With the Old Breed

When I left Christmas Island, well, it was the hardest thing I ever did. As cliches would have it, it's like being tossed into shark infested waters; I was in their territory now, utterly defenseless. Nothing in my sheltered Island paradise of a life would ever have been able to prepare me for life in the "big smoke".

Though many before me had given up the island life for a city "sea change", I don't think I ever truly grasped the seriousness of the situation, I never realised that everyone else who left felt the same way I did.

But yesterday, I caught up with some very old friends - who had guided me, mentored me, who were always there with me on that island, and it seemed like they had been there forever - who were also giving up their tropical paradise for the mainland. Roger and Jenny are the old breed, and yet they spoke about how hard it was for them to leave Christmas Island, explaining the same feelings of fear and uncertainty and sadness that I felt after I parted.

I think, in a way, that place has implanted this unexplainable connection amongst all Christmas Islanders; a friendliness, an acceptance of all people - it really got to me emotionally how easy it was for me to fit back into the group of islanders, their conversations, their stories. I could feel every last detail of their tales, I could laugh, and joke, like I could never do with other groups of friends whom I haven't spoken to, let alone seen, for five or six years.

Once again I felt an upwelling... how I miss that rock, made, for all intensive purposes, of bird shit. I now have a sense of urgency to go back there. I do so badly want to go back as a scientist, camping out, enjoying the wildlife, and the rain... but I think moreso, I ache to be a part of that community again.

"It's 1-1 you Aussie bastard"

A few months following one of the greatest and most famous gestures of spirit ever seen on a cricketing field, Andrew "Freddie" Flintoff was asked what he said to Brett Lee as he consoled his Australian counterpart, after Lee lead a thrilling fightback which almost saw Australia pull off a remarkable victory in the second Ashes test at Edgbaston, 2005. Flintoff replied: "I knelt down, shook his hand, and said: "it's 1-1 you Aussie bastard!".

All in good fun of course, though Brett Lee still maintains Flintoff's version for the sake of not ruining a good story. But it's this kind of mateship, comradery and friendly banter which is Ashes cricket, and it's something that should be better represented by professional athletes not just in cricket, but in all sport world over.

Wonderful Scene

Selection

"They come, they fight, they destroy, they corrupt... it always ends the same."

It's something that's always baffled me about people - girls. It's the way that the complete and utter sleazy, unsavoury, impolite douche bags always seem to get their way over the humble and kind-hearted. Really, I'm just frustrated, that I don't get my way, that she chose him over me, that she would ever choose him over me, even after he was so sleazy and disgusting, and all I've ever done is try my hardest to be nice, kind, to compliment her every day, and to give my absolute all for her... I still don't quite understand how that works.

But maybe that's the point. Maybe I'm not supposed to understand. Maybe I'm just supposed to go with it, to adapt, to change my ways, to be more like him and less like me. It is nature, afterall, to pick out the "strongest", those that persist unrelentingly, like the sleazy, douchebag guys, to carry forth the population, and to discard the weak and standoffish. Unfortunately, nature doesn't quite go by good Karma.

Across the Sea

Is there anything else out there, across the sea?

Belonging

Have you ever felt it?

That feeling, when you're pegging out the washing, your favourite band blaring in your ears, and you turn your head towards the sun and peer straight into the flawless blue sky. Or when you're strolling by yourself towards home on a perfect springs night after a night out with your mates, and you look up and lose yourself in the moonless starry abyss...

That feeling, that upwelling of delight, which fills every inch of your body. That feeling like you're part of something, something special, something big. That feeling that, despite knowing the world is so big and the universe infinite, despite knowing your insignificance, you feel like you're exactly where you belong.

Seorsum

You know, you can force two pieces of a puzzle that aren't supposed to fit, together, but in the end the picture is never going to be perfect.

I seem to speak a lot about fate in this blog, and even though I'm not a big believer, sometimes I do wonder. Occasionally, you'll get a sign from above; divine intervention, a deus ex machina, whatever you want to call it. Sometimes, the call of destiny is just too much to ignore.

