10,000 Buddha bellies

Sha Ting, Hong Kong

I sit here; digesting my lunch of vegetarian fried duck with greens, rice and tea; in a not quite fully realised cafe adjacent to the main temple of the Ten Thousand Buddhas Monastery on a suburban mountainside in Sha Ting, Hong Kong.

I know almost nothing about this place, to be fair precious little about Buddhism, much less Chinese Buddhism, and so I feel I lack any kind of academic insight through which to experience what I see. So I have kind of invented my own story a bit, which I think can also be quite cool.

I found out about this place by accident. I never really intended to stay in Hong Kong, but use it as a central hub for the places I wanted to visit in Asia. But it worked out I ended up with a couple of days here, and my accommodation (which is a story of its own) is not the place to just burn time. So I went to Google Maps, intending to put together some Google searches for dance clubs or food areas or whatever, and I was shown a list of other peoples' saved maps of Hong Kong. I clicked. It seemed to belong to a group adventure. I can't work out for the life of me what the occasion was, perhaps someone's wedding. The story I told myself is a group of English mates came over for a holiday. Anyway, it was marked on this map and I thought it looked interesting so I decided to go.

Not for the first time, I armed myself with far too little navigational support. Despite the omnipresence of English here, it is an incredibly easy place in which to get lost, at least for me. I'd love to portray this impulse as some kind of extreme traveller wanderlust, but I think it comes down to being a bit of a ditz and a boob.

I remembered the appropriate relationship to the train station, but adding that third dimension, lots of foliage, and armies of Chinese glyphs seriously tested my architypally male map parsing abilities.

I followed the most probable path, even spotting a sign and came upon the likely candidate. I remembered a note on the Google Map about hundreds of stairs and thought I was at the right place.



Being a worldly and sensitive guy, I put on my most respectful and reverent visage; I mean I know enough about Buddhism to know it's not like dashing into a water park, right?; and stepped through the gate.

Well, it wasn't the monastery, it was instead a sort of cemetary mausoleum thing (Po Fook Memorial Hall). Very impressive, peaceful, the smell of incense burning, out of respect, I assume, possibly marking some other purpose of which I am completely ignorant. As soon as I worked it out I stopped taking photos, I suppose out of assumed expectation of respect. I made my way back down the hill and rejoined the path and found it at last.

At the entrance point, I restored my reverent countenance, and was startled by the first impression. Neither here nor there in terms of what I expected (again, I confess they would have been based on nothing but fantasy). Either simple natural beauty and harmony or extravagent heart-stopping theatricality and opulence. Instead, construction-like gates and fences, dilapidated footpaths and restoration in progress and in progress for who knows how long but seemingly in no hurry to become complete.

There was a sign teaching you how to behave around wild monkeys, and that excited me. I made sure to study it, hoping to test my new savvy, but so far, no monkeys for me. Damn it.

The long steep climb to the main temple is flanked on either side sometimes both by a series of increasingly elaborate and well-made gold statues. Now by gold I mean wood or perhaps some other material painted gold.



I was surprised at the range of expressions and personalities. These are supposed to be Buddhas, right? Isn't Buddha pretty much totally serene, I suppose I have heard of Buddha laughing, but some seemed practically sacreligious, I thought, some clearly putting their egos on display, exuding pride, some completely moronic.

In my limited knowledge, I was thinking Buddha is supposed to be free of attachment, free from ego. I suppose it is a mistake of the rational mind, of brainwashing by our black or white, good or evil, this or that culture to assume free of attachment is the same as detachment. I can equate this to my current thinking about love, and fear creating the impulse to define, control, possess and tie down, limiting the loved one in the name of reducing the risk of experiencing pain. In this light, to give someone freedom is definitely not the same as apathy or not loving. I love someone, give them freedom, I feel all those things, love, joy, pain, yet try to maintain the freedom. And perhaps this is Buddha too. Free from attachment to worldly things, yet also completely present experiencing the full range of worldly feelings... But I digress.

As this thought passed by, I thought perhaps these aren't among the Ten Thousand Buddhas; these are instead, well, mere mortals or manifestations of the human foibles that Buddha has transcended? I just didn't know but pressed on.



