Reviews | Nazca Lines

Condor

In the Nazca desert in southern Peru there are hundreds of lines drawn in the ground. These lines were made by removing the top layer of reddish-brown iron oxide-coated pebbles to reveal the yellow-grey subsoil beneath. They are not particularly deep, typically 15 to 30 cm, and most are around a foot wide. They have existed for over two thousand years. 

I don’t know when, as a kid, I discovered comic strips, but I wish I did. I wish I could watch myself reading one for the first time, see my face as my eyes passed across the combination of words and images. I think I would have been very stoic, shown more consideration than cheer. I imagine it as a discovery. One where I needed answers, with the only way to find them to dig deeper into this new-to-me medium. Dig, I did.

In 1553 Pedro Cieza de León, a Spanish conquistador and chronicler of Peru, released the first published mention of the Nazca Lines in a book where he mistook them for trail markers. In 1586 another Spaniard chronicler by the name of Luis Monzón wrote of the lines, detailing them as the remains of roads. Peruvian archaeologist Toribio Mejia Xesspe was the first to systematically study the lines in 1926, but it wouldn’t be until the 1930s and 1940s, with the advent of flight, that the lines would finally be revealed for what they were: very large geoglyphs. Up close they are simply furrows in the ground, but when viewed from a distance they reveal themselves to be designs up to a kilometer or more across. In other words, drawings. These drawings vary in complexity. Hundreds are simply lines or geometric shapes, but many others are animals, or plants, or people. It’s often thought that the lines can only be seen from the air. However, a 2007 study that looked at 1,500 drawings in the Palpa region found that each and every geoglyph can be spotted from the ground. We just weren’t looking at them the right way.

The first comic strips I remember reading were Peanuts by Charles M. Shultz. This was almost certainly due to my Dad, who had a large hardcover book on the history of the comic and their author. This book also included the collected works of the comic from the 50s, 60s, and 70s. I never read the long pages of text that detailed Shultz and his work, instead I skipped ahead to those black and white pages of rectangular boxes filled with my favourite characters. It wasn’t long until I began to collect books of my own, sourced mostly from second hand book stores and market stalls. Tattered paperbacks that contained page after page of comic strips. I found many more Peanuts books, but was happy to take whatever I could get; Garfield, Footrot Flats, Hagar the Horrible, Mother Goose and Grimm, The Wizard of Id, B.C., Swamp, and plenty others. I suspect the original draw was probably the jokes, but looking back I realise a lot of the humour would have gone right over my prepubescent head. Add that to that the fact that I would read them all over and over again, to the point that any humour I could get from them would have been lost to repetition. Instead, I suspect it was just part of my quest to understand them.

Erich von Däniken, a swiss author, claimed that the Nazca Lines couldn’t have been made by the Nazca people, deeming them too advanced for the time and tools available. His theory? “Ancient Astronauts”. Or to use the word he was so obviously trying to avoid, aliens. He made this claim despite other scholars theorising that the Nazca people could have used simple tools and surveying equipment to construct the lines, and that archaeological surveys had even found wooden stakes in the ground at the end of some lines. Side fact: One of these stakes was even responsible for showing us the age of the Nazca Lines, through the magic of carbon dating. Not willing to let such a claim stand, prominent skeptic Joe Nickell proved that a small team of people could recreate even the largest figures within days, without any aerial assistance, using tools and technology available to the Nazca people. Scientific American called his work “remarkable in its exactness”. 

Eventually, reading the comics wasn’t enough; I had to recreate them for myself. I would choose a figure, let’s say Snoopy, take the small image I could see on the page and try to redraw it larger. Not trace it, mind you, that was very important. I would draw it for myself. Despite the seemingly simplistic nature of the comics, it could take me a long time to redraw one. This was because the dimensions of a character had to be just so or they wouldn’t look right. Draw Snoopy’s nose to thin and it wasn’t Snoopy anymore; it was Smoopy, an off-brand version that straight away you would know wasn’t quite right. I would stare at the small original image, let it fill my vision, try to fix within my mind the exact curve of a single line, and then slowly, oh so slowly, I would attempt to redraw it exactly. I would look at my line compared to the original, realise it wasn’t perfect, erase and try again. Eventually, I would get it right, and when I pulled my vision out from that single line, there it was, the character living on a fresh page, drawn by my hand.

The purpose and significance of the Nazca Lines has never been exactly proven one way or another. There are plenty of theories, including: A link to early irrigation; drawn to please the deities in the sky; a type of astronomy with the lines pointing to places on the distant horizon where the sun and other celestial bodies rose or set; that they were representatives of the constellations themselves, or perhaps counter-constellations, the dark patches in between the stars. Perhaps it was all of these reasons, or none of them. 

Peanuts told of a location and period that had little to do with me. A slice of Americana that I never knew nor had any reference for as a boy. I didn’t play baseball, had never punted a football let alone had someone pull it away from me when I tried, didn’t understand Lucy’s psychiatry business, or Schroeder’s love for Beethoven, or Snoopy’s alter-egos Joe Cool and the Flying Ace. Yet I loved the comics all the same. Understanding, it turned out, wasn’t necessary. I saw enough in those black lines that was familiar, that I could relate to. The why wasn’t important. What was important was that I had discovered them in the first place, and that, even though I didn’t do so until many years after they’d first been drawn, something about them still resonated with me.

