Walk about. A bildungsroman in progress.
Going walk about.
A trip by bicycle in Australia.
Depicted by David Gulpilil in an Australian classic movie Walkabout, was, a “walkabout”, if you don’t know what it is, that is fine, it is a not so unfamiliar tail despite what the trailer might have you believe. Here is a link to the official trailer, www.bing.com/videos/search?q=walk+about&docid=6034988... please note that the trailer has dated much more than the movie, and that the trailer does not do the movie credit. It is about the test of a young man, that is regardless of origin or race, a story that is universal. In general, it is as some Europeans call it, a bildungsroman. The formative years of an individual’s life that are spiritual in nature. And like a monk’s pilgrimage it works best when you do it alone. Well, at least for a period anyway.
While riding my bicycle around exploring the city I once lived in Melbourne, I met a pair of Austrians or Swedes at the Carlton bar, in Bourke Street, (here is a link to the map, of where to find it www.bing.com/search?pc=W145&q=carlton+bar&form=BW... ). It was somewhere in the nineties. The Carlton, l was informed before l went there, was meant to be a bit of a dive. But despite that, it was a Melbourne institution, as, when everywhere else was closed, you could always go to the Carton. It was an institution that had run down a little around the edges. Financially as drugs took over the neuro stimulus trade, it reduced the ability for a proprietor to sell a beer at a profit. Despite this, the two Austrians, or Swedes, were enjoying their beer in moderation. They were not impressed with me so much; as, and to be specific, with my process of self-destruction, one that l was applying at the time, well, it was the nineties and grunge was a lifestyle, not a genre of music. Despite a few differences they had imparted their tales of their own walk abouts on me.
One was a carpenter; a highly skilled trade, and I would latter go onto find out via a documentary on another European carpenter, about how hard it is to become a carpenter, of actual standing, and, or gain the qualification. He told me that he produced houses with no nails, it seemed like a foreign concept to me. No nails in a roof? He was talking about the frame, and he informed me that the buildings were incredibly strong. I presume that they, the houses he built had to be incredibly strong, to withstand the winds and snow that occur in the mountains of Europe, and his indigenous country.
While broaching the subject of carpenters, it should be said, that, I apologize to European carpenters especially Swedish ones. I am apologizing, for saying in an essay, (an essay that become a part of my bildungsroman), an essay that I failed at university, one that, I stated and to quote, “that although the Swedish flag carried the cross of a carpenter”, as in the cross of Christ, “they had superseded carpenters with Ikea”. I said, and to paraphrase, that, “yes, the Swedes, the Swedes had made carpenters redundant”. It seemed highly ironic on many levels, and the inference was that Christ was, and his people were, no longer required. I was not trying to be crass; l was not trying to be obtuse, it was a real observation, one that l had aligned with an abandonment as far as l could see for some Austrians and Swedish of their heritage. I may be wrong, and to be sincere, l hope l am.
The documentary I watched, talked about carpenters from the region having to leave their homes or areas and work in foreign parts. The travels where no less than as practiced by males of other countries, as would have been exhibited, and or experienced by people like Gulpilil before and after colonization. Like Gulpilil in Walk About, they had to survive, and, or earn a living by themselves. At the beginning of their journey, they would take only rudimentary money, and possessions. Relying on their trade to supply them with all they would need to survive. It seemed no less than a walk about, one that l had heard of, and or learned of through Gulpilil as a child. It showed, and displayed respect, for both teachers, the trade being taught, and the student. It was a measured risk, by those that set the young men on their journeys, and for the young men.
On my journey aided by my bicycle, I met these two young men, they were respectful young gentlemen. One a carpenter, and the second a younger man, informed me was the descendant of a European scientist. A scientist of such standing, that he was on his nations bank notes. I can’t remember what he did for a living, but he seemed to be of money, in a way that the carpenter was not. Despite having studied science, and its history, both in an academic setting, and on my own time, for the life of me, I cannot remember his last name, or if he was Swedish or Austrian exactly. It is something that vexes me to this day. Because where I excel in memory, l have a savant like ability to forget names. I make up for my deficiency in the detail, or an ability to remember, what l am interested in, and to recall what I speak, or spoke about. This type or level of memory recall has its issues. I have joked before that I will not remember your name, but every detail of your life’s history you impart upon me. It has had me labelled weird, not normal, and after having my IQ tested, it is not, nor would l hope, be ever normal.
We spoke about his trip, and his Australian rendezvous, with a young woman, who he knew from Austria, or Sweden. They were to, and did meet, on Australian soil. Like him, she was also on a rite of passage. We spoke about his grandfather the scientist. We spoke of his love for a young woman he hoped to marry, and we spoke of his deep appreciation of her. He described in detail his night with her on a New Year’s Eve, gazing into the southern sky of Australia, a visual not seen in the northern hemisphere. He spoke of his total trust, in the fidelity of their friendship, as they walked different paths, and experienced various times in Australia. He was very decent, and the conversation imparted on me, a respect by a young man for a woman that no other man young or old ever has, it wasn’t despite his innocence, it was because of it. Despite his polite nature, he felt at liberty to correct me on my observations of women. Right or wrong the conversation went stale, I thanked the men for their conversation, and wished them well. I wished them well, for both for their trip around Australia, and on their trip through life.