I finally arrived at the main temple and at last saw the kind of Buddhas I was expecting. Seated, serene, almost meditating. And thousands upon thousands of them (apparently about 13,000). After spending some time there, I strolled around the courtyard and into the vegetarian cafe I also read about on the Google Map. I am a big fan of Buddhist vegetarian food, and I was not disappointed. As I sat, I started to ponder the experience so far and whether or not my expectations were met.

And I have to say at that point I was disappointed. And so I pondered that. I couldn't help thinking the whole thing was a bit cheeseball and cheap. Something akin to The House On The Rock in Wisconsin. Extravagent, ambitious, striking, impressive, opulent, but ultimately cheeseball. But The House On The Rock actually derives its cool because it is so unapologetically cheeseball. But surely, the Chinese, Buddhists aren't capable of cheeseball, right?

Well why not?

Then I felt like a bit of an elitist snob. Or some sort of inside out elitist. Where I operate from cultural imperialist guilt with this over-respect for other cultures, in my unconscious ethnocentric cultural superiority, I assume capacity for cheeseball is the highest evolution of civilisation and society (think The Big Pineapple), and that Chinese, Buddhist, whatever, it is just too pure in other words too primitive to do that (all of this sits outside my awareness, conscious mind, by the way). But there it is, maybe all cultures are equally drawn to kitsch. Perhaps it is a human imperative. As such, is it fair of me to expect Buddha to be above kitsch? No.

And so what am I left with?

Well, here it is again. A choice.

Or a choice and a paradox. Perhaps I can choose to let it be both, and take pleasure, amusement and even something transcendent from it. All at the same time. It is impressive, it is holy, it is fucking silly. It just is. Why not?



And so, in the end, I have been quite satisfied with my trek up the hill to see the Ten Thousand Buddhas Monastery. Now I'm off to find the gift shop...

Ernesto

(Wellington, New Zealand)

My favourite cafe in Wellington was called Ernesto. If I can work out how to add photos to my blog, I will include one here. ("Uh, you're a web designer" my friend Andrew tells me. True, but I admit I am also somehow Web 2.0, mobile phone, all those things the kids are into these days developmentally challenged, or as they say in Australia 'intellectually mild,' or as they said back in my day 'retarded.')



Wellington has the most striking concentration and abundance of cool cafes, restaurants, shops, pubs, live music venues, nightclubs, places to go. And to my further surprise, most places are open until the wee hours every night of the week, with only some closing a bit earlier on Sunday and Monday night. And to go with it, the people out and about are strikingly attractive, men and women, with a very individualistic and genuine sense of style.

I spent most of my hangin' out, eatin', people watchin', booty shakin' in two adjacent areas. Courtenay Place centres on a main thoroughfare of the same name, a wide boulevard starting at the Embassy Theatre (where the Lord Of The Rings films premiered); packed with upmarket (but not too upmarket) pubs and nightclubs on the one side, more functional budget conscious establishments on the other (with a few notable exceptions and a mermaid style strip club which I must admit I was fascinated to see but decided against on the advice of another traveler who said it was shit), almost as though it was planned that way; and running to a perpendicular with Cuba Street, the other area.

Cuba Street was the real highlight. I hate to call it a pedestrian mall, in fact there's a word on the tip of my tongue for what I'd rather call it, but there it is. For much of it, pedestrians only, and a wonderland of punky clothing shops and tattoo places, rock and roll venues, and some of the coolest cafes and restaurants I've ever seen. Oddly, in the middle stands probably the single most atrociously tacky fountain I've ever seen. It's almost like a giant fuck you and you have to smirk, so out of place amidst the funky and/or well-branded shop fronts and signage.

Not much further along, where it becomes a street again, on one corner stands Ernesto. A converted clothing shop of some sort with cool leadlight windows, I was immediately drawn in by the inviting vibe of the wood floors, merlot leather booths. I was looking for a place to sit down with my laptop.

I asked a waitress if they had wireless internet. I will step out for a moment and tell you about her. She was incredibly cute, had a very quirky dress style, lots of layers and textures and things that looked a little old fashioned, like a funky librarian or orphan, neat healthy brown hair cut about jaw length except with those elf-like wispy bits that were a bit longer, such a sweet voice and soft spoken and I believe French (this is not random, there is a whole strip of French cafes, not that it makes it any more plausible, but I was sure I detected it). I shall call her Amelie. She told me they were supposed to have it but nobody knew if it was working. They gave me a password and I sat down and it worked. So I discovered the internet for the staff and patrons of Ernesto. I can't say for sure but I think she swooned at my masculine achievement.

