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October 8th, 2005

Back From the Mountain.





Home now.

For those keeping tabs, I had fun. In Bundaberg I swam in the ocean, drank mescal, and did not get to go on the Rum Factory Tour. I couldn't express to you the joy at seeing and being with my friends and, to add to which, it's a personal intimacy, so I won't try. Afterwards, I spent time on the Mountain, staring into herds of wildlife and learning about life and bugs and other important things that have altered me. I am lucky, yes.

Here, however, is the trip story I will share with you all, for I am incapable of traveling without something happening. Once my luggage was replaced by a bag containing towels and Richard Marx CDs.

This time, when leaving Sydney, I sat next to a middle aged woman reading Harry Potter. A sign? Perhaps. Still, I eased into conversation with her, a place holding person conversation without names, and she asked me what I did. I said that I was a student, then added that I was doing creative writing. Once I said that, she began to tell me about how she had these great two book ideas that I could write for her. Before I could say, "I don't write, really," she began telling me about her ideas. The first was about aid groups and how they steal money, and the second was about a middle aged woman who bred dogs, and who won the lotto. After winning this, she had everything she wanted, but found that hollow because, as you all should know, you need love and children and all this woman needed was love and children. So, with her dog breeding friends, she set out on the search for the man she could love and procreate with, treating men as if they were dogs and examining them like so. "It would make a great romantic comedy script," she said, and I told her she should write it. In case you're wondering what kind of life she had, let me just say that she was a dog breeder and her script was quite revealing into her life, I thought.

A week later, flying back to Sydney, I was seated next to another middle aged woman. She asked me what I did and I said, figuring that I would just leap into what awaited me, that I was a writer. Turns out she's an editor for tv and film. She had once written for Neighbours, she told me, but now instead did contract work as an editor. She was coming to Sydney for a six month contract.

"What are you editing?" I asked.

"Gay porn," she said.

I am home.