My observations are that a walkabout for the man who has the talent, i.e., talent enough to be a man, can, and is, a mutual exchange between the areas or countries involved. Like the carpenter l had left home with little money, and while getting an allowance of 25 dollars a week for food and tram tickets, I soon realised early on, after doing some rudimentary accounting, that my mode of transport, would be a poor man’s alternative, that of the bicycle. I bought it, my Japanese Lotus chrome molly Mountain bike, from a man who used to race the Sun tour. I scrounged up the money for it. It was a bike that would last me approximately ten years, before an accident with a car, where l was nearly killed and maimed. My bicycle had given me a freedom from trams, and cars, and although it came with the potential of death, l could at least afford to eat, and have a roof over my head.
It has been said that the area I come from, (Shepparton, Victoria, Australia), that it has produced more than its fair share of world champion level cyclists, of which, I would never be included even closely in the ranks of, due to lack of talent. This was despite passing two young men, a state champion and a future world champion who rode several tour de Frances. I passed them with no hands on the bars, during a race, or during their attack to be more precise. It was a bold move, and it still makes me laugh, it was utterly shameless. The small city and the area had, an amazing history when it comes to cycling. One local even went on to open a hotel in Flanders, Belgium, here is a link for its page flandrienhotel.com/ A hotel dedicated to cycling, and cyclists. He became a masters world champ while at it, he was a bit of an over achiever, to say the least, and it made me wonder why this area had been so productive, in the production of cyclists. I can only really speculate on it, as I looked from the not so distant outside at these brilliant athletes, that changed, or altered the world of cycling forever. Their names etched into cycling immortality, I speculated that like Flanders it was the persistent winds we get here, the great people, the long straight roads, and the close rolling hills. The roads make you into an accustomed sufferer, like all men, as even the hard men of Flanders should be, or outright must be. A right of suffering minus the cobbles, one that enables them to ply their trade, and be considered men. You learned to work, because every corner is 5 to 10 kilometres away, you learned to work as no one gives any quarter as to how good you are, or cares what your reputation is. You learn to work, because being dropped from the peloton, or pack, makes the ride home a sobering process, one of personal introspection, about your abilities, and your capacities as a man, when compared to others. And just like Geppetto, an elderly wood worker who carved himself a boy, a cycling community with many kind and gentle old men produced champions from unlikely wood stock. Imparting on them not just about riding bicycles, but how to do it like a man.
Despite not being such a great cyclist, one area, that I never had much issue with was memory. It has both been a boon, and a mysterious problem for those that have never met me before. It taught me the frailty and fear that some people have, when it comes to others. I recall while speaking to a bar maid at the Carlton hotel, (yes, that was the historical name for her profession), she was an Islander woman from the pacific, and somehow l had managed to distress her. She thought l was stalking her, when I recalled a conversation. A conversation we had had a couple of weeks earlier. I understand now why she felt that way. I, as part of a research program, with one of Australia’s elite universities, had my IQ measured. It was found, that in some respects, of the IQ equivalency test, l could nearly not be accurately measured. One of these areas was memory. In our earlier discussion she spoke to me about her and her partner’s band. I raised it in the conversation we had weeks later, and she asked security to have me removed from the pub saying l was a stalker. It was a disturbing accusation, and I never went back to the pub for years after it. As it turned out, it would not be the last time this scenario would play out. It also happened, when at another pub in Malvern, I spoke to a librarian from a university, we spoke about her dog, and her job, it was quite a cordial conversation. But several weeks later, I spoke to her again, and she could not remember me at all, she did not seem that drunk when I first met her, but she freaked. I had recalled the breed of dog she had; a Labrador cross, I still can. I tried to speak to her about her job as a librarian, because she had seemed quite interesting the first time we had met, but she weirded out. I did not think she was interesting anymore. I realised she was probably a bullet dodged, to use a euphemism. She had become part of my walk about. Part of my walk about, was to be confronted by males and females protecting women with no memories of the conversations they held. It dawned on me that they may have never had a male listen to anything they had ever said. That they had never genuinely, met a man interested in what a woman had to say, let alone recall it weeks later. And like Gulpilil in his iconic movie, I just moved on.
A bicycle is a gift. Using my bike to go on my walk about, enabled me to cover more ground than actual walking. And just like a trade, to do it well, takes skill. As a child, or a new teen going to high school, I would ride 20-kilometre round trips on a new type of bicycle, a mountain bike, to visit friends. People laughed at my bike. A bike that was neither a road bike nor a BMX, yep, l am that old! Some people joke about being