Urge For Going

"I get the urge for going, but I never seem to go."

I have written all the letters, signed all the forms, test-packed and wrapped up my things, closed my bank account, and drank my last beer.  I'm rocking on my heels in the doorway, looking out at a gunmetal sky.

Tasmania, you have burrowed a seed in my stomach that will grow branches into a new, beautiful life.

Everyone, my new loved ones, thank you.  Our dance never ends, the music is just harder to hear.

Farewell.

Frayed Shoelaces and Open Hands

My time here draws to a close.  I have until December the sixth in this fine place.  The past month has been a mad tumult of exams, bushwalks, car camping, dancing, and playing music.  I'm becoming tired.  But that isn't to say I'm ready to go.  No, I'll never be ready to leave Tasmania, but I'll have to all the same.  There are frayed shoelaces that keep tickling the back of my neck tracing all the way back to Charleston.  Soon enough, I'll have to follow those laces back.  My time here has been, utterly, the most sublime period of my life.  Nothing will be the same after this: my life is destined for new things, now.  I am not a winsome fool any longer.  I have found what I truly need in this place and, though I am leaving quite soon, I am changed, changed utterly, for the better.  I'm sorry for those back home who won't understand this: I hardly do, myself.  But, don't worry, everything is getting better, all the time, and I am bound for good things.  Hobart, I'm not gone yet, we still have a few weeks yet.  And New Zealand, just you wait.  Charleston, it will be all too soon.
I will walk this earth and call each stream and road home.
I will open myself to every city and field, person and animal,
that occupy and create this wide world.

Home-Awareness

It's not homesickness, but home-awareness, that fills my thoughts today.  For several days, in fact, I've had images and sounds and tastes coursing through my mind as I walk the streets of Hobart and play the music of it's occupants.  I don't yearn for Charleston, but I am nevertheless becoming increasingly aware of it's facets.  I have double vision, so to speak: I see Hobart and Charleston simultaneously.
You learn so much about the places in which you've grown up when you're thousands of miles away.  It's all a kind of double vision, both posterity and the present registering in your thoughts, making up your thoughts.

I presented my final sculpture project today in a rain-misted morning (again).  This project was two piece mould-making--I choose a cell phone--and I was able to successfully cast nine mobile telephones.  These I arranged on a tapioca-coloured sheet with twine, q-tips, and brushes.  My theme is simple, two-fold, and surprisingly indicative of my current double vision: I presented these nine mobile telephones as exhumed artifacts of a lost age, cast in terracotta and arranged like an archaeological field table.

I broke a window last Friday night.  My window, in fact.  I merely leaned against it for upwards of twenty seconds and it came crashing down around me.  Cut up my ankles and legs, even nicked my shoulder.  I finally got around to visiting the TUU (sort of the student union / the folks from whom I'm renting) today only to find that it is, more or less, my responsibility to fix the window as soon as possible.  It's a good thing my monies came through from home, then, huh?  Furthermore, I'm leaving Saturday morning for a five day bushwalk along the Tasman Coastal Trail, which means I need to get the window fixed before then.  Further, furthermore, it is made apparent to me that I need to complete all of my in-house recording for my Foundation Audio projects by Friday because they're all due next Friday--and, seeing as I'll be gone most of the time from now until then, it is imperative that I complete the rough recording tomorrow, or Thursday at the latest.

So now, I'm trying to melt my back into the cheap chair the TUU provided me in my room, nursing a Cascade pale ale, and listening to Radiohead and Skip James, trying to just make it all come together.  And it will.  I hope.

