welcome to the haikutimes
Sydney, hello!
You are a bundle of scattered vibrational energy.
There are three and a half million people here, about as much as in the whole of New Zealand! Finally the plane left, after all those delays and gale force winds.
John Goldsman very kindly drove me back to the airport, and we had more good
conversations. Many of the ideas of the new age movement are simply reflections of true wisdom such as are found in Taoism, Zen and so on.
I don't feel so agreeable with the idea of reincarnation.
At the end of our talk, as I walked on to the plane,
John said he wanted to do something really big, really positive with his healing arts.
I told him I wanted to make some great paintings. So, when he finally founds his healing arts institute, I'll hang some of my paintings in there!
Shady eucalyptus rocks colors shadows cool breeze Today I have gone on "Ben's walk", a track that runs along the Sholohaven river. I was charged by my surroundings and my state of mind (connected as they are), with so many potentials for drawing the movements between trees, rocks and sky. In the hostel back in Nowra I shared a room with a British motorcycler. He talked about severe sunburns on his nose. I also spoke with a bearded man from Sacramento, California, who had some sort of nervous affliction which caused him to make strange movements with his nose and eyes while talking to me.
Am I at ease? This is difficult to say.
I'm still wondering if I did the right thing in buying the bus pass.
I am not enjoying meeting people as much anymore.
Everyone seems so white and westernized, including me.
In Narooma I did a drawing overlooking a great hollowed out sea cave.
The seaweed here comes in long strings of bubbles. Nice to examine closely.
Those I did meet in Narooma:
A Frenchman who was suspicious of everybody. He told me he tried to disguise his accent because he was afraid of being French.
A tall German with a small head and pink striped pants.
A Canadian who complained that his school in Toronto lacked school spirit, and that he
really needed to get back to a big city.
Two Dutch girls who smoked and sulked.
A British woman who told me how sick she got after only eating fruits and vegetabales for a month.
An Austrian woman whom I had previously met three months ago in New Zealand, who was suffering
from an untreated motorcycle burn on her leg.
I managed to write a few letters in Narooma, one to the parents and one to Susanna. They were difficult to do, and nothing seemed to flow. I haven't been able to express the things I really want to say-- I just mention superficial details. I worked long and hard on one of the Nowra drawings, but it was a complete failure-- no balance, and way too dark. Fortunately, I just finished the other one I did there, and I am quite pleased. I guess I must face losing images like that - it's an important part of doing drawings that do work. Drawing has become a major focus to me as of late. Since I have so little time to see so much here on this huge continent, I feel its important to do drawings of the places I visit. In fact, if I werent drawing, I wouldn't want to be here. It seems to be an essential activity for me.
From Narooma, it was a ten-hour bus ride to Melbourne.
Foggy breakfast at 2:30 a.m. with hard-boiled eggs and green peppers and bread.
Melbourne--dirty, gray. I tried to check into a backpackers hostel but it was full,
which was fine, because it was a dive.
I found a better one further away from the city center, one that didn't close during the day, which was nice. My first day there I chanced upon some exciting perspectives.
I spent until 3:00 drawing a tall, castle-looking building visible just over a grey brick wall. At the European wing of the Melbourne art museum, I sat and listened to a female art history professor talk to a set of younger girls about a painting by Tissot.
The subject matter of the painting had to do with the bet between
Cleopatra and Mark Anthony,
over who could produce the most scrumptuous lunch
(Cleopatra did, by dissolving her pearl earrings in vinegar and drinking them).
Another show I saw in Melbourne: a retrospective of Fred Williams,
a white Australian painter who died a few years ago.
He turned to the landscape for his major expression, exploring various thematic approaches to portray: the outback after a fire,
snow patches on Mt. Kosiousco,
abstracted reflections of the vast bush
and even vaster landscape upon which it rests.
I also saw Aboriginal art--dreamscapes--
two dimensional maps or lines designating places and activities.
Strange to see in a museum.
While I was drawing the Flinders Sreet Railway station, a drunk man came up to me
and told me he did the same sort of thing.