And the barista, I will call her Svetlana. An at first stern looking woman, with pixie dyed blonde hair and deep set eyes made more stern with heavy eye shadow. But she had the most gorgeous, almost hypnotically beautiful tattoos on her bare arms. Over a few visits, with different outfits, I could see that her body art indeed seemed to cover much of her body, the same geometric vine spiral ancient perhaps arabic motifs occasionally showing themselves on the back of her neck and the small of her back. I wanted to see the whole thing, but of course couldn't think of an uncreepy way to ask.

Miraculously, a few days later the city council was erecting a public exhibition of photographs, enlarged and on display along Courtenay Place. And I was stuck by a female nude, with her back to the camera, with the most amazing body art. After a second, I recognised it as Svetlana, she had a black wig on, but there was no mistaking the pink lotus on her right shoulder, and the vine spiral. Stunning. I asked her about it, and she confirmed, seemed surprised I worked it out, saying some of her friends had to be told it was her. "You must be joking." I said, "absolutely stunning!" I like to think she too swooned.



And of course the food! My first meal, a breakfast burrito. I must say life in Australia has made me a sucker for the Mexican item on the menu. Much to my delight it was delicious. Beans, eggs, cheese, a spicy salsa that actually had some taste to it, guacamole. Excellent! I had it again another day as well. And their salmon & poached eggs on hash browns with hollandaise was amazing. By far the most fabulous hash browns I've sampled. Every breakfast was fantastic. And the coffee was outstanding as well.

If you ever find yourself in Wellington, make sure you pay a visit. And if you're lucky, Svetlana and Amelie will have gotten over their embarrassing infatuation with me.

One ring to rule them all

(Auckland, New Zealand)

At one point, rummaging through my satchel (or man bag or murse) for something I forget what must have been something related to going out that night as I was amid my young roommates in Auckland perhaps my money clip, I happened across my wedding ring. What was it doing there? Even I had to ask. Well, one of my last days in Sydney was spent with Erika and among other rituals of closure we made a moment of returning our rings, a gesture symbolising our agreement to release the infused meaning and transform them back into ordinary objects. The whole journey of these rings, from joy through pain to reconciliation, has been an extraordinary and powerful story I will always cherish, one I hope to tell properly some day, and for me is the most salient argument for embracing symbols to mark these things that utterly transcend intellect, words, photographs, memory even. But I digress. I put it in my satchel and never decided what to do with it, and so it is with me.

I expressed my surprise, blushed and wondered aloud what I should do. Rick suggested, "Well you're in New Zealand; wouldn't it be funny if you went on the Lord Of The Rings tour and cast it into the fires of Mount Doom?"

And it was funny, and I know Erika, who has a great sense of humour, would also find it amusing. But, aside from it being far too nerdy a thing to actually do, it didn't quite fit, for as I said, the ring has already been unmade in the fires in which it was made.

Reflections on New Zealand

Cathay Pacific Airlines Flight CX108 to Hong Kong

Sigh... So many things I wanted to write about, such a bounty of intention, so much brilliance I'm sure has evaporated into the ether. I suppose I could go back and do a few entries retroactively. I met a pair of English girls who were doing that, faithful to their commitments to write in their journal each day (and rumour has it also to their boyfriends back home, much to the dismay of dear Rick, you remember Rick?), staying so by spending an evening every now and again catching up and writing as though they were writing on that day (I wonder if this is also how they remained faithful to their boyfriends, and what I even mean by that). But tempted as I am, I will not succumb to this particular temptation. I am resolved to remain in the present; and gorgeous, precious, even cancer-curing as these entries might have been, if I didn't get around to writing them when I was feeling them, then that is what happened. And who knows, if I gave in, a world peace inciting revelation waiting to land on someone at that very moment might pass me by.

And so, a medley of favourite moments...

What a difference a week makes

Wellington, New Zealand

I have been away from the blog for a solid week now. Not at all by design, each day I intended to set aside some time to extract some pearl from my headspace, yet each day somehow got away from me.

In one arena, I have been busy with errands, some still left over from my life in Sydney, some related to the next phase of my travels. I finally went through the stack of documents I brought with me, a pile that at some point in my final month I had flagged as action items for actioning before actioning my departure, but by the time I was making my final preparations I had lost track of its low level details and decided to just bring it wholesale and go through it when I had a little more time. Turns out I had an envelope of potentially warranty relevant receipts for some of the bigger ticket items I sold, my nearly completed tax return for 2007 and all the supporting paper nonsense to go with it, and a bunch of phone numbers and scribbled notes.