And the bitch of it is, no matter what, fate just seems hell-bent on prying us apart. Like the opposing ends of two magnets, or the separate chambers of the human heart, I guess you, and I, were just never meant to be together...

I wish it wasn't so.

Godsend

I feel like I'm standing with my bare feet ankle-deep in the cool ocean, and I'm sinking in and out of the soft sand as the waves wash back and forth. That indescribable feeling of sand between my toes. I feel alive again. I feel fresh. I feel happy. Can I be this way forever, with windswept hair and the soft spray of salt on my skin?

Suits Me

In recent weeks, I have been attempting to write something meaningful and/or entertaining, but unfortunately inspiration doesn't grow on trees, and even if it did, it certainly wouldn't grow with any kind of abundance. Anyway, let me try again...

Lesson One: Lose the goatee... it doesn't go with your suit. Lesson two: Get a suit! Suits are cool...

Today I participated in International Suit-up Day with my good friend Syngeon, aka Synge-Banger. It really was worth the effort of bringing my suit all the way from home, getting dressed up and walking around campus full decked-out on a 30 degree day. I think I now understand the plight of Barney Stinson from How I Met Your Mother. The feeling of wearing a suit for no apparent reason is indescribable, I liken it to helping out a complete stranger, getting a box of cake mix down from a high shelf they couldn't reach, or standing up for the elderly person on the bus, or holding the door open for all your mates to go through. Wearing a suit gives you that kind warm fuzzy feeling inside, like you've a achieve something great, or made someones day...

It's amazing the number of smiles we got from complete strangers who saw us in our suits. We'd walk past a group of girls and they'd giggle. We'd walk past a group of guys and they'd be like, "nice!". Especially entertaining was walking past another group of guys all suited-up, and exchanging manly nods, just out of complete respect for one another, and the odd comment like "nice suits boys"... "Yeah, you too man!".

Most importantly though, suiting-up for the day just made so many people stop, and smile, which was the highlight of International Suit-up Day for me. Suits are AWESOME.

Robot Boy

I haven't written in two months. There's just nothing there.
I hate that I'm in love with you.

Life's Bluff

The world is a beautiful place. But life... life has a funny way of presenting to you on a platter everything you ever wanted, giving you but a taste, and then ripping it away from you in an instant. And then it kicks you when you're down. It's all just a big bluff. Life demands your full attention, it covers your whole world in a dark and cloudy veil, and soon you can't see anything, you stop appreciating everything. Not even the blatantly beautiful is beautiful.

Recently, this is what has been happening to me. It's hard to explain, but, I just got so caught up in the trials and tribulations on my life, I actually forgot to keep living it. I forgot to do what I normally do; walk slowly, smell the fresh air, listen to the birds, appreciate the bright blue sky.

You know many weeks ago, I posted a quote by Mohinder Suresh (from Heroes), "The First Blush in Winter". It was about having this sense of a moment, a moment of change, like a feeling in the air. Tension that thickens the atmosphere, ever present is the feeling that something's got to give. And after this moment, everything changes. Like the proteins of an egg under the heat of fire, the whole structure of your life - everything you had worked for, everything that you thought you were, that you thought you could be - changes. Once the proteins have denatured, there's no going back. You can't rewrite the past, and you can't turn that hard boiled egg back into liquid.

So anyway, if you could pin-point that exact moment in your past, and if you could go back in time, and change it... would you? Ironically, a few days after I posted "The First Blush in Winter", that moment occurred in my life. The moment where, had I acted a little differently, said a few more things, my whole life could have been so completely different, and better. Yes, I would travel back into the past, to that moment which I have identified, and I would tell myself to act differently. To be braver. To not be so naive, so utterly naive.

I know it is stupid, and dangerous to dwell on the past like this. That boat has sailed; that life is now but a distant memory, and the last slivers of hope are now fading away. But I got so caught up in it. I was so invested. It's hard to just forget everything that has happened, and I just can't help but kick myself with the thoughts of how things could have been.