One of the most amazing things to me about the Nazca Lines isn’t how they were drawn, or even why, it’s how they’ve managed to last so long. Shallow furrows in the ground, and they’ve survived nearly intact for over two thousand years. That’s phenomenal. Think of all the entities that haven’t survived that long. All the empires that have risen and fallen in that time. Entire species of animals lost, not to mention the people who drew the lines in the first place. Think of all that has been discovered or invented or built while those lines in the ground remained etched into the earth, forgotten. The reason? Location. Because of the desert’s particular blend of dry isolation, windlessness, and stable climate, the lines have mostly been naturally preserved. Which brings me to my final question. Did the drawers of the lines know this? Did they expect that centuries upon centuries later groups of people living in a world they wouldn’t recognise would climb into a machine they surely couldn’t even fathom to fly over the land and marvel at their drawings? It seems unlikely. 

In recent times the Nazca Lines have been declared a World Heritage Site by UNESCO and labelled as one of the eight wonders of the world, drawing huge numbers of tourists every year. 

The precise meaning of the geoglyphs remains unknown. The people who made them are long gone and with them their reasons. 

Only the lines remain.

Talk soon,

Damian

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Reviews | Runner’s Knee

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I was running. I was on the Moonee Ponds Creek trail. It travels, unsurprisingly, alongside the Moonee Ponds creek, and runs from the Docklands through the northern suburbs up towards Melbourne International Airport. It also connects to its sister trails; The Broadmeadows Valley Trail, The Western Ring Road Trail, and The Capital City Trail. My intention was to run twenty kilometers. A not undifficult distance, but one I had mandated myself. I had done so for good reason, July 28th was coming. I started strong. I had the day off, a benefit of working part time, and so had prepared well. I had had a sensible breakfast, waited the appropriate time for digestion to take place, and the days weather was cool but fair. Conditions were good. 

The first kilometer I was working out the kinks, letting stiffness leave my body. The second kilometer felt good. Very good. My body temperature was low, my breathing was easy, and I was flying over the cement with the easy grace of a gazelle. Then came the twinge. The niggle. The lone forerunner sprinting to the castle to let them know trouble was just over the horizon. I did what anyone with the twin drivers of motivation and denial would do. I kept running.

Throughout the third and fourth kilometers I evaluated and reevaluated the state of my knee. The niggle had grown into something more, discomfort, but only for brief periods. Mostly, when I was going up or down an incline. On those inclines I would worry, questioning if I should stop while not really wanting to, wondering if I was doing more harm than good. Then the flats would come, the niggle would subside, and I would convince myself that everything was fine, it was just my tendons playing funny buggers; a thing they’d never done before. 

My watch vibrated, letting me know the fourth kilometer was complete, whilst simultaneously informing how long it took me to run it. It was a good time. I couldn’t stop now. Definitely not. I rounded a bend in the track and headed up a slight hill. The niggle that had become discomfort now became pain. July 28th, I told myself, and pushed through the pain. I pushed through until I got to a flat, where now the discomfort continued. That was worrying. Flats were my reprieve. They were were my optimistic delusion lived. That discomfort chased my optimism away. 

My watch vibrated again, telling me I had reached the five kilometer mark. Fifteen more to go. Fifteen more kilometers and who knew what state my knee would be in by then. But, July 28th, I told myself. Won’t be possible if you damage your knee beyond recovery now, a second voice said. That second voice sounded somewhat like my wife, who, when it comes to my limits, is more realistic and knowledgeable than me. It’s a good voice to have in my head beside my own. I let my momentum stop along with my watch. On the five kilometer walk home my knee continued to be uncomfortable and sore. It would prove to remain this way for many days to come. 

Runner’s knee is a generic term used to describe a number of overuse injuries that result in pain around the kneecap, also known as the patella. The most common form of runner’s knee is called Patellofemoral Pain Syndrome or PFPS. It’s what I have/had and involves pain around the fat pad beneath the patella, the synovial tissue lining the knee joint, and the surrounding tendons. In other words, pain in front of, around, and beneath the kneecap. You can see why it’s the most common.

As suggested earlier, runner’s knee generally comes from overuse. In my case this is one hundred percent the reason. Just a few days before it’s onset, my wife — the one who’s voice exists not only inside my head but also outside it — had wisely suggested I cool it a bit on the running. I had been going hard. Monday’s involved a ten to fourteen kilometer run. On Wednesdays it was a “gentler” eight kilometers, before the big one on Friday, which would range anywhere between fourteen to twenty kilometers. I was also riding to work throughout that week, as well as going for walks during the day. I had been completing this routine for around a month, building up that longer Friday run until now, when I was set to complete the twenty. I’ve since learned my wife’s advice had already come too late, as runner’s knee presents around two weeks after the initial overuse.

The kneecap is different to a lot of the rest of your body, in that it floats within the knee. When not floating it rests within its home, called the trochlear groove. Then it’s able to slide up and down within the knee as you sit and stand and flex and bend. What helps with all this sliding and floating is articular cartilage, which is a slippery substance. There are also fluids and fat pads that help with the lubricating and cushioning. It’s a fairly robust system — unless you overdo it. Then comes inflammation, soreness, and a certain amount of hobbling when faced with stairs. 