It was actually quite nice to attack these rather straightforward to-dos, surprisingly satisfying to complete a task, mail out those receipts (almost as heartwarming as a postcard, right?), bit by bit tie up loose ends and clear out space in my luggage (highlight unconsciously clever layered image? nah, leave it). Communicating with the folks at H&R Block is having its moments. It never ceases to surprise and outrage me how some people allegedly providing a service show so little intuition, take so few proactive steps, fail to assume responsibility for those key activities that would benefit from their alleged expertise and make the whole experience more pleasant and efficient. I'm the idiot if I expected there to be as many sharp minded people as there are things that need doing, but sometimes it feels like the world is peopled primarily with monkeys, and service means no more than a chimp with access, and I have to BYO the thinking.

I risk falling down a black hole of mundane details masquerading as a meaningful update, I lack the energy to inject comedy into the laundry list... The itinerary for the Asian leg of my travels has been sorted out, the last of my worldly possessions arrived in Los Angeles and my dear friend Dan was able to pick them up with no significant incident and by his report without major inconvenience. Found out my motorcycle has been sold, though the money is yet to hit my bank account. The point, if I so choose: I am now unfettered and free to enjoy the rest of my trip without further backward-looking worry.

And at last my point. I believe so much of my happiness, my mood, my reactions, so much comes down to my choice. I can have an amazing satisfying time if only I would choose it. And so I have.

A week ago, I was about to embark on working through 'The Artist's Way.' For those who don't know it, it is an intensive writing based approach to getting to the core of your creative spirit, returning to your creative soul. It is notoriously difficult and time consuming. This, along with the other mind-blowing books I was set to read, and an intention to dive back into my novel, and so on and on and on the list goes, piling up the list of intentions. I do not quit them altogether, but I have decided to set them aside. Making a choice.

And instead of looking directly into the eyes of these things on my mind, and writing what I see, I have decided to peer into the face of my food. Write about the exciting things that I am eating. The amazing people I meet, the places I go, the things I see. And I know, in so doing, I will be writing about my soul anyway. And I will be more firmly in the present. And that is the only place I really want to be. I have been put in touch with friends of a friend and they have taken me into their home. They are the most extraordinarily generous and hospitable hosts you could imagine. So much so that I feel I must dedicate a separate entry to the experience. And this leads to my final thought. That, like the truly great meals I have had, it is better to have a well-paced, well-proportioned dining experience than to gorge on a meal much larger than it needs to be, satisfying as it seems to be to take it on and clean my plate. So I will endeavour to make my entries a little shorter, and hopefully thereby a little more frequent.

Where did that guy go?

Wellington, New Zealand

I must confess, I have been pretty down for pretty much all of this trip so far. I definitely don't want to be feeling this way, and I don't want to be writing about it, but it seems if I'm not then I'm not writing about anything.

I expected to go through a recovery period. My last month in Sydney was emotionally and physically gruelling. I had hoped to make a triumphant exit, bursting with love and joy and excitement, feeling transformed, courageous, powerful, ready. Instead I felt (and continue to feel) exhausted, torn down, humiliated, stripped back to the cowering animal inside, frustrated, incapable, not ready at all. I try to focus on the multitude of tasks and to-dos I was able to plan and execute in that final month; cancellations, redirects, appointments, closure. I can say there were moments where I was impressed with myself, in some ways it was the most effectively run, well-scheduled, prolific month in recent memory. But everywhere, all that echoed in my eyes and ears and heart were the things I was failing to do. And some on a grand and public scale.

At the same time I felt isolated from the people I most wanted to contact, to hold. Like an invisible ice wall was thickening around me. I wondered why no one could see what was going on with me, why it was all just amusing or annoying. And yes this is more a feeling truth than a logical truth (I swear I'll get to it). I know it is me, that much of why I felt this way is because I have gone quite deaf and blind and numb to others, to everything. I did not want to fall into this hole; though I have considered the possibility it is what I had to do next.