So now comes the time to make my decision. Play my move. Do I hold on, hope, pray that what has just transpired is not what it seems? Pretend that this morning I woke up to a bad dream, and soon I will wake up to a brighter world? Or do I move on? Accept my punishments? Let this be a release to free my ever-so-weary mind? Yes! That's what I'll do. I'll call life's bluff. Take this as a lesson, learn from it, never make those mistakes again, and start enjoying life for what is already there, and not what could be.

Maybe that moment hasn't occurred yet. Maybe that moment is now...

On Risotto and Life

I will admit that the idea of this post came to me while making dinner for my family. I found out earlier this evening that the tiresome process of cooking a risotto gives you way too much time to think. The constant pouring of stock and stirring, round and round, until the liquid is absorbed, got my tired little mind racing, mulling over every aspect of my life, loosing myself in the contents of that pot sitting over medium heat...

You see, cooking risotto represents life in many ways. While cooking your risotto, you have to repeat the same steps, over and over; pour in the stock, and stir, round and round and round. At first you stare at your rice and liquid mix, and you begin to wonder if all that liquid will ever be absorbed. But look away, or let your mind wander for a few minutes, and suddenly, the liquid is gone! Life is very much the same - you go through the motions of daily life; get out of bed, go to school/work, get home, have dinner, go to sleep, get up the next morning and do it all again. Round and round and round. Then suddenly one day, just like the stock in your risotto, you realise that a large part of your life has disappeared, and you didn't even notice. Blink and you'll miss it!

Cooking a risotto takes a lot time and effort, and when you finally get to eat it, delicious as it may be, it is over all-too quickly. You feel disappointed that you didn't get more out of all the hard work you put in. I guess the message is, as hard and labourious as it is - enjoy cooking the risotto! Enjoy every stir of the pot, and find happiness in every cup of stock you pour in. Going through the motions will take up a majority of your life, so make these times as memorable as the delicious meal itself!

The Longing for Home

For the first time in a long time, I miss Christmas Island.

When I was there, I never really appreciated it. The true beauty of it all. The people, the culture, the surrounding environment, the warm tropical air and the smell of the damp jungle when the rains of the wet season have well and truly taken hold. I close my eyes and I see the big, black frigates soar overhead, and I hear the rustling of the leaf-liter as the first of the red migrants emerge and begin their dash to the sea.

I smell the incense burn as my bare feet slide across the white cool tiles of the temple at South Point, being there you have the feeling you are a part of something more. The sense of culture engulfs me as prayer rings out from the mosque in the evenings. To be able to celebrate Christmas, Ramadan and Chinese New Year all in the one year for a brief period in time fools me into believing that the world is a unified place.

How I would love to go back there, even for just a week; as a scientist, as an adult, and as a more appreciative person. Just to be able to sit and watch the fascinating wildlife, and walk through the rain forest, and stand under that waterfall at The Dales and feel that ice cool water on my skin. To snorkel in the ever-warm waters, and fish off the end of the jetty, and immerse myself in the wonderful history of that tiny, dog-shaped speck in the middle of the Indian Ocean.

I don't know what has brought about this reminiscence. I think maybe the ever-bright city lights are starting to take their toll. The thick air and loud noises and repetitive lifestyle are eating at me. How I would love to escape, back to that little Island, and lose myself in the warm tropical air. I think it's human nature, and nature in general, this yearning for peace, and familiarity, after a long time away. The longing for home.

The First Blush in Winter

"To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose. The Earth spins at a thousand miles an hour as we desperately try to keep from being thrown off. Like the first blush in winter that signals a great migration. Is there any warning of their arrival? A sign, a single event that set this chain into motion? Was it a whisper in God's ear? Survive. Adapt. Escape. And if we could mark our single moment in time, that first hint of a prophecy of approaching danger... would we have done anything differently? Could it have been stopped? Or was the die long ago cast? And if we could go back, alter its course, stop it from happening... would we?" - Mohinder Suresh

Crossroads

Just like Frodo and Sam in The Lord of the Rings, or Richard Winters and Easy Company in Holland, 1945, I feel I have reached a significant point in my journey. I'm at the crossroads. From here, my life could go in any direction, North, South, East or West. Towards the sunrise, towards the sunset, towards the ocean, or back the way I came.

