The wheels on the bus go round and round.... Something about a bus's wheels make my own wheels go round and round. Realizing the potential of down-time when the head is full, I've pulled out the Tungsten to update the travel journal. And, as the night scenery of South Australia passes by, I lean its LCD screen up against the bus window to stabilize it. which creates a butterfly-shaped diamond, together paired with its reflection. Well, at least it seems to - we can either anthropomorphize or not anthropomorphize. We shape our own gods, don't we?

I figure that I haven't written many entries lately for the "how are you really doing?" question, so this one will try to answer that. The days, once more, have been full. More and more, I'm finally getting into the swing of Australia. It's been a challenge, you see, since experiencing South America is lthe equivalent of tossing buckets of paint over a wall -- in the end, you might not understand all the significance or profundity of the exercise, but you'll come away with broad new splotches across your mind. Australia, on the other hand, is simply a new genre in the arts we're well practiced in -- appreciation comes only with a sophisticated and dedicated focus, examining its differentiations So it's taken me up to now, two months later, to genuinely enjoy the brush after the bucket.

As if that last metaphor didn't convince you, sometimes I rightfully feel like a dork. I haven't missed the opportunity to visit a single local library since Cairns. With good reason, I declare, for the subject of aboriginal culture is deep and many nuanced. I'll write more on that in the next entry.

Though I had planned a visit to Darwin in my original calculations, for its reputation as a nexus of aboriginal culture, I've decided instead to head to the state of Victoria where, firstly, I'll get to be in the number one location for Bunyip history, and secondly, not have to spend Christmas at 50 degrees Celsius and 90% humidity. Whichever force was stronger in the decision I'm not entirely sure, as it lies between the conscious and subconscious.

So here I am, on the disciplined whim once again, pushing wheels toward the city of Melbourne, after short stints in Coober Pedy and Adelaide. I have memories to share of both.

Forgive me if the next segment rings a bit much like Douglas Adams, who I've just finished reading. I expect that whenever you turn loose a new college grad into the readings of Adams, Tom Robbins, and Tom Waits, you'll unfailingly summon up a creature quite serious about not being serious. Thus is me.

Thusly have I witnessed the great paradoxical town that is Coober Pedy. Here we have a town made by opal mining. Know anyone with opal jewelry? I do; my mom has an opal ring. Well, 75% of the world's opal comes from this quaint little stop on the cross-Oz circuit. The town does a bang-up job of showing their history to you as well, offering a tour and a chance to sleep underground in a former opal mine. The town has an appropriate otherworldly feel to it - a consensus shared by Hollywood, which regularly funds science fiction movies here. Pitch Black and Mad Max are a couple. As a result, you have a small town that's a recipe for Fantasia: composed one quarter hopeful opal diggers, one quarter subsequent entrepreneurs, one quarter junkyard artists, and one quarter space cadets waiting for the rocket. A dandy place if I do say so, and I wish I could have stayed longer.

Also Thusly...

...have I witnessed the strangest carrying-ons of Adelaide. Perhaps it is only natural, after spending weeks in the Outback, to return to urban life and exclaim as though dropped into a pen full of elephants wearing diapers. But can you blame me? In my first day, I've seen dozens of pedestrians crossing the crosswalks from opposite sides as though charging for some epic Scottish ground war. I've witnessed an old man smelling his umbrella uninnocently. I've seen a robed Reverend being harrangued and chased down the street by several drunkards, or pissheads as their endearingly called Down Under. I've seen a three-foot tall man with inordinately large shoes, crossing the street, dressed up and ready to rock, so to speak. I suppose it's fair to say that the city might always been this strange, I just might not have noticed.

A day later, I would be in Melbourne, finding a decent pair of overpriced socks after an hours search, waiting in line while four other ladies in the queue, passionate as purple, debated the proper pronunciation of the word "pastels." They had the most contagious look of fright on their faces. Is this what civilization looks like?

As quickly as the reverend in robes have I since retreated back into the darkly lit library shelves again, finding solace there though I don't know why. I have a recurring desire to find a Santa cap, but it would take one with special powers to bestow the holiday spirit to me. I can't help thinking It's just not the right time for this. Perhaps I'll celebrate it on January 10th, my niece's birthday. That sounds betta.

For now, however, I'm still in the cocoon of the library walls, where I've found my favorite book in Australia: Beyond the Big Sticks by Ian Kenins and Paul Daffey. it's all about Aussie Rules Football, a game endemic only to Australia and about as easy to understand as a casual match of field hockey between alcoholic nuns and born-again pirates. The analogy works in the sense that you'll never learn the rules, since you'll endlessly exclaim at the contrast between the players' proper dress and behavior, and their bellicose animosity towards each other - complete with aerial collisions, boots-to-the-face, and the odd swing-you-around-by-the-mullet. All while wearing 1970's clothing. Which, in a way, makes it irresistable to watch, just like nuns and pirates. If you want a sympathetic taste of the insanity, check this book out.