There a number of ways to treat runner’s knee. Icing it is an excellent first step, and second, and third, and fourth, and fifth. This is because it’s a good idea to ice the knee up to five times a day, for around fifteen minutes at a time. Compression and elevation also helps, as does taping and bracing the knee. Then there’s the one major treatment that is all but mandatory when faced with runner’s knee. Rest. On one website that I went on in researching this affliction, it asked the question, “Can I run with runner’s knee?” The answer was, “In short, no.” 

I kept running.

Well, sort of. I had a week and a half off, and then I was back to running through the pain. That week and a half did do some good, as, even with me still running, the pain was less than it had been, and the recovery the days after a run seemed quicker. I did an eight kilometer run, then a ten a week later, then tried again for the twenty a few more days after that. This was not a good idea but July 28th was coming and I knew without the mental knowledge of doing that twenty I wouldn’t survive. I completed the twenty without too much trouble. It hurt at times, yes, but less so than on that first day. Given everything, it was pretty good. The next morning was a different story. The inflammation was well and truly back, not that it had ever truly left, and the stairs at work proved to be a mighty milestone I was proud to overcome. I iced it and elevated it and the day after that it felt pretty good again.

I did one more six kilometer run before July 28th, and this pattern repeated itself.

July 28th came. The day of Run Melbourne, a half marathon which weaves through the heart of Melbourne CBD, and that I had signed up for nearly six months prior. Twenty one point one kilometers of track that I completed with a persistent discomfort in my knee and began to pay for just over two hours after crossing the finish line. Beyond that the run itself was, surprisingly, rather pleasant.

I don’t usually give ratings when I do reviews but if I did I wouldn’t rate runners knee all that highly; but then I would also have to admit that its onset and continued existence was entirely due to the choices I made. 

Choices tell us a lot about the people making them. They tell us about that person’s motivations and their desires. They tell us about that person’s faults and fears. They can, when looked at from a point of distance, tell you things about yourself you might not have known or recognised previously. 

Most treatment plans for runners knees suggest four to six weeks of non-aggravating activities, coupled with strength training exercises, and namely, not to ignore the pain. July 28th was five days ago, so now that’s what I’m choosing to do. 

I went for a walk today on the Moonee Ponds Creek Trail. I had a sensible breakfast, waited the appropriate time for digestion to take place; the weather was cool but fair. 

Conditions were good. 

Talk soon,

Damian

Reviews | ‘Hang In There, Baby’ Poster

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Many of us are familiar with a poster depicting a cat hanging from some kind of branch with the words ‘Hang In There, Baby,’ or something to that effect, printed beside it. It’s perhaps the first motivational poster created, meant to inspire us to hold on to our resolve and battle through whatever challenges we’re facing. To Hang in There a bit longer, insinuating a reprieve is coming if we can just hold strong. I can’t say that looking at that startled cat hanging from a branch has ever stirred much inspiration inside of me, although that may be because in my mind the cat looks like its about to fall. Or maybe it’s the use of the word baby. However, many others have been inspired by said poster, enough that it’s become a mainstay in our collective consciousness, the image still being shared and sold in multiple forms to this very day, and it could be argued that it’s the first of the modern kind of meme. It truly has hung in there…baby.

The original image was black and white, featured a siamese kitten hanging from a bamboo pole, and was taken by a man named Victor Baldwin in 1963. It wouldn’t be until eight years later that the poster was made, but in that time the image was already gaining in popularity. Baldwin lived in Beverly Hills in California where he owned a portrait studio and photographed famous clientele such as Sammy Davis Jr, Ronald Reagan, and Frank Sinatra. But he was also a lover of animals, so he didn’t limit himself to taking photos of just our species. He also worked as animal portraiture and photo editor for Cat Fancy and Dog Fancy magazines, which I think deserve their own reviews one day as not only were they spectacularly titled magazines but also have their own rich history.

In 1970, Baldwin and his then wife, Jeanne Baldwin, produced a book called The Outcast Kitten. It featured photos Baldwin had taken of their numerous cats, and told the story of Wiki, a lost kitten who gets adopted by a mother cat who already has two kittens of her own. Wiki, aiming to impress and gain the approval of his two adopted siblings, performs a number of acrobatic tricks, including one where he hangs from a bamboo pole. Wiki, whose real name was Sassy, was not only featured in the book in that now famous pose, but also on the back cover. The image was then used again as publicity to increase subscriptions to Cat Fancy. Soon fans of the book started writing to Baldwin, requesting copies of the photograph. Baldwin saw the demand as the opportunity it was and so produced a poster of the image, deciding to add a caption which comprised four words and one comma: ‘Hang In There, Baby’. After composer Meredith Wilson bought the first copy, orders started coming in, so many in fact that soon Baldwin had to hire staff to keep up with them. By 1973 Baldwin had sold more than 350,000 copies.

Like I said earlier, the poster does little to inspire me personally, but I can’t deny the effect it had in its time. Baldwin later spoke of receiving letters from people thanking him, saying it helped them through accidents, and surgeries, and a number of other difficult events where they needed a reminder to Hang in There. The popularity of the poster is also undeniable. Imitators quickly spawned out of this popularity; some bootleg copies of the original, others produced by major greeting card and poster publishers. As a “matter of integrity” Baldwin, who has held the copyright to the original image since 1970, sued each infringement he could find, winning every case. He’s estimated that over ten million unauthorized versions and direct copies of the poster have been made. Over ten million cats, hanging from ten million poles, or branches, or bits of rope, all of them telling us to hang in there.