Feeling thus exhilerated by observing brightly colored and shaded architecture,
I left for an exploration of the royal botanical gardens.
The gardens left me feeling peaceful--although it was a highly victorianized/suburban sort of peace. Not an Australian outback sort of peace, which I still hope to pursue!
The way the professor led the kids through all the necessary steps of seeing a painting
was wonderful and reminded me of the best art history classes Ive had.
Well. I have just seen a collection of paintings that were full of vibrational energy, here in Adelaide. But--before launching into that, let me say--I'm really tired and my eyes sting from being so tired This is a result of an all night bus ride I took from Melbourne to Adelaide. I should mention no small feelings of frustration at having to do this--yes, rather large feelings--because I didn't see any of the scenery on the way here! Suddenly it's morning and I am smack in the middle of another bustling city. I should say, from first impressions Adelaide is far hotter and brighter than Melbourne. Despite feeling so tired from the bus ride I was able to absorb myself in the gallery exhibit: Shedding New light on the old masters. I enjoyed paintings by El Greco, Goya, Corot, Courbet, Ingres, Delacriox, Cezanne, Van Gogh, Matisse, O'Keefe, Renoir, Rothko and Klee.
Entering the Nullabor desert by sunset--
a profound sight. Yet how real is it from within this bus--
and through these mirrrored windows?
Think of my experience in this age as compared to when those souls of colonial age
literally inched their way eastward over the flat landscape towards Botany Bay--
some difference.
The horizon is flat. Very flat.
I've had two pieces of fish today--
one was deep fried and disgusting--
the other, grilled and slightly greasy.
the concerns of bus drivers illustrate such changes in the world--
how is it that now we just think of schedules
and particular conditions of the roads here and there--
and the way certain drivers do things either correctly or incorrectly
John Erie was his name, he who crossed the Nullabor.
Time passes quickly. I've been in the bus a lot between then and now, as well as spending a day and a night in Kalgoorlie. Who gives a fuck about what types of lasagna are really good? And I don't believe at all that the Aborigines were in a state of degradation when the European settlers first came here. Kalgoorlie was smack in very hot bush, with red dirt and widely spaced, sparsely connected trees of a hardy and small-leaved nature. Yes, it was HOT. Once I was dropped off at the side of the road, I discovered that there was a caravan park about 2 km away, so I walked there in the heat, paid for a tent site, and came back into town. The high building fronts in Kalgoorlie are mighty and colorful statements of victorian magnitude. After considering a number of them, and buying fruit and fruit juices, I drew a building that had some neat iron latice work. It was massively hot, I say again, and I felt a little nauseous.
I witnessed:
two kangaroos being smashed by our bus on the night section of my most recent bus ride.
A rainy morning in Perth.
Here I sit waiting for Nirad to come by,
for today he is going to show me around the university.
I first met Nirad two months ago in Wellington, New Zealand, two months ago.
I consumed a filafel at the Perth underground food center.
The day before, I tried a prawn roll.
But of what consequence is this?
Walking briskly out of the city yesterday, I encountered King's Park, a huge bush area.
Near the entrance I did a drawing of the citys buildings with a bony gum tree trunk
thrusting up through the center of the composition.
I hope the image will not be too cliche.
if it works, it could provide an interesting contrast between man and nature.
My overall impression of Geraldton was that it was hot and fairly uncomfortable--
As soon as the sun reaches a certain high point in the sky, that is--
I took a walk to the beach, and I walked quite a distance to visit some sand dunes.
I was hot when I got there
and I walked back. And a frightfuly hot walk it was--
Indeed--I had to walk in the surf, which cooled things considerably.
I enjoyed walking along an ever changing waterline; the colors and forms embodying a
single, unchanging essence
something pointed to in all of natures forms.
I thought about this while sitting on sand in shade,
watching grains fall in regular patterns
after I had flung them breezily in to the air.
Some seaweeds are thin and scraggily--
others are fat and rotund.
Somewhere three hours north of Geraldton--
during a break in the bus ride I sat in view of a magnificent sunset,
thiking of how odd it was to be in the midst of cyclones.
