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.