The problem is, really confused about which direction I need to take. Whichever road I choose means I gain something significant, and sacrifice some things I love. So I stand in the middle of the crossroads, and I turn, and I turn again. I look right, I look left, take a step in one direction, and pull my foot back hesitantly. And after all this, I am back where I started, still standing in the middle of my crossroads.

Looking Back on Lost

I absolutely loved the ending to Lost. It was beautiful, emotional, and I couldn't have asked for it to end in a better way.


Let me start off by saying that there has (disappointingly) been a lot of discontentment shown by many of the show's fans towards the ending. I guess they all wanted answers, and a succinct ending; which is of course the last thing the writers gave them, and rightly so.

Lost ended in a way that left a lot to your own imagination. It never gave definitive answers about the main mysteries of the show, for example: what the smoke monster was, what the light in the island meant, who built the four-toed statue, etc. It also left you to make up your own mind as to the fate of many of the main characters, like Hurley and Ben, who stay on the island as guardians, or Sawyer, Kate and Richard, who are last seen flying away from the island on Ajira flight 316 to an unknown destiny. Ultimately, and in true Lost fashion, the end left the audience with more questions then it gave answers. And I think that is one of the truly wonderful things about the finale (and Lost in general), that you are left wondering, enabling your imagination to run wild. It wouldn't have done the show justice, nor would it have been half as fun if the writers just packed the final 2 and a half hours of the show with answers. It's just not Lost.

They say that the most important part of a story is not how it ends, but how you get there. Lost was never about beginnings, or endings. It was always about the journey. The final scenes of the show summed this point up beautifully. In the end, everybody dies. It is the one single fate that all people suffer. It is the journey that is different - how you get to the end, that makes your life so distinct from anyone else's. Your journey - all the beautiful things you see, all the emotions that you feel, and most importantly, all the people you love - is what makes your life so special.

Lost was more than just a TV show. I know I hark on about it all the time, but now seeing the way it ended, I think can actually say that with a bit of fulfillment. I can understand why there is a certain amount of dissatisfaction among some of the more closed-minded fans towards the ending, those who only watched Lost for pure entertainment or face values. However to me, and all other fans who love the show for more than just what's on the surface, the ending was just about perfect. It doesn't mean to say that all of us fans agree on what the ending meant, and just like Jack and Kate, soon we'll all be laughing about that one final thing we couldn't agree on. Lost was a true epic, a modern day classic, and storytelling at its finest. The world wont soon forget...

L O S T

Our Mutual Friend

As I write this, there are 16 minutes to go until the final episode of Lost airs. For 6 years I have been following this show religiously. I have watched every season, every episode, every audio commentary, every deleted scene. Every wonderful minute. And I never want it to end!

In the show, Desmond, one of the favourite characters, finds himself in a similar boat (no pun intended Lost fans!). Des claims to have read every one of Charles Dickens' books, "every wonderful word", except for one - Our Mutual Friend. He's saving it, so it will be the last thing he ever reads, before he dies.

And this kind of got me thinking, maybe I shouldn't watch the final tonight? Maybe, I should go to bed early and miss it on purpose. Maybe, I should go ahead living my life, as if Lost never ended. I would go out and buy the season 6 dvds when they come out, and I would go on watching the episodes as I normally do. Except for the very last episode. I would save it, so it will be the last thing I ever see, before I die.

But doing that means I become like Desmond. Doing it means I become coward. I'm scared, scared of moving forward, scared of living a life without Lost in it. I have to watch it. I have to move on with my life. I have to laugh and cry and celebrate what has been one of the biggest parts of my life for the best part of 6 years, and then let go. That's why they call it a leap of faith...

Fast Car (Escaping the City Lights)

There's nothing like getting away from it all, jumping out of town and escaping the city lights. The vast plains of agriculture flash endlessly past, the fresh country air relaxes your every sense. You sit in silence with your closest of friends and you begin to wonder if life could be any better. 