 

The poster has also been featured in some way in an incredible multitude of television shows and movies, including; The Simpsons, Finding Dory, That 70’s Show, Becker, The Hangover Part III, Mad Men, Fear the Walking Dead, Family Guy, Mr Robot, and multiple others. In The Terminator: The Sarah Conner Chronicles, the human resistance even uses the phrase ‘Hang in there, Baby’ as their motto, with one of the original posters making an appearance on the show, as well as another that features a lion gnawing on a terminator skull with the phrase inscribed beside it. At this very moment a copy of the poster hangs in an outer office of Canadian Prime Minister, Justin Trudeau; a vintage copy that previously belonged to his father. Copies were also presented to Spiro Agnew and Richard Nixon, signed by fellow members of congress as a show of support during their scandals. Although, as history has shown, it was perhaps the wrong advice to give on those particular occasions.

Which brings me to my final point. At some point that cat stopped hanging in there. In fact, after a number of people wrote in to Baldwin, concerned the poster constituted animal cruelty, Baldwin assured them that Sassy had in fact held onto the pole only briefly while playing, before falling gently to the ground. And therein lies the one bit of inspiration I draw from that poster: Don’t be afraid to fall. 

It may run counter to the posters original advice but to me it’s one that has more resonance. That’s because I’m someone who likes to do things right. More than right. Perfect. And so sometimes I hold onto a thing, afraid to let go. Afraid to move lest I fall into that bottomless pit of failure. Except failure isn’t a bottomless pit. I’m not sure it’s even a pit at all. I think it’s a step, one that exists as part of a staircase. A staircase that leads to something greater. Achievement.  

Without the occasional failure you can’t have learning, or improving, or the eventual mastering of a thing. Hang in there may be good advice for those going into surgery or recovering from heartache, but it’s not apt for those resisting movement due to a fear of failure. And you can be afraid to fall, you can be terrified, that’s okay, just don’t let it stop you from doing the thing. Because doing the thing, whatever it may be, is always better than never having tried.

It seems to me that if Sassy had held on for fear of falling, he wouldn’t have gotten anywhere. He would have hung in place, moving neither up nor down. Static and afraid. Never knowing just how close he was to the ground.

Maybe it’s time to let go…baby.

Talk soon

Damian

Reviews | Metaphors

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A metaphor, most simply, is the device of using one thing to describe another. Which on the surface is simple enough, but it becomes infinitely more complex as you consider the infinite amount of things that exist and the infinite comparisons that can therefore be made. It’s having all the stars in the sky and the ability to draw a line between any two of them…for example. And what’s so amazing is that, with a splash of creativity, you really can draw a line between just about any two things. A storm can be an orchestra, a cup of tea the brown of a fly’s eye. In fact, I would argue the further apart two things are the better the metaphor they create. It becomes more engaging, more absurd yet understandable, and in that understanding, more wondrous. Whereas two things that are already similar barely deserve the title of metaphor. Comparing a cup of tea to a cup of coffee is a weak line to draw, and worse it doesn’t define or describe the object in a way that heightens it above just saying I was drinking a cup of tea.

My own history with metaphors is a short and simple thing. Prior to getting into writing I wasn’t too bothered with what constituted a metaphor or how it was defined. Then after I began writing I wasn’t much better, with some lingering confusion between a metaphor and a simile that I was too embarrassed to admit. The difference isn’t major, but it’s there, like an eye floater passing across your vision and impossible to ignore. And therein lies the difference, that example just there. I used the word like; a clear sign of a simile. A simile suggests a comparison, using the words like or as to buffer it and create some difference. A metaphor on the other hand isn’t so polite. It grabs the two disparate objects and forces them together while yelling These two things are the same! at least abstractly, and primarily at the point of comparison. E.g. The difference between metaphors and similes was an eye floater squatting in the corner of their vision; small but impossible to ignore.

Metaphors also contain within its category many other specialised types you may be familiar with; from allegories to hyperbole, parables to puns. It can take the form of an entire story, or a bad one liner from your dad that makes your whole family groan. Again, this rather simplistic idea that comes across as small with easy to understand boundaries is instead a piece of rubber, able to morph and stretch to fit multiple moulds. Metaphors are anything but simple.

Given this complexity and prevalence in our language and literature, a good question to ask would be why do we use metaphors? To answer that let’s first ask why we make comparisons? Namely, as a survival tool. Comparisons, at their core, are a form of pattern recognition. If you can compare two objects and find a similarity, however spurious, then you’re on your way to finding a pattern; and our human brains love a good pattern. Because recognising patterns have regularly kept us alive. This can happen in a positive way–recognising the plant/s that has the tasty root vegetables hidden underneath–or a negative way–recognising the plant/s that poisoned our brother last winter. Extrapolating from there to describe a person as that toxic vegetable in order to warn others to stay away from them uses that pattern recognition as an easy way to get the message across without having to detail all the ways a person is toxic. And what’s really interesting about metaphors is that the brain can respond to them literally, while consciously understanding them as the descriptor they are. A team of researchers from Emory University reported that when subjects in their laboratory read a metaphor involving texture, the sensory cortex–responsible for perceiving texture through touch–became active. Metaphors like “The singer had a velvet voice” and “He had leathery hands” roused the sensory cortex, while phrases like “The singer had a pleasing voice” and “He had strong hands,” did not. Even common phrases that are used so regularly that the metaphor goes all but unheard, such as “I had a rough day”, causes this effect.

