 2, when the last bus left for home. Soooo much fun! Blaring music and dancing til your feet hurt. And lots of guys and girls that don't really know each other practically getting it on on the dance floor. I still do not favor beer, so happily occupied myself with vodka and cranberry and vodka and lime. I wore a tie to the party (I was a well dressed pirate), and it was used as a hook for people to grab me with an pull me around. I had lots of different dancing partners, and names weren't needed because I had a string around my neck! Convenient, question mark? Our group generally consisted of the original 4 of us, the Mexican boys, Bonnie, a couple girls that remain nameless, and Patrick and Steve, the two guys from the bushwalk a couple weeks ago. It was good to see them again. Pat danced with us most of the night, and I greatly enjoyed his company. Steve, I think, enjoys being hot and takes advantage of that to go find all the ladies. I saw him a few times, and we were dancing in the general vicinity of one another. I got a thumbs up a couple times and some winks. (Guys, what does this mean??) Caught the bus home, in bed by 4 this morning. Woohoo!
Canyon: Oh man. Jealousy would ensue if I actually had pictures of this canyon. Luckily for you guys, it was a wet canyon, and I don't have dry bag, so I couldn't take my camera. Michael, Al, Martina and I went to Rocky Creek canyon last week. It was a 6 hour slog through a sandstone canyon filled with freezing water. No rope work, but the water was deep enough that we were swimming in some parts. A couple of places the only way down was to stand on some rocks and hurl yourself off the rocks into the pool below (hoping it's deep enough...) The sides of the slot canyon part were overgrown with ferns and greenery of all sorts, and the light filtered down from the top... it was one of the funnest things I've ever done. The girls had a good time, I think. They were a little unprepared for the physically demanding aspects of the trip. Martina fell through some deadwood at one stage, and got all scraped up. She later did a faceplant into the dirt and wore a mask the rest of the journey. Al had bad luck with her shins, and managed to find all of the fallen logs in the water when we were swimming by running into them. We stopped for lunch a the end of the canyon proper, and paused for a bite to eat before commencing with the climb out of the canyon. The first bit of the climb out was about 1 km long patch of steep as hell ground, so overgrown you really couldn't see anything. Michael told us the start for this climb was over this 5 foot boulder, cause everything else was too crowded. So the girls and I moved over to this boulder and were trying to figure out how to get up it, cause there's no handholds or footholds, and the start is actually from about a foot of water. Al and Martina give half-hearted attempts, and then stand back, intimidated. Not to be undone, I actually manage to get my foot on the top of this boulder. My leg is about on the same level with my neck, now. But there is nothing to grab onto to pull myself over the top, so I lean over and try use my busom as a point of contact for hauling my rear onto this rock. (Sorry, minimally graphic for the uninitiated.) It actually works. Yay for being extremely flexible an having the chest to perform this amazing acrobatic feat! By this point, the girls are laughing ridiculously in the tone of laughter that says 'like hell I'm gonna be able to do that!'. Michael is standing back laughing in general because he lied! After watching me spend 10 minutes doing this, and getting stuck, and making progress an inch at a time, he leads the girls around the bend where they manage to scrabble up a bank under some trees. It was during this episode that I pulled a hamstring. Soreness ensued for several days. I am ok now. Thanks for asking.
Love!