The Weather Dance

It's been some time since last I spoke here.  Almost a month, in fact.  In that time I've experienced much: bushwalks galore, entertaining sculpture projects, music, music, music, and Sytske visiting for her term break.  In fact, last week alone I scaled four mountains!  Incredible times, especially when I fell into the Ladies' Tarn on what I presumed to have been non-slippery rocks.  Luckily, David and Cathy had spare thermals for me to throw on, or that would have been one chilly bushwalk.
Time keeps chugging along.  Taking my life here away so quickly, but not yet!  The semester's about to end, which means I get to do some serious bushwalking and travelling now!  So long as I can balance out my checkbook, that is.
Tonight my housemates are throwing a "black-light party."  (This should be interesting).  I'll be arriving late because Danceaholics Unanimous is tonight and I've missed the past two sessions / there aren't that many left for me.
I happened across a movie on the tv yesterday--Kill Bill Vol. 1.  I couldn't help but feel a visceral apprehension at seeing Uma Thurman driving on the right side of the road.  My first thought was, "she's gonna hit oncoming traffic!"  Clearly, I have been here in Tassie for quite some time.  I love it!
Now is the time for me to start making plans for my return and the Spring back home.  I'm working on my schedule, working on work, a place to live, what to do and who to see.  Maybe, just maybe, I'll be kicking it on Folly Beach in a huge place with awesome folks for cheap.
I hear someone knocking on the door; it must be my hunger.  I'm going to go get some grub, catch you later.

P.S. The weather is getting gorgeous!  Nice 70's a lot of the time, except rainy today.  As such, I'm in the exact same weather as Charleston, for now.

Fear and Loathing Inside an Alarm Clock

 Today is September 12, 2010.  I arrive in Charlotte, North Carolina on December 22.  I only have 103 days.  Never have I thought such a passage of time short, but now I can't help but loose a tear thinking, my god, it's just too damn soon.  I love you, Charleston, Mom, Dad, Amelia, Randy, College of Charleston, the east coast, Tim, Aubrey, Virginia, MJ, but it's just too damn soon.  I don't want to turn around just yet.  Each day passes and I settle a little more into Hobart and Australia.  I've found beautiful new friendships full of promises and potentials, but tonight, lying on my bed, my neck bent against my headboard and aching, I can't help but think I'm going to disappear before any of those potentials can be exacted.  All of the incredible musicians and music circles and dances around Hobart have opened their arms to me, and I am utterly happy to be a part of them, but I cry when I remember that I'll only be able to play with these people, learn these songs, indulge in these jams, for a short time yet.  This entire lifestyle that I have cultivated here, in Hobart, is so mercilessly temporary.
But, you know it, all things fade.  This is my situation: I have 103 days to live here, and I intend to do so as wholeheartedly as I can.  There is so much beauty here, I won't let it down by withdrawing into a shell just because high noon is past and the sun's begun to sink.  Man may thrive in the sunlight, but there is also beauty in the coming moon.

"The Only Moment We Were Alone" is how I feel right now.  Listen.

Term Break and a Wicked Van (Oh, and the JB Dream)

Last week.  Pure heaven.  Ian, myself, Kat, Anne, Julia, Michael, and Patrick cruised all across Tassie's east coast, north coast, and right down the center of the island back to Hobart.  We scaled Mt. Amos, watched Wineglass Bay and the coming rains, traipsed through dunes and dunes onto beach after beach along the Bay of Fires, followed wallabies, wombats, pattymelons, and opossums across Narawntapu National Park, drove through kilometres and kilometres of gorgeous, soaring fields and hills of sheep, hops, hay, and cattle, crossed mountain passes and followed the rim of the Great Lakes of Tasmania's highlands, tasted home-brewed stouts, ales, and porters, fresh-farmed cheese and milk, many, many sausages, and a strong concentration of ultrapasturized milk-n-cereal.  All this and more.  Please, check out the photos I've uploaded to understand the nature of the beauty I've been experiencing for the past week.  As a result, I've swam in the Tasman ocean, scaled its mountains, and eaten peanut butter sandwiches high above its beaches and plains.  I've even learned how to drive stick in a very hilly country that drives on the left side of the road and has the gears on the left side of the car!  I apologize again for any and all who had to be on the road when Ian or I were driving.  I'll tell you, the most sublime feeling I've had in quite some time was Wednesday, on the Bay of Fires, when I was climbing the rocks out into the clear surf, following the smell of salt and the sound of crashing rollers.  I eventually scrambled out as far as I could go and sat down on the wet, shell-smeared stone.  I watched those waves for a long time.  Utter and complete, my rapture.  I will return there when next I am able.  I could easily see myself living on the coast of Tasmania, raising sheep on the beach, for a couple of years.  I could easily see myself lost to the world for this place.  But, I have miles to go before my rest.
Upon my return, no rest for such as I (or for the wicked, as they say--thank you, Wicked Van), for Ian and I were slated to play at a friend's wedding, which we did.  It was wonderful to see a successful wedding dance party, and to play for them (we even got paid)!  Come Sunday I had a few hours to rest before heading to the Derwent Entertainment Centre for the John Butler Trio!  I arrived at 5:45, the show began at 8:20, ended at 11:35, I arrived back home at 1:00 (taxis were, well, overtaxed), and I'll never be the same.  One of my life goals had been achieved that night.  I was lucky enough to record John Butler playing "Spring," an old number he doesn't play for shows much anymore, before segueing into "Ocean."  If you listen carefully to my recording, you can hear me crying.  It is a testament to the power of his zeal that, even though his newest album is very poptastic and lacking in the raw beauty of his earlier works, he and his new lineup (Byron Luiters and Nicky Bomba) were able to kick some SERIOUS ass for almost two and a half hours.
In one utterly jam packed week, my quality of life has improved drastically.  I can't wait till the semester closes and I'm free again.