The southern waters are icy-cold, to take the plunge you have to focus all your energies on facing that deep chill. Think like Bear Grylls. Make the decision. Go. You hit the waves, the salt and the spray and the crashing of the sea highten your senses, and what few troubles you had left drain away with the receding tide. Big salmon dart around your feet, the reef bursts into a life you didn't know existed, dolphins click and splash and play barely metres away. Sand brushes between your toes, the deep blue water surrounds you, and you realise in this perfection you wouldn't mind the sea swallowing you up and never giving you back. 

In the night the fire crackles; you stare unfleetingly into it's glowing abyss. It's wamth transfers around the room uninhibited, invigorating your very soul. The stars are singing, you tilt your head back and loose yourself in the milky way. The clouds roll over and dim the glow, but when you're lying on the sand, with the soothing sounds of the ocean roaring gently in your ears, you don't need the Southern Cross to help you find direction.

The dark Margaret River mornings are soft on your skin, the early rains sweep across and flush away the night. The green winter woodlands rush past, the kangaroos don't stir in the pastures as you press your face against the glass and drift away. The city lights beckon once again on the horizon, and home sweet home is a relief, even for your rested mind. But with the city lights your real-world problems come rushing back, and the longing for that sweet country air begins again.

Tunnel Vision

I'm surrounded by an ocean of beautiful people,

they dance, I dance back,

the sights, the smells and the sounds should rest my weary mind,

yet all I can think of is you.

Greatest Hits

Recalling the past is a difficult and dangerous thing. It can bring back some terrible memories, blurred on the edge of nightmare and reality. Sometimes, the past is the only thing holding you back, preventing you from going where you want to go, stopping you from never saying never.

But sometimes, on your darkest day or your coldest night, memories are all you have. When I think about the past, about my sorry excuse for a life, it's ever so difficult to pick the best moments. My greatest hits. I wonder what I will see if my life ever flashes before my eyes?

I think back to year 7 camp at the cricket ground, and running the Christmas Island marathon with some of my closest friends. I'm sleeping out under the stars at Dolly Beach, damming the fresh water streams and listening to the waves crash against the rocks, and watching the massive mother turtles struggle against all odds up the beach to lay their eggs. I see me performing with my best mate Sione in the 2003 circus, and acting in the play Karaoke Kristmas, getting to play out some of the most monumental moments in Christmas Island's fascinating history.

I'll never forget the geography trip to Northam eating one of Mr. Carters famous curry pies at Bakers Hill, and going to Cott beach on a hot summers afternoon to celebrate finishing our last ever TEE exam. And graduation night, and Leavers, which was an absolute blast sleeping on the beach (illegally), and scrambling around the Leavers party trying to find anyone who resembled a friend!

And then I come to my time at uni. By a long, long way the best two and a half years of my life! Not just because of the epic Tav sessions or the parties, or rocking out to Dan's guitar, or $4 pasta Wednesdays, but the little things as well. Like sitting in the common room waiting for the Cell Biology lecture in the random shed, spending countless hours watching Transformers, Indiana Jones and Once; the movie with not nearly enough explosions. There's swimming in my undies at Leighton Beach with Alex and a whole bunch of random people I had only just met, and that field trip to Harry Waring Marsupial Reserve (and the crazy dataset that ensued!). I think about waiting with Lina for what seemed like hours in the cue for the toilets at Oktoberfest, and being one of the founding members of the CEBC, and getting out of a cab with Cass in god-knows-where, falling into a prickle patch and somehow making it back to Nicola's house alive. 

Of course, there are other memories, almost 20 years worth in fact, which all could pass through my brain the moment I die; dodging crabs on my bike on CI, Silly Softball, my first girlfriend, watching Sachin Tendulkar bat at the WACA, crying after Australia got knocked out of the 2006 world cup, random tree climbing, Hank-Anthony moments, chasing the elusive stingray with Vince and Max, epic 5-way chain-spoons and many, many more.

Looking back on the past is a difficult thing, but it is also a wonderful thing. Writing this post has made me feel quite up-beat, and emotional, in a good way. So I encourage you, dear reader, to get out a piece of paper and scribble down some of your favourite memories, you might feel better for it! 

What are your greatest hits?