On the bus I sat next to an Englishwoman who wined and was convinced
that monsoons would be ravaging the land for the next month.
One moment when I was tired of her complaining
and frustrated with the cigarette fumes I could not avoid,
I went up to the front of the bus where there was a spare seat.
The woman I sat next to took a liking to me.
When we heard the news that the bus would not be able to get through to Port Hedland,
she said she knew people in Karratha and I might stick around with her
to avoid staying in a hotel or camping with the flies.
While waiting in Karratha, we took a trip to nearby Dampier and saw some ancient petroglyphs, skillfully chiseled into iron-ore-red boulders
which seemed to ooze out of the ground in pebble-like profusion.
I did one drawing, battling with the pesky flies
which are really QUITE PESKY!
What happened in Port Hedland?
Well. Port Hedland is a place of great iron-ore mining importance.
Long brown rows of ore idly repose in the searing heat,
waiting to be churned up by the iron-ore churning machines,
to be sent by complicated mechanical transport to large Japanese boats waiting in the deep, man-made harbours.
The machinery is a burnt sienna color.
I did see a mound of salt that was mostly white.
For excitement of my grey matter, I drew a couple of huge tanks
being shadowy in the sun.
These are the largest structures on the flat bush landscape,
which stretches endlessly in all directions.
The most intriguing encounter I had in Port Hedland--and maybe even to date--
was with a Canadian named Luke.
I spent a long time observing his manner and listening to his rambling diction
before actually speaking with him.
The amazing thing about him was his stream of consciousness way of speaking,
especially when discussing his twenty years of travels.
He seemed self-centered, and spoke like a prophet might, tempered with a heavy dose of cynicism. He observed all sorts of corruption and complacency in society but could do little but wander about, casting aspersions on all
and drowning his hopes of being a writer in beer.
Today in Darwin by the beach
I saw transparent ants with green abdomens
and many beautiful rocks in abstract colors and patterns.
Other life forms include the many Aborigines
who wander about aimlessly all day long--
some of them drinking heavily, too.
Luke suggested they did this out of despair.
Perhaps that is why he drinks, too.
How did I ever get to be a white, middle class American?
At times I hate the way I am traveling.
I am so white and alien to this land.
It seems to be harder and harder to get the energy up to go see yet another place, especially when its just me.
Most travelers I meet seem to have little depth. Or--
Is it just me who thinks he has too much?
I am so young. I am so old. I know nothing. I know everything. Mt. Isa. Why do they make the library so cold? I did a drawing of three things that do not belong here: a tropical palm, a mining smoke stack, and a large light. Of course they exist here now, and who is to say that they don't belong here? Who determines what belongs where, anyway? It doesn't seem natural, that's all. the busses have been very uncomfortable recently. Cold, too. I know nothing of hunting or collecting bush tucker or passing on all of the old and important tribal customs and myths to my children-- I laugh to think of myself. It makes me feel quite empty, somehow.
What shall I say? What can I say? Oh yes, those Kuwaiti terrorists and the hijacked passengers. A fuel tank just exploded. Watch out for that deadly aids! The Barrier Reef is an amazing place because it shows so clearly the interconnectedness of all being, through the inception and completion of every organisims life. And me? I am insignificant as a single entity-- yet not without significance. I indeed will see my own death and that of my family and friends. Why do I still have so much fear? I am concerned that I am looking forward too much to seeing Susanna in Egypt. I cannot help looking at the calendar and considering the time that must pass before I see her again. Am I "blind, blind, blind" as David Copperfields aunt says, as he falls in love with Dora?
Pain
road journey
bus rides 24 hours
Sweedish girl. nice. decent conversations, much needed.
Surfers paradise?
no natural rhythms. difficult.
Depression, tiredness. Calendar: and on, and on.
Noisy place--a party place.
me
others
kentucky fried capitalism.
Drawings: what purpose, what worth.
Red hot sun
two drawings in two days.