Spring Break Comes

It's time!  I'm halfway through the semester (horrifying, isn't it?), which means that Spring Break is nigh!  Come Monday morning Ian and I are picking up a Wicked Van to tour around Tassie with for the entire week.  We'll be caravaning with a bunch of awesome German folks, and our American friend Kat.  As such, I'll only be taking my phone with me, so no internet action (or at the very least, a quick email check at a hostel).  We get back Saturday night in time for a wedding gig Sunday.

Oh, and Cathy is loaning us an old mandolin to mess around with.  The little buggers are mucho easy to play and pick up melodies with--I can't wait to bust out some awesome campfire jams.

Well, I hate to wax brief, but I gotta get up quite early to help Becca haul her gear to the Uni, then get the van and hit the road, so off I am to sleep.  Farewell!

Heavy Lidded Our Eyes

Last Friday marked the longest I've ever been from home.  Two months.  And I have only four left.  Already I am one third through my stay across the oceans and below the equator.  I fear for what I cannot hope to experience before my return: there is so much that I have yet to touch or see, feel, taste, or even smell.  But, you could say such for any place, any time.  When I do return, Charleston will be like a new photograph of an old place.  I will see each tree and river and beach with new eyes.  Eyes perhaps a little wider, in both innocence and awareness.  I cannot wait--but I oh, so desperately need to.  I need to keep children's eyes for all of Tasmania, and Australia, and New Zealand.  I will.

This week marks the last before Spring break, for which I and several others shall be renting a Wicked Van and traveling around Hobart, Launceston, and anywhere else that our petrol purses can purchase.  But, until then I still have work to complete for Sculpture (though I just finished my wooden Kukri today; I had to use the leg of my kitchen table for a vice to hand gouge the inlays into the blade), and Australian Texts & Traditions.  Currently, Foundation Audio has flatlined somewhat, but at least I now have access to all the recording studios, which Ian and myself have already begun to mess around in.  What's more, this Friday night is the FolkFed's monthly dance!  And it's nothing but CONTRAS!  And we in the Old Time String Band are playing (though I intend to get a bunch of great dancing in)!  Ah, how I love music, making it and hearing and dancing to it.

I'm sorry if I've been aloof or silent these past days, those back home, but I've been doing a lot of thinking and work for my classes.  I bought a discount webcam, so Skype is back in action; hit me up.  Farewell, until next I need to write.