Empty

It's so difficult to describe the way I'm feeling right now. I've been feeling this way for weeks. The closest thing that comes to mind is empty. It's like there is an invisible parasite sucking the life out of me; the energy, the care, the laughter.

There's no discernible reason as to why I am feeling this way. Like a tropical island fantasy (hammock and palm trees aside) life is warm, breezy, and protected. I have an awesome family and the most beautiful friends. I try to sit back and enjoy life, I really do. But no matter what I do, where I go, who I'm with, I can't seem to shake this feeling of emptiness.

Life is just so absurdly boring at home. I look around at the hollow faces in my posters, watching me with their blank stares; sometimes I swear they are mocking me. I actually go into uni, even on days when I don't have classes, and I sit around in the common room, and pray that someone walks through that door. Good things happen at uni. There are people there that can make me feel better, make me feel alive again. Albeit briefly.

And all of it makes me feel so tired and drained, but I just can't sleep. I toss and turn and sweat. I wake up constantly through the night. I haven't had a good nights sleep in days and days. There's something wrong, something haunting the subliminals of my mind. That I do know. I also know that someday soon the emptiness will go away. Inevitably, someone will burst in that door exorcise me of this horrible feeling, something will happen which will help me find my direction.

It's just waiting for the inevitability which is the hardest part.

Missing Lost

I hope my friends appreciate what I do for them.

I hadn't missed an episode of Lost since season 3, episode 19: The Brig, until last night. It's now 9 episodes into season 6. That's 37 episodes in a row. I don't know if my friends can truly fathom how much it hurts me to not be in front of a TV at 8:30 on a Wednesday night. What have they turned me into?

There are only 9 episodes of Lost left for heavens sake. Nine. In nine weeks time my life will be ripped from under my feet and I will be dropped back into the real world like a piece of trash. My heart will be torn into millions of tiny little pieces, and each of those pieces will stabbed with a blunt and rusty object. I'm never going to be able to witness a TV epic anything like this ever again. And yet I'm going out on a Wednesday night for what, half price cocktails? Please. 

Every time I took my phone out of my pocket and looked at the time, my heart jerked. Butterflies filled my guts. 8:42. It's already started! 9:15. Shit, I've missed it! 10:30. There's still enough time, if I take the next train, to catch the encore screening! I had to take some pretty deep breaths to stop myself from running for that door. Maybe a couple of years a go I would have. Maybe with some lesser friends I would have.

But you know what? I had the time of my pathetic little life last night. And this time I wasn't sitting on the edge of my seat in front of the TV, sweating on the outrageous cliffhanger that was taking place before my eyes, listening to Giacchino thumping through my veins. I actually enjoyed a social situation more than I enjoyed Lost. True, my friends could never replace Lost as my primary form of love and dedication, but I love my friends none the less. I must do, missing Lost and all. 

Hell, I might even miss Lost again next week! 

The Stingray

At the back of our minds there lurks a shadow. As the gentle easterly breeze picks up, and our hair starts to wave around in it's new-found strength, the tension rises in our small camp. Off the end of the jetty, Max whips back his rod and throws his recently-caught trumpeter out with the breeze, willing it on past the flickering jetty lights at Point Walter and out into the dark abyss.

This story begins back in the final reaches of 2009, December, out the back of the E-sheds at the mouth of the Swan River. After a reasonable night of fishing, we begin to pack-it-in, when this guy, a fishing expert according to himself, hooks up. Earlier in the night, we saw this guy walking towards us with his huge beach rod, as long as a small car. We laughed at him, sarcastically asking him what kind of fish he is trying to get with that. So ensues a conversation which none of us want to get involved in - this guy tells us all his wonderfull stories about how his mate caught a starfish one time, and he started giving us fishing tips as if we had not lived on a tropical island surrounded by ocean all our lives. And he told of how, once, he caught a stingray.

So, we were about to head for home when this guy's rod starts bending wildly. But his rod tip doesn't flicker like when a fish is fighting for it's life is on the other end - it just bends, like a dead weight. Like a snag. The guy starts walking from side to side, pulling his rod along with him, trying to prove that he had another stingray on. Nobody believed him, and after he lost his second "stingray" in the space of 5 minutes, we left, laughing at him and his obscene stories all the way home.