Of course, it’s not for survival that metaphors are used in today’s writing or speech. It’s for something larger and more speculative.

My theory? It helps reign in the infinite.

The universe and all it contains is so impossibly big, so impossibly complex; but making metaphors and drawing lines between the infinite helps make it all seem connected. Simpler. Smaller and easier to understand. It is more complex than the ram in our heads is able to process, so, lacking an upgrade, we need a way to organise and minimise all that data. Parcel it up, squish it together, so that it becomes digestible and file-able; even if only from a distance.

Metaphors are one of the ways we do this. Stories are another. They exist primarily as a search for understanding. And while we are unlikely to ever fully reign in the infinite, we can look at a cup of tea and notice it is the same brown as a fly’s eye, or hear a thunderstorm and recognise it has the same cadence as an orchestra.

We can draw a line between two stars and make the infinite that little bit smaller.

Talk soon

Damian

Reviews | The Cinematic Chillout Playlist

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Cinematic Chillout is a playlist on the audio streaming service, Spotify. Spotify was founded in Sweden on the seventh of October 2008, and operates under what’s known as a freemium business model; meaning it provides DRM-protected music and podcasts for free as long as you’re happy to put up with advertisements breaking into your listening experience, with the option to upgrade to a paid subscription if you’re not. Before I tell you more about this playlist though, I first want to detail a little about my own relationship with music.

I don’t remember exactly how old I was when I received my first CD, but I do know where I was; a now all but non-existent music and DVD chain called Sanity, in my hometown of Traralgon. The CD in question? Simpsonic, Songs from The Simpsons. I remember looking at that CD, it’s front cover featuring the iconic yellow characters, and never wanting anything so badly in my life. I was full of that kind of want I rarely feel as an adult, but that as a child seemed to overtake me regularly. That intense desire that’s part exhilaration and part panic, where an answer from your parent to the question Can I have (blank)? is likely to tip the scales one way or the other. Perhaps it’s because I have money of my own now that this emotion is tempered by responsibility and an awareness of waste, I’m not sure, but what I was sure of was that I needed that CD.

My mum was in another shop, I want to say it was a clothing store, and I remember trying to figure out what my tactic would be to convince her to purchase me the greatest CD that must ever have existanted as I hunted her down. I started with a whiny, ‘Muuuuum,’ and likely didn’t improve from there. My mother though is a canny shopper, and so she made a bargain with me. She’d buy it, but it would be included as part of my upcoming birthday present. I readily agreed and all but skipped behind her as we returned to the shop called Sanity with the insane mission of buying a CD that only featured songs from The Simpsons. I waited with giddy anticipation as the days leading up to my birthday rolled by, and when I finally unwrapped that compact disk, to see its colourful cover featuring all my favourite characters, it was just as glorious as I remembered.

Now, let us be clear about something, the songs featured on The Simpsons are well written, often clever, and regularly funny. They are jaunty jingles that are likely to get stuck in your head to repeat for days; but they’re not the kind of music you just sit around and listen to. Young me with his new CD quickly realised this fact, when, after only a couple of listens, he was ready to press stop and then never press play again. But young me also had a strong moral code and no small amount of pride. He had begged his mother for this album, bargained and waited for it with the greatest anticipation; he couldn’t admit it had all been a terrible mistake. So, he did what to him was the only rational thing to do given the circumstances; played it on repeat until an appropriate amount of play time had been reached, then never listened to it again.

I would like to say my musical tastes improved from that point on, but I don’t believe I can make that claim, because I was soon to hit my teenage years. I’m just going to give the band’s name now and get it over with. Nickelback. I was a fan from the very first “This is how you remind me,” and would sing along without abandon or shame or any real understanding of what the song was about. This love for what would become one of the world’s most hated bands continued for years, paired with the likes of Three Doors Down, Creed, and Default; who all did variations of the same thing. I can’t even say what it was about this type of music that made me love it so, other than, for whatever reason, like most music does, it resonated with something inside. It made me feel things. Something between teenage-angst and teenage-anticipation, thanks to lyrics such as ‘I’ve been a loser all my life, I’m not about to change’ or ‘I like your pants around your feet.’ Lyrics that should only excite a fifteen year old boy. Perhaps it was the simplicity of the emotion being portrayed that hit a cord with the simplistic way I processed emotion at the time. Or maybe simplistic isn’t the word, but unrefined. There was no subtlety to what they sung about, no deeper meaning. They played songs about looking at photographs and remembering the good ol’ days, and while I had no good ol’ days to look back on, the emotion behind it was something I could grasp and understand and sing along with. So I did. And while these days I would get laughed at, and can laugh myself, at the trashy nature of their music (I even once went to one of their concerts where they threw open cups of beer into/at the crowd), the fact still remains that for a time I had a relationship with it, and that it influenced, for better or worse, part of my development. Beside, I think we all have musical skeletons in our closets, those are just mine.