Tapping Veins

I have, at last, leapt into the folk dance and music scene of Hobart.  And what a scene it is!  This past Saturday (still in the throes of tonsillitis) I ventured to 58 Melville St with Ian and Kat for a FolkFedTas (Folk Federation of Tasmania) folk dance.  It was billeted as a collection of different styles, from Balkan folk and English folk to American contra and Irish steps, which meant that I got to jive in over a dozen new dances for over three and a half hours!  Incredible people, a bunch of gleaming smiles attached to swirling legs--incredibly interesting, from all over the world and eager to meet anyone.  It took mere moments to make friends.
Nonesuch, the band, was nothing short of beautiful (the bouzouki player was incredible; kept the band real tight with his rhythms while looking like a reformed psychedelic Abe Lincoln).  They specialize in Balkan music, so we got to hear a ton of that stuff.  Real lingering, phantasmal sounds.  The dances, though, were simple circle dances with a basic stepping pattern.  The highlight of the evening's dances (excepting the contra, which was intensely fun to get back into after over a month and a half's absence) was the English folk dance, Nonesuch.  It was written for king Henry VIII's "grandest hunting mansion in Britain," Nonesuch.  This is a rather convoluted dance that took, all things considered, almost twenty five minutes to do.  The song, Nonesuch, which the band (also Nonesuch) performed, was a scarecrow of a number: haunting, lilting, like dripping fog at close of day.  I strongly encourage you to try it out, if you can find a band to play the song, a caller to know how to call it, and enough folks to dance it (at least eight).
The day after, we met up with the same folks in a tiny, ancient rec center / church.  There, Ian and I got to play with the band for two hours while Becca learned some cool steps in some of the dances.  Dave and Cathy (who are the Hobart equivalents of Conway and Pops Saylor for you Charleston folks) offered to snag a copy of Hobart's popular folk tunes (an actual printed document) for Ian and myself.
This Thursday is Danceaholics Unanimous, a casual gathering of local dancers who want to check out new things, hone techniques, find / present new musics etc.
I am fresh and thick in the vein of folk now, up to my elbows.

Spectrums and Perspectives.

I'm twenty years old and in Hobart, Tasmania.  If you had asked me where I would be several years ago, methinks Australia would not be chief on my list of places.  Honestly, I most likely would have said Ireland, or Scotland, or maybe even Japan.  And yet, I am here.  On a parkbench in St. David's Park.  Across the street from the UTAS Conservatorium of Music.  In downtown Hobart.  On Tasmania's east coast.  Below the Australian mainland by an overnight ferry to Brisbane.  Approximately twelve thousand miles from South Carolina and thirty six hours' worth of flight.  Damn incredible.
This winter of theirs is rather docile, now that I've acclimated.  For the first few days, to be sure, I was bedecked in jeans, longsleeves, jackets, gloves, scarves, the works.  But now, I'm peachy as a clam to be out and about in thongs*, shorts and maybe a longsleeved shirt.
These people are, by and large, incredibly helpful and eager to befriend you.  Just yesterday I met this guy, Marcus, as I was taking a picture of the harbour.  He just hopped off his bike and started chatting away with me about travel, New Zealand, the Uni, America.  Then we shook hands, exchanged names and a "look me up sometime," and he disappeared into his house (which I happened to have been standing in front of).  In Charleston, if a long-haired-backpackp-and-guitar-toting-dude was taking pictures outside your house, you'd probably ignore him, mutter a flat "hi,' and shrink into your house, or quickly grin and nod your head.  Not here.  I swear, upon my return I will be  a much more congenial, curious person, open to streetside friendships.  Now, I'm not saying Charlestonians are self-centered, rude people, but we have developed a certain formula for dealing with strangers in front of our houses taking pictures, and it does not always conclude with a handshake and an invitation to hang out later.
In other news, I've been offered a job by my roomie, Andrew, driving a delivery bakery truck around at 5am.  Not sure if I can handle a backward stick (considering I can hardly handle a standard American stick), but at least Elle Davis might be able to give me some writing assignments to earn some dough.
Well, its time to hit the books and finish all of my readings for AT&T (Australian Texts & Traditions) tomorrow, not to mention finish up my Sculpture assignment.  See ya!
*thongs : flip flops