The following fishing trip, Vince and I encounter a woman on the jetty at Point Walter. She has a massive rod, with little bells on the end - like the ones you find on a cats collar. Amused by the whole set up, we ask what kinds of fish she is after with that thing, what is she aiming to catch? "Anything", she replies. "I've caught stingray before". Me and Vince can't contain ourselves, it's just too funny. First, the crazy guy at the E-sheds, and now this crazy lady at Point Walter. Stingrays, yeah right!

But as we continue to fish the warm summer nights, we hear more and more stories of this elusive stingray. One night a guy walks down to the jetty with a bow and arrow. "What are you gunna catch with that, mate?"
"Stingray".
Another night, a woman walks over to inquire about our fish.
"Oh yeah, I got a couple of 40cm Tailor down at Rockingham the other night"
"What about Stingray?"
"Yeah, got some of 'em too"
The shadow starts to take shape in the back of our minds.

In time, Max starts bringing down his big rod and a couple of hefty gang-hooks. "what are you gunna get with that Max?", I cheekily remark.
"Stingray!" he says, now just the generic answer that question or any similar. But by the end of the night, we aren't laughing. Max's rod buzzes, and bends like the harbour bridge. The whole trumpeter on the end had just been smashed. After a few tense moments, he loses the fish. We all look at each other. The shadow that had been lurking ever since the crazy guy had talked about it at the E-sheds, had now suddenly had sprung out of the dark and become a certain reality.

Thus brings this story to the present. Max typically calls and swings by after work. We pop into the tackle store on Canning Highway, get our packets of white and blue bait and gang hooks and a couple of packs of glow sticks to go after some little tailor down in the river. But we also buy some bigger hooks, some thicker line and a big steel leader. We head across the road and get a hefty McDonalds dinner, and we fill the esky with ice and some Jack Daniels and Coke, and we rug up for a long night on the end of the jetty, braving the howling easterly coming down through the valley. As the night deepens, and the bigger tailor start to shy away, Max sets up his big hooks and baits up a whole fish. The shadow, still in the back of our minds, has now taken on its full form. An inquisitive man comes up to Max and I, and asks what we are trying to get with that kind of gear. Max and I look at each other, we aren't laughing anymore. "Stingray"

LA X

Unfortunately, every great story has to come to an end. In my opinion, Lost is one of the greatest stories ever told. And tonight, the final chapter of this great story begins. Another step closer to the end of an era.

For me, it is probably the bitterest, sweetest moment conceivable. Lost has been a significant part of my life for the best part of 6 years. It has helped me through some tough times, it gives me something to look forward to when things are difficult, and it has given me hours upon hours of pure enjoyment and happiness. The bitterness comes from the fact that in 18 episodes time, the final ever Lost will air, and then what will I have to look forward to?

The sweetness comes from the fact that I know, the final season will be truly awesome, powerful, epic. I know the writers will have many vicious curve-balls to throw at us fans, and many fearsome twists and turns and cliffhangers. And I can't wait to find out what happens to Jack and co. in the end! Boy this is going to be one hell of a rollercoaster ride! 

Tonight, in about an hour and 15 minutes, is the season premier, and I am already nervous. God knows how I will be feeling in the moments leading up to and after the final episode. I will most definitely be laughing, or crying. Most probably both! And I'm sure I will have to write to express my feelings at those moments too. But for now, it's just nerves. 

But I guess it's too late to go back now. I am committed, almost to the point of [beyond] reason, to this show. I have been for almost a third of my life. It's time to let destiny run it's course...

I'll see you at LAX!

The Uncomfortable Passing

So, I'm walking down the street to the traino and a girl, about my age, maybe a little older, maybe a little younger, approaches me traveling in the opposite direction. Nobody else is around, just her and me, headed for an awkward collision. My first reaction, after the initial realisation that there is no other option but to pass her, is to get my head down. Maybe I will be able to pass, by pretending I never saw her coming? No, that's certainly not going to work! What do I do? She's so close now. Ok Chris, come on, lift your eyes, say something as she passes. Acknowledge her. Smile. Walk on by. Ok, here she is, we look up, our eyes meet, she bows her head and walks past without even a nod of the head or a smile! Boy was that awkward! 