It feels like this: that two years ago, with separation and then divorce, I burst into flames and fell into the cave. Which had to happen, in the sense that it was the only way for me to be true and real with myself. And I recovered, if this can be said, well, and in a very me way. I thought a lot, felt a lot, talked to my closest friends a lot. A lot. And eventually saw what needed to be seen, and put out the fire, and just over a year ago I started to rise. For the last year I have felt more me, more excited about the possibilities than I can ever remember feeling. And since then this feeling has been rapidly accelerating, bringing new perspectives on the nature of time and reality, truth, love, pain; and amazing planet collisions with memory, beyond literal experiential memory, but before memory almost, a deep core sense of remembering myself. And I fucking loved it. And I felt like I knew what I needed to do. And I answered the call, and set into motion the next set of transformations. I got into shape, I reconnected to my creative self, I started reading again and exposing myself to new ideas. I resigned from my job in Sydney, made plans for this trip, made plans to live a life that resonated with passion and my truth. And while I can admit that I may not have really needed to leave my job and loved ones and my home really, it feels equally true that this is the way I was to do it.

I think I left an untended ember smoldering in my shoe. And in the last month it has caught fire. And I wonder what it is...

I am also blessed to be surrounded (in spirit is almost as good as in body) by some amazing hearts. A woman I knew in high school, recently found on Facebook (love it, loathe it), her first words to me since then in response to my first blog entry, a surprisingly tender slap in the face, "Why so serious?" And recently, in the words of a loved one going through her own exhausting awakening, I heard what has been nearby to the tip of my own tongue, that maybe I too am just a little bit over this whole growing and healing thing for the moment.

Before I embarked on this trip, as I stepped up to the plate I pointed to the fence, signalling a home run much to the delight of the crowd (me), I defined this trip as a spiritual journey, of personal revelation. I would journal my feelings, keep a blog, finish my very personal novel, read all these books filled with mind-blowing ideas. And I look at the books I brought with me, and no wonder I am so miserable. I have given myself nowhere to go but the black hole. I am trying to Eat Pray Love the fuck out of this trip, when maybe what I really need right now is just to simply goddamn eat!

40 is the new 30

Auckland, New Zealand

I can't help feeling my time to do this backpacker thing has come and gone. I am aware this is a feeling more than a fact; or to use my current pet parlance: a feeling truth or poetic truth more than a thinking truth or literal truth (more on this topic in a future entry).

And this in turn gives me pause, to instead be patient, to stay present as I do this backpacker thing, and see it as it takes its shape and know it by knowing it; rather referring to an identity card, scribbled long ago and half finished, a mugshot or dubious police sketch assembled from glamourised half heard hearsay, holding it up against the horizon, facing in that particular direction, waiting for the shape emblazoned on my document to appear. But I also know this feeling is part of it. And so there it is. I am feeling a little too old to be a proper backpacker.

Well, I could always hang with the few odd veterans haunting the shared kitchen, eating beans on the cheapest white bread money can buy, recounting tales of hitchhiking across India, swapping toilet paper for cocaine with convicts in Santiago, getting caught in the middle of some ethnic riot on their third or was it their fifth trip through some chronically unstable territory I'm too embarrassed to admit I couldn't locate on a map. But I digress. I'm not ready to concede, to relegate myself to this uppermost demographic, also known as 'everyone too old to shag in the toilets.' Despite my current mood, I hang on to the hope I've still got it.

After spending my first 24 hours largely silent, save the minimum utterances needed to acquire food and shelter; it was my sociable roommates that finally brought my head out of my arse and into Auckland.

I entered the room just after my evening meal and stumbled into a makeshift storyteller's circle. The tale being told, I imagine, is an oft-told and well-loved classic: a pair of stunning free-spirited Swedish girls, which one to choose? Our narrator was agonising over the probability he made out with the wrong one.

At this point, I digress again to wonder what the etiquette is for a travel diary; whether, especially given the (potentially) public nature of the blog format, I am obliged to change the names of the people I meet in the brotherhood of what happens in the dorm stays in the dorm. I think I'll go with character names; but not so much for reasons of anonymity as for the opportunity for fun.