Ascent and Acclimation

Yesterday I climbed Cathedral Rock.  It bubbles up from the ground just behind Mt. Wellington, the mountain that shelters Hobart from all the rain in the South (making life here pretty dry, thankfully).  There were about ten, maybe twelve of us, and it was beautiful, ascending through a vast, vast array of different micro-ecosystems.  We began on a dirt road along some private property, which melted into a shallow riverbed strewn with gleaned smooth boulders and pebbles, which we crossed.  Then began our ascent, crossing back and forth through a series of vaulting passes, sinking into a monotony of boot-to-rock-to-rock-to rock until you got to a bend in the path and you turned around, watching the sun singing through the trees all around, above and below, you.  We pressed on.  Eventually, I and three others got ahead of everyone else and ended up going down the wrong route for a time.  But, luckily, I remembered seeing an old gnarled trail marker a ways back and we got back on track with little time lost.  Now, this is the ridiculously fun part: we then commenced a lengthy boulder scramble up the side of the cliff, covered in jutting rocks and soggy trunks, their roots convenient handholds, all the while pumping our feet up higher, cackling into the whispers of wind, and pausing for breath while gasping at how high we'd ascended.  Finally, the summit was reached.  Sheer beauty erupted across my vision as the sun soared into the large valley that is made up of Mt. Wellington, Cathedral Rock, and the Fingers, a series of sharp towers of stone that are lolling up into the sky.  Lunch was sparse but oh, so delicious.  We leaned and loafed hundreds of feet in the air with apples and cheese and peanut-butter sandwiches and nothing at all could disturb us.  Except the wind.  That bugger finally drove us downward, but not until the first group had split, the second group had arrived, eaten, and was ready to descend as well.  Now, it took an hour and forty minutes to climb Cathedral Rock.  We made it down in a third of that time, sprinting down the switchbacks and practically sliding down the rock scramble.  By the time we'd reached the rocky river bed again a pause was in order, during which I discovered a large, squiggling leach on my left ankle, which I promptly removed.  I also waded through the shallow streams that spurted out of the rocks, collecting a few pebbles (which are looking at me on my desk now) and waiting for the others to all arrive.  When we'd reached the cars again I paid my dues to the Bushwalking Club and we rode into town, got a bunch of random ingredients (attempting to make Mexican Chili in Tasmania is harder than you'd think, Aubrey) and concocted a stew..ish...thing.  We call it Drop Bear Stew.  Its delicious, don't get me wrong, but..unconventional, at best.  The ingredients (approx.) are as follows: taco meat from a night before, sour cream, 3 cans of corn, 2 cans of tomatoes, a burnt baguette, green and red capsicum (peppers), 2 cans of five bean mix, some cajun spices, a bunch of other spices, garlic, and hunger.  Ah, how filled were we.
All things considered, an excellently spent second Saturday in Tassie.  Next weekend's either gonna be a local barbeque I've been invited to or a series of bushwalks in Southern Tasmania.

The Slapping Wind

Months and months have built me up to this point.  Here I am, a few scant hours from my first class in Hobart, Tasmania, Australia, the Southern Hemisphere.  I'm strapped for cash and I don't know a whole lot of folks around here, but I can't stop myself from smiling.  Tomorrow it begins with Sculpture at 11am, then Foundation Audio at 1pm.  Wednesday is Foundation Audio at 9am, Australian Texts and Traditions at 11am, and Sculpture at 1pm.  Then, I'll have my tutorial from Australian Texts and Traditions sometime on Thursday or Friday; I haven't worked that part out yet.  All things considered, I'm in class for two full days with a tutorial on some other day--which isn't too bad in my opinion.  This allows for me to participate in the Bushwalking Club, sail on the Lady Nelson, get into the rather extensive music and dance scene here, catch a little work on the side, and have time for whatever else comes.