Western culture everywhere
surf
gasp
Sydney tall buildings canyons of shadow. confusion of busses dormitory style hostel expansive common room. Hot Coogee banana smoothie sun worshipers--lots of people. Considering myself a scared, insecure, and uninteresting traveler when looking at others' accounts of trekking through different cultures and places. I think a lot of things but I don't write any of them down.
Why do so many people smoke and then heedlessly throw their butts on mother earth?
I have reached a massive freak-out point. I am in Sydney wondering why minutes seem to be eternities. I feel unable to do much except spend hours working on my drawings.
I feel averse to going anywhere new. Ithink to myself,
how can I ever go to South East Asia for three weeks?
Last night I needed something to do to make me feel worthwhile so I splurged on a very nice seafood dinner at one of the waterfront restaurants down by the harbour, in full view of the bridge, the opera house
and other buildings.
Oh, reality. Do I know where it takes me, or why? I can only see as far as this present moment--all else is conjecture. Therefore, what do I know? Why should I even try to predict? Art, at the fine arts museum. I'm looking at paintings on loan from the Hermitage in Russia and thinking-- Just what is this all about, anyway? We have here a progression of styles and ideals all centered around the human figure, from the 15th to the 20th centuries. For the moment, I dislike considering them in the way you are "supposed" to consider them, in an art historical/cultural perspective. I "m interested in art that is transformative; art that can have personal meaning for someone. And what is that? Not for me to say. The two paintings here that inspire me both use sumptuous and harmonious color. I have the feeling that I can glimpse the artist's passionate feelings about life, communicated through the use of color and composition. The subject matter is of less importance.
I had a really good day yesterday because I talked to mom and dad.
I caught them right before they were scheduled to fly down to Houston to see Patty graduate! In fact, they had just ended a phone conversation with Patty.
I told them about my feelings about going to Asia,
which are a little anxiety-laden right now. Other things: I got my Egyptian visa--
did a third drawing of the opera house--and arranged to go out and see Andrew Dack,
whom I met in Thames, New Zealand.
I also saw Queen Elizabeth quite by chance,
being driven to her luxury boat that was waiting in the Sydney harbour.
I finally reached Susanna by phone. It was a strange sort of conversation--
not one with a lot warmpth, I felt, especially since we now seem to be such strangers.
Hello Reading a bit of Jung (Memories, Dreams and Reflections) which is to say I had some weird dreams last night in which I was swimming across a large lake with a number of pregnant women. I tried calling Susanna in Cairo for the fourth time her housemate Bridgette answered-- "Hi its Jon "... "hi!" "Are you still asleep?" "Yes, we just got back from an all night bus ride. We went on a camel trip." "What time is it there?" "I have no idea." "How are you?" "I'm okay! " click...buzz...buzz...call again in a few minutes, please.. Drat! I hate phone conversations like that. It seems so unreal.
I accomplished all the manoeuvres necessary to get me out to Rooty Hill, where Andrew lives. He was waiting at the train station for me. I asked him how he knew I would be arriving at that time: "Just took a guess." The reasons why I felt Andrew was a person who was worth getting to know were re-confirmed even before we left the station. A woman was struggling up the ramp with a heavy suitcase, and he turned right around and carried her suitcase all the way to the platform for her. His is a family that gety by on genuine hard work. His father, Trevor, first struck me as a great brawny beer drinker. Actually he operates a backhoe, and has been doing so for 14 years. He and Andrew get up every morning at 3:45 and drive to the city together; he to his backhoe work and Andrew to his road-mending or tree planting job. Compared to Trevor, Andrew's mother, Kathleen, is petite and somewhat pallid, despite her interest in eating healthy foods. I got along well with her, not afraid to start scrubbing the dishes, in contrast to Andrew and Trevor. Andrew 's 19-year old sister, Allison, had just finished a three month sojurn in an Aboriginal camp. Although I could not quite identify with the purpose of her visit, which was missionary in nature. I liked talking to her. Andrew took me up to see the Blue mountains. It was extremely refreshing to be up there, and I felt the anxiety leaving my bones.
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drawing/writing/photography
jonathan machen