How can the scenery remain so beautiful when there is so much work to be done? How does the dolphin swim in the shallows. How can the Willy Wagtail stand in the sand when there are flies to hunt, knuckles to clean. How can I tell you about the blue shoulders of the Indian Ocean and the forearms of the reef; the emerald island and South Africa beyond it. How could I tell you about the white pelican feather wrapped around the seaweed flagpole, flirting with the easterly wind, clinging to warm salt and claiming surrender to the tattoos of the sun and shouting for peace to the god of the faraway-dune.
my phone and my passport were both stolen.
i have no phone. I will be writing home on here. Family and friends and future friends please write me an email at firstname.lastname@example.org and please include your address so I can send something
I will also upload my film photos from Western Australia here.
I was sleeping in the van. around 3am I woke up to flashlights and a really subtle tapping noise.
Naked, I flung myself into the air slamming my fist on the window. I yelled, but as it left my lungs it really felt more like some high pitched primal squeak. Strange noise, never heard anything like it. From where I was located, I couldn’t reach the door in time to give chase. I spent the next three hours with my headlamp like a helicopter spotlight. I spun around counting every belonging before I fell asleep in the orange morning sun. More later i guess.
a study of aloneness.
So far way I am from the land where I was born.
Oh land of the sun I am sighing to see you. Immense nostalgia invades my mind.
Aloneness comes like a leaf in the wind and from time to time. You must catch it out of the air and hold on to it like the breast of a bird or the belly of a frog. Hold it and protect it. Shelter it and let you knuckles keep it safe from the Indian Ocean wind. Say “you’re safe now” — make friends. Take it out into the evening for a can of beer and paper plate too small to fit all the spring rolls. Then tell it to look up and squint at the stars until they become fuzzy. Then reach out your hand and rub your thumb in between the eyes of the moon. Touch it, flirt with it. Smoke a cigar with your aloneness. Play with it. Take it on an eastbound train. Make the woman with the green eyes breakfast. She likes French toast, you like French toast. Your aloneness likes French toast.
This a bit reflective but while in Western Australia, gearing up for some heavy travel, I’ve been thinking of what I left at home. My dog is currently staying with family and I miss him dearly. I think I’ll dedicate some writing to him soon. He won’t care about the post cards I’ll send. More with him later. I also left some books at home at both Mollusk Surf Shop and Day Dream Surf Shop. These are the last few left out of 100 first edition copies. I do not have any plans on printing more so I’d be happy to find out if anyone is able to track down any of them. It was such a special project for me, traveling through Mexico City and writing in my journal and taking photos with my film camera. Felt light and graceful and reckless all at once. Stumbling down the street from the Mezcal nearly getting ran over by a bus and trying to do laundry in the largest city in Latin America. Locals laughed at my handle bar mustache and the bowl cut that were barbered by some of my closest friends after exploring some peninsula in Baja. If you can find a copy at either of those store locations let me know. It would be lovely to know when they land in good reading hands. Flying domestic from Tijuana is also highly recommended. I guess speaking Spanish is too.
Thank you Colin and Schuyler for taking photos of the book at Mollusk. I also miss my friends.
Patches of sand slide off her face one after another and the sun’s whisper wraps her cheekbone with the shadow of the night before. Maybe she’ll remember I told her that I loved her.