Why does this always happen when I pass someone my age? Is there some secret code which states that a young person should never acknowledge the passing by of another? When you pass an older person it's easy to look up and say "good morning" or an appropriate alternative for the current time of day. When you pass someone younger it hardly matters, they might give you an inquisitive smile or comment, and you the same. But when it comes to someone your age, it's always the "keep your head down until you pass awkwardly", and continue on to your respective destinations.

What is so hard about saying hello to your respective teenager? Why is it so difficult to spare a little smile as you wander by? Until I find a stranger that can acknowledge my passing, and I theirs, it will continue to remain a mystery...

Another Citi Moment of Success? Not quite...

After all my years of being an obsessed cricket tragic, I finally got to witness my first game of Twenty20 cricket. I left the ground disappointed.

Not because I am one of those sour pessimists that reckons Twenty20 will be the death of cricket. Ney, I do enjoy the shortest format of the game quite a lot, and I think it is indeed healthy for the game of cricket. But with all the hype, all the build up, I thought the whole experience would be an excitement juggernaught from start to finish. I was wrong.

Maybe I had too high expectations, watching so many games of IPL on TV, and hearing Channel 9's commentators drone on about how it's the "rock and roll" format of the game. I was expecting gorgeous, American Football cheerleaders dancing in skimpy outfits, and a dunking machine on the boundary, and a live DJ pumping the latest hip tunes. But alas! Sure, there were fireworks, and a miscellaneous skate park on the grass bank to provide some form of lunchtime entertainment (not that you had any time to look away). But it was little consolation. There were no cheerleaders, there was no dunking machine or DJ. Just the old WACA soundtrack all the way from the eighties.

It probably didn't help that the cricket was average. There were no big hundreds or sensational hatricks. No swashbuckling Shaun Marsh innings or epic Dwayne Bravo spells. There were barely any sixes hit throughout the night (although I couldn't help myself screaming " that's a DLF maximum!" after each one). Lee Furlong wasn't even down on the boundary doing interviews for Fox Sports. What a shame!

Also not adding much excitement was the crowd, who were reasonably quiet all night. The mexican wave somehow made it around the ground a few times (how it got through the members, I don't know). There was one beer snake down on the eastern side, which was quicky, to everyone's dismay, broken up by the security (or serpent wranglers). One beach ball got thrown around breifly, before it fell off the edge of the Inverarity Stand (too many boos), and one guy got escorted out of the ground by no less than 6 security guards and 2 police officers for sneaking in a bottle of vodka. That was it. I've seen rowdier at a Sheffield Shield game!

Oh well, at least there was plenty of time to relive our favourite KFC filler ads. HEY PUN-NA, WE'RE GETTING KAY-EFF-SEEEY!

A Fork in the River

It's a strange feeling, saying goodbye to someone you know you will, in all likely-hood, never see again. You are both drifting down a river, when suddenly yet inevitably, you reach a fork... your journey takes a swift left, and theirs, a right. 

You don't realise at the time the significance of that moment, in both of your lives. It isn't until long afterwards when for some reason, your mind brushes off the dusty cobwebs of some distant memory, that you think about them. Where has the river taken them since you parted ways? Has it flowed rapidly, thundering at great pace to an unknown destination? Or has it meandered along slowly, not even sure of it's own direction? Have they struggled against the current upstream? Has someone thrown a boulder in and completely changed it's course? Have they fallen off a waterfall? 

I guess you'll never know. 

But maybe I will see her again. Maybe both our rivers will flow into the same ocean, where we will meet, adrift, again. 

For Jen ~

Invictus

Everywhere I go I hear cheerless voices embellishing their trivial issues. About life, about this beautiful world we live in. I'm sick of it. Nelson Mandella had this poem writen on a piece of paper during his 27 year incaseration. Invictus by William Ernest Henley:

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

For those who don't appreciate life as they should ~