Hot Tea Makes Me Happy (Techno Does Not)

     Yes, that's right, hot tea makes me happy in this beautiful, yet brisk, establishment.  You see, my house here in Sandy Bay, 202 Churchill Ave, is a newer house.  It's filled with a spacious kitchen and living room, big counter spaces and large floor to ceiling windows, small bedrooms (good for holding in heat), and a soon-to-be-working dishwasher.  However, for all its nouveau charm, its a cold, cold place.  I'm rather disconcerted about it: it is often warmer outside than in here!  Just the other night, Becca and I had to pull our space heaters out into the living room at night in combination with blankets just to eat dinner.  And, this morning, they're sitting right in front of us, as well.  But, thank god for packets of tea and a ridiculously swift electric kettle.  Without that, all would be lost.
     So, last night was my introduction to Hobart's night life (wowzers).  We started out at a place called Metz, where $7 jugs & $10 pizzas abound.  Deliciously warm atmosphere, deliciously cheap beer that itself was delicious, and a rather scrumptious meat lovers pizza.  It was there that I met two loud, boisterious Canadians and a German lady named Julia, who sat next to here Austrian friend Michael.  We had great laughs about the weather here (for, you see, all three of us had come from pleasant, warm weather homeside to the chill of Hobart) around the plastic jugs of sparkling amber ale and smears of grease from the slices of pizza.  From there, we meandered down to a place called the Lowerhouse, but it was packed solid from the hundreds of medical students in the area for a local convention, so we buggered around in line for twenty minutes and jumped the street into a joint known simply as Mobius.  Oh, what a place.  Itchingly loud techno blaring, ring bedecked punks and barkeeps, $5 Cascade Lagers (a Yuengling equivalent, Tim), and some other international students.  After a time, Ian, Becca, and Kat decided to split (and I was lothe to lose their company for the lengthy return walk) but George (Jeff) was not budging, wedged between two attractive girls as he was, so I decided to camp it out for a while, too.  You see, the night before last I somewhat stiffed a girl, Hannah, who invited me to her pad to meet some folks and hang out, because it was raining and Unit Five was an unhealthy walk up a hill in 33 degree weather (rain aside).  However, at Mobius was this Hannah, with whom it would have been horribly rude not to kick it with.  So, we wandered into the back area of the bar, where nineteen-year-olds were snogging into the couches and the techno blare was brighter, bigger, and more belligerent. Unfortunately, she wanted to dance to that flat, unthoughtful excuse of music.  So, I did.  And yes, I can cut some mean rug in a variety of circumstances, techno included, but I just felt like a bloody ass out there, corrupting some of my favorite funk groove moves by grinding them into a techno beat.  After about ten minutes of this, George (Jeff) and I decide it was well past time to split.  I tell Hannah that we've got to meet up with our friends who checked out earlier, and she can't actually hear me but nods all the same, so off we go, practically sprinting out of that techno miasma.  Ah, sweet escape was the brisk night air and the enormous bouncer with hoop earrings, smiling with his teeth at our Stateside driver licenses.  From there we had two options: cross the street to the now opened up Lowerhouse, from which sorrowful, sap heavy songs were slinking out, or return homeside, where greasy youths and med students weren't melting into you.  So, we spit homeward.  It was sad to leave Nick and Montana and John behind, but I know I'll be seeing those bastards far too often all too soon this semester: it would be ok.  George (Jeff) agreed.
     Later, when Becca and I got back to our Churchill headquarters, I melted into the squishy blue chair with a cup of tea in my hand.  She woke me up twenty minutes later to go to bed.

Initiation, Orientation, Exultation

Hullo, all! Sorry to have taken so long to get a blog set up and ready to go, but, well, here we are. I've now been in Tasmania for two days, having spent a week up in Cairns already (rainforesting, bike riding, SCUBA diving, etc), and I gotta say: it is beautiful. A wonderful place to explore, this city, and I haven't even begun taking classes (or officially registering for them, either).
Next, weather has been all kinds of interesting these past few weeks, from muggy incineratingly delicious Charleston heat to drier yet still really toasty West Chester and then to uber-tropical and wondrously warm Cairns before arriving, finally, at the chilly, brisk city of Hobart. But, their cold is a refreshing kind of cold.
I've got a bank account over here, now, with the Commonwealth Bank, and a warm place to live, a mobile that works when it wants to, and I've already snagged some folks who're bound to become great friends (here's to you, Nick-Doug)--things are peachy as clams.
Well, Ian's headed over this way to play some GUItar, so I've got to get going, but I'll be back (at some point, I'm sure).