Over the years the ways I consumed music changed. I’m old enough to remember recording songs off the radio onto a cassette tape, and listening to them on my walkman. My walkman changed to a discman as music left cassette tapes for compact disks, moving on from there to an mp3 player, then an ipod. Now we have streaming.

I have to admit I’m not a big one for streaming. Perhaps it’s the old man in me, or my distrust of the reliability of Australian internet, but I still prefer downloading my music onto my device so I have the confidence that I’ll be able to listen to it without fear of buffering. One exception however is the Cinematic Chillout Playlist on Spotify.

Truth be told, I don’t know a lot about the Cinematic Chillout playlist. I don’t know whose mind it was that put it together or named it. I don’t know when it was first created and made available. I don’t know how many listens it gets on the average day, or how many Spotify patrons have clicked on it since it began. I do know this, the Cinematic Chillout playlist is primarily composed of musical scores from various movies and television shows and that I stumbled across it when I was hosting a writing night and needed some music to play in the background. Usually I go for ambient music when I write, or occasionally movie scores, and so when I searched Spotify for such a playlist it presented me with Cinematic Chillout. It was the perfect choice for two reasons. One: It was exquisite writing music, providing a soothing yet engaging, without being too engaging, ambience to the room. Two: It elicited emotion.

My taste in music has changed over the years, altering to match the person I’ve become as well as the depth of emotion I now feel. Because music, to me, is primarily about eliciting emotion. Sometimes that emotion is anticipation followed by disappointment when purchasing Simpsonic, Songs from The Simpsons. Sometimes it’s the illicit thrill of imaging yourself as a trashy fifteen year old rock god. Most of the time however it’s the tragedy, the drama, the thrill, the joy, and the hopefulness of living. It’s the small moments and the big that music is able to tune into, remind us of, exaggerate and refine into a pure piece of emotion so that even when we’re sitting on the bus or washing the dishes we can be having an emotional experience beyond what that task would usually provide. To me, no piece of music does this as well as a musical score. It is designed to hide in the shadows, to stand present but not seen as it pulls the puppet strings to manipulate and control the emotions of an audience. Many of the pieces of music from the Cinematic Chillout playlist are from movies or television shows that I’d seen but whose score I would not recognise. But once these tracks were brought out of the shadows and shone a light on I’ve found that they are sweeping, beautiful pieces of music, masterful at doing that which music does best.

Elicit emotion.

Talk soon,

Damian

November 27, 2018

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Slovakia had already stunned us with it’s quiet alpine towns and its challenging mountain trails, but it had more in store for us to enjoy before we’d head back home.

Here’s what happened next.

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We woke early, showered, tidied up, and said goodbye to our glammed up, luxurious, definitely haunted apartment complex and walked down to the train station. Our backpacks, now feeling more like a part of us than not, sat comfortably against our backs, the sun already rising in the bright blue sky. We would miss this place but we were excited to see what came next.

We would be heading first to a city called Poprad, then swap trains onto a village called Vydrník. First though, our train had to arrive on time as our crossover only allowed minutes in between this change.

It did not.

The plan had been that our new hosts would pick us up at Vydrník station at a specific time and then drive us over to the accommodation as it was a little way out from the station. However with our train delayed and our transfer uncertain we had to tell our hosts that we weren’t sure now when we would be arriving and that we’d figure out our own way from the station to the accommodation. With that done the train pulled up. We piled on, found our seats, and settled in for the short trip to Poprad. In Poprad we ran out of the train, hoping against hope that our original train would still be at its platform. Seeing a platform that advertised the same departure time as our train we hoped for the best and ran up the steps to see the train waiting. We asked the conductor if it was heading to Vydrník, it was, so we rushed on board. The train began to move as we fell into our seats. Turns out we would make it at the original time after all…except now we had no ride. We’d figure it out. First though we watched autumn pass by our windows. Yellows and orange and red, and some remaining green filled the view with it’s golden splendor. The train trundled along and I could barely focus on my book due to this gorgeous countryside.

We pulled into Vydrník and the lady Holly and I jumped out to find that, sure enough, our message had been received and no car waited for us. Unfortunately, not much else did either. Not only was Vydrník a speck of a village, it was also centered further afield than the station and in the opposite direction from our own village, Hrabušice. We started walking, following a large two lane road lined with apple trees loaded with fruit, the ground likewise littered with it’s fallen and forgotten bounty. Our backpacks, which had felt so comfortable and familiar that morning began to drag against our shoulders as the dirt crunched beneath our feet. The sun was now well up, warm but not hot. We scanned the hilly landscape, still able to see the mountains we had traversed days earlier on the horizon. It was, all told, a nice walk. We made it into Hrabušice, pointing out the small shops and restaurants we would hopefully visit during our time here, then past towards our accommodation. We rang the doorbell. A young woman greeted us, excited by the prospect of meeting Australians; conveying this excitement in good but limited english while telling us how far we must have come. Her excitement was a joy and soon infected us, overriding our own tiredness. The accommodation was simple compared to the penthouse we had left that morning, but comfortable and welcome.