Let me introduce my narrator, a Jewish Canadian in his early twenties, a tall talkative likable goof, an aspiring filmmaker and recent graduate of York University in Toronto (much to his delight we discovered we have an alma mater in common). I'll call him Rick Moranischewitz. To his left, an unfairly dashing Oxford-educated Brit also in his early twenties, returning to the western world after six months on the subcontinent working for Greenpeace, applying his environmental engineering related education in what one can only assume was some posh young Ralph Fiennes plus Brad Pitt equals love child role in some stiff upper lip Merchant Ivory film in real life. I'd hate him if he wasn't so damned dashing. Let's name him Alistair Worthingtonshireford. And finally, to his left, another Canadian lad in his early twenties, far too nice, it pains me to say a little forgettable, one of those people who are more at ease living life as a supporting character, an expat living in Auckland for the past two months, with a punk haircut for a dash of mystery. We'll call him Mohawk McWhatsisname. Okay, so that makes four people, which might be more of a square than a circle, but I can live with that. Right?

Rick seemed to be trying to get drunk as quickly as possible. Unbeknownst to him but unmissable to everyone else, he was going about it in the gayest manner possible. I'm not sure I ever actually saw him stop talking long enough to drink, but somehow he worked his way through half a bottle of green apple vodka and a four-pack of Vodka mudshakes. His tale was loud, rambling, full adolescent angst, trying to decode the inexplicable behaviour of the females, one using him against the other, confusion, alcohol, annoyance but not enough to keep him his tongue to himself, and so on. All promise, then no consummation. In the end, it was revealed these girls must have been just crazy. There was a plan to possibly maybe meet up in Auckland in a few days; perhaps Rick would get a second chance. But that was days away, there was another pair of girls he had met that were going to meet him in the hostel bar. And so, off we went to the bar.

A less charming club, more devoid of ambience I have never beheld. It was like a cavernous black box, scattered with furniture possibly assembled from the lounge rooms of several first year uni students. There was a dance floor, lit almost exclusively by a disco ball scattering an unchanging white beam from a single stage light, empty save for a single oddly-dressed girl dancing away next to a four foot tall hands in his pockets Asian guy. Elsewhere, there must have been six or seven guys to every girl, all of them in their early twenties. I felt like a chaperone. Thankfully, there was plenty of cheap decent beer on tap and a pool table.

As the evening rolled on, Rick's duo turned up, you guessed it in their early twenties, two aspiring advertising professionals with an ambition to work for Saatchi & Saatchi, corn-fed American girls from Wisconsin. I'll leave that there for a moment to make its own joke, but I have to admit, when they recounted highlights of their recent visit to Australia, offering that they loved boys from Bondi for their stamina (pause, deadpan stare, apparently they really mean this), I felt something akin to pride that midwestern girl power has indeed kept pace with the man-eating rough Aussie shielas and Pommie birds.

"I think I'm a little old to be here," I said to Alistair.

He thought for a moment, and offered, "Oh, well, you know, forty is the new thirty."

Thanks.

What have I done?

Auckland, New Zealand

This is a story about embracing the real me.

As I take the first substantive leap, it is a story about saying goodbye to an extraordinary group of friends that seem to know me and love me for who I am, putting a perfectly reasonable career indefinitely on hold, and leaving the city that has become my home. It is a story about traveling around the world, on my way to an unknown future that has probably been patiently waiting for me since the beginning.

In the medium backward timeline, this is a story of self-interrupted ambition.

It is a story of newborn promise, then falling in love, following impulse halfway around the world, and starting over with nothing to call my own. It is a story of getting married and taking on a sublime in its innocent magnitude new ambition. It is a story of slipping to an inner bottom without knowing it, busy with what I thought I had to do to make the world turn, and losing sight of the point. It is a story of separation and divorce and a heart still broken. It is a story of taking the first good hard look in years.

In the longer backward timeline, this is a story of longing to be seen at last.

It is a story that recalls a sensitive and awkward childhood and adolescence; insecurity and longing to be understood. It is a story of an intellect in search of a dance partner, a storyteller in search of an art, a man desperate for a much more emotional, intuitive, spiritual, magical identity for masculinity. It is a story of new ideas applied to a remembered purpose. The nature of good and bad, the nature of love and pain, the nature of time. Quantum physics, synchronicity, the Mayan apocalypse. Finally and with surprising relief awakening to the knowledge that all my ponderings have been pondered before.

I haven't really succeeded in avoiding making my first blog entry about making my first blog entry. Or avoiding that somewhat unavoidable self-important blog-tone. But this in itself is on-topic; I respond to myself with, 'And why do I imagine I should I have to?' I expect to chronicle the narrative details of my travels, along with the ideas I have been exploring of late, and trace the threads wherever they seem to go back through my personal history.

Enough prologue, I begin.