Hrabušice is located on the outskirts of the Slovak Paradise National Park, our reason for being there. It is also, as we were to learn, small, old-fashioned, and quaint. We walked its entirety within an hour, circling around the outskirts of the town and through it’s housed streets, spotting many cute dogs, and one sheep, in the front yards. While it did have the aforementioned shops and restaurants, they seemed to come from a time in the not so distant past. The first shop we went to was tiny, it’s shelves full of basic stock, all visible from behind a rope. This shop was like those from before my time, where you’d point out to the proprietor your list of items and they would collect and bag them for you. Quaint? Yes. Convenient? Less so. Mostly thanks to the language barrier. Our Slovak was, and unfortunately remains, non-existent, so when the shop lady asked us what we wanted we weren’t one hundred percent sure what she was asking, nor knew how to answer. Luckily, through a lot of pointing and miming, we were able to purchase what we needed and for a remarkably cheap price. The restaurants were pleasantly more english friendly, usually even having english menus, and full of rich, meaty, delicious food, and cold frothy beers. It’s smalltown-ness and isolation was a quiet pleasure, knowing soon that we would be in its opposite, back home in a city where our time and attention would be demanded from many sources. I think of it’s paddocked outskirts and star filled sky now and wish I could go back, just for an instant, and breath in its fresh country air.

While Hrabušice was lovely, the Slovak Paradise National Park was where the real treasure lay. The entrance to the park was located just a few kilometers from where we were staying, so the next morning we packed a lunch and headed out into the foggy air. The road took us past yet more apple trees and paddocks that contained, surprisingly, Highland cows. We had seen these beautiful rust coloured beasts first in Scotland, months ago, and, Holly especially, had fallen in love with them. It was somehow right that we were seeing them now, at the end of our trip, making our adventure seem that it had come full circle. We feed them some of the fallen apples, causing one to follow us for quite a way, before we turned off and headed toward the park.

In summer the park is busy, with an entrance fee and a couple of small streets full of bars and souvenir shops that you must traverse before heading into the wilds. But this was autumn, and so, with visitor numbers drastically lower, the streets were empty, as was the entrance booth. We walked through the deserted area, walked along the tree line, through grass thick and wet with morning dew, and into the park.

One thing you should know about the Slovak Paradise National Park is that it is full of gorges, and while other countries may situate its walks above these ridges in the landscape, Slovakia thought the best views were from inside them. They were not wrong. But, you may be saying, wouldn’t the gorges be full of water from time to time? And you, now, would not be wrong. Which is why these gorges are decked out with wooden bridges, ladders, winding steps built into the rock face, and chains to help you traverse the rocky water way.

It was amazing. It felt like a giant adventure park, like we had been transported inside a Crash Bandicoot game, following a path that required us to step, jump, and climb, to make our way to the finish line. Add to this the ridiculous beauty of the landscape, the incredible autumn colours, and the soft musical rainfall of the falling leaves, and you have one of the greatest days I have ever lived.

I could go into more detail, describing the throbbing wellspring of joy in my chest as we passed through that well named paradise, taking photos at almost every step. Instead I think it’s easier to just show you those photos as they can say more than I ever could.

We spent more days in this idyllic little part of the globe, went on more walks, had more funny little experiences, found more animals to pat. We continued on, through Košice and Budapest, and made our way back to Vienna, and then to Melbourne. Home.

Part of me wants to tell you all about it, in unnecessary, potentially painful, detail, mostly in an attempt to relive the experience. But, I’m learning, that’s just not possible. One, because I am a flawed beast with a not so picture perfect memory, and two, because experiences are only ever once in a lifetime, and can never be repeated. The river of time flows on and we can never walk through it at the same point twice. The closest we can come is this, stories and memories and photos.

Which is plenty.

And the beauty of it all is that once those experiences have been lived, their ours forever. I may go back to my workaday job, get pulled down into routine, look at my phone too much and get stuck in traffic, but the fact that I have done these things and visited those places still remains. I will even die one day, and all those stories and memories and photos will undoubtedly be lost to time, but they still happened. They will always have happened. And that gives me solace, because I will be lost to time one day too, but I will always have existed.

As will these words.

Thanks for reading them.

Talk soon,

Damian

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November 8, 2018

 

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Holly and I have returned home. I am currently sitting on our familiar couch in our unchanged lounge room, eating an apple and writing this post. It is six thirty in the morning before my first day back at work. But rather than talk about that I’d like to talk about Slovakia and the final leg of our trip. A leg filled with incredible natural beauty, increasingly more rest days, and a journey over a mountain.

Let’s begin.

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While most of our travels had been meticulously researched, planned, and booked many months ago by the Lady Holly, the final leg was not. The final leg was going to be spontaneous, we would be spontaneous, we knew we would because we had pencilled it in to our diaries. Because that’s how spontaneity works, you plan it. The original idea was that close to the date we would go on skyscanner, look at the cheapest flights out of Vienna, book one, then leave the next day. Except, as you may have gathered, we’re not all that good at spontaneity and so during our time in Germany we cracked and booked some things. I’m glad we did.

What we booked was a number of trains leaving from Vienna, making their way through Slovakia, before getting a bus down to Budapest in Hungary. From the start we knew we liked Slovakia, mostly because their train network was so incredibly cheap we even decided to bump ourselves up to first class, which cost a dollar or so more. We also booked in our accomodation for this leg, granting ourselves seven days at our first location; the longest time we would have spent anywhere for the last couple of months. It was exciting, mostly because we didn’t really know what to expect. We knew we wanted to see more mountains, and that we wanted to rest more–as our months of being on the move were starting to wear us down–and Slovakia seemed to hit both of those notes; being both mountainous and quieter than some places. But that was it. Beyond that it was a mystery. One that would prove to have many treasures hidden within it.

Our first stop was Štrba, located at the base of the Upper Tatra mountains. Our accomodation wasn’t in Štrba proper, but a smaller village a short distance away called Tatranská Štrba. To call it sleepy would be appropriate; almost deserted, even more so. Our apartment was in a large complex, with views overlooking the Tatras. Across from it was a hotel which featured a “mini zoo”, with animals ranging from peacocks to goats–with nothing in between, as they just had peacocks and goats. Calling it a zoo might be a bit rich but it was a welcome delight nonetheless. The apartment was excessively affordable, well under budget compared to most of our other stays, and yet was the nicest, most lavish, accommodation we’d had the whole trip. It featured an enormous balcony with exceptional views, a very blinged up kitchen, with purple LED lights under the bench and an incredible coffee machine, two bathrooms, one of which had a large bath and mood lighting, and one of the best beds we’d slept in the whole trip. We played it cool as the host showed us around and explained how everything worked, but then broke into giddy giggles as soon as she waved goodbye. We would have seven days here and the place was paradise. And remember how I said the town was almost deserted? Well that went double for our apartment complex. Despite having four levels of apartments, we didn’t see a single soul the whole time we were there. Not once did we pass someone in the hall or share an elevator ride. Never did we catch anyone entering or leaving their apartment or have to hold the door for someone. We did hear noises though, and occasionally voices. Obviously ghosts, which just made us even more excited to stay there. Back to the town for a second, while it may have been deserted it was also gorgeous. Alpine and lush and rich with autumn colours, blue skies filled with sun shone down on us as we walked it’s quiet streets and took in the impressive natural scenery. And overlooking it all was the Tatras. On that first day we looked up at those mountains, keen to cross their craggy peaks.

Day one was rest day/buy groceries day/get all giddy about our killer accomodation day. Day two was our first journey up towards the mountain. We took a cute little train twenty minutes to its base where another tiny town sat, Štrbské Pleso. This town was larger, but again somewhat deserted, we assume due to it being off peak. While the weather was perfect for walking, the locals, we take it, are more interested in their winter sports, which is when the two towns would really fill up. This was a reconnaissance mission for us as we knew the next day we would get up early and return to do an epic sixteen kilometer walk over the mountain. Which brings us to day three.

The alarm went off at five, we packed bags, made a lunch, and were on the tiny train by six am, and back at the base of the mountain and walking by six thirty. The walk started through a fairytale forest, rocks and staircases of twisting roots lined the path, all shadowed by the centuries old trees reaching up around us. If Hansel and Gretel had skipped on through there it would have been little suprise. As we climbed the terrain changed, the forest making way for grasslands. The sun had yet to break the mountain peaks so we walked in shadow as we made our way up. The landscape began sparser still, grassland changing to rock. We saw a small waterfall leading into the stream we had been following and were surprised to see the track led up beside it. Right up in fact, as chains had been installed for us to climb with. We secured our backpacks and made it to the top of the mountain right as the sun broke free to shine down on us. It was perfect. It also wasn’t the top.

From our new platao we could see we still had much further to go. So on we went. We passed blissful pools of water, stark blue against the mountains grey. And on we went. We traversed over a field of rocks, boulders resting against boulders as far as we could see, the yellow markers revealing a path through them like we were adventurers in a video game. And on we went. We headed up, our legs starting to weary as they took high steps up a rocky staircase on the edge of a cliff face. And on we went. We scrambled over another false top–incredibly high now but not quite at the peak–and found an even larger pool, this one partly iced over and as reflective as a mirror. And on we went. We passed onto more rocks, these ones more uneven, the trail curving and hard to keep a track of. And on we went. Into snow, which hid the path even more, climbing more than walking now as we saw what we thought must be the top, but refused to believe the mountain after all its false promises. And on we went, until we got to a peak, a sharp ridge with an insane incline that we would have to climb over. More chains had been installed, and cold and exhilarated and more than a little tired, we pulled our bodies over the mountain.

Then there was the matter of getting down. The other side of the ridge proved just as steep as the side we had just traversed, but now we were going down, with gravity a little too keen to assist us. Falling was a very real risk, not helped by pebbly rubble beneath our feet. All of this combined caused Holly’s vertigo to kick in and panic to flare. She seized up, teared up, and for a moment thought she wouldn’t be able to do it. I knew she could. I know she can beat most mountains. I took her bag, she took some deep breaths, and with me speaking words of encouragement she took a shaky step down. Then another. And another. Until we were past the worst, and, while still far from flat, were on more solid ground. And on we went.

Our legs were past weary, past tired, and into angry and sore by the time we made it down and across to our end point, the top of the chairlift. Here was situated a beer house, because of course there was, this is Europe, and so we sat and drank and rested our legs.

The day, while tiring, had been one of extreme and rewarding experiences. We had climbed over a mountain and seen various shades of its beauty along the way. It was a day worth doing, worth remembering, and worth writing about.

Next time I’ll tell you what we did next.

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Talk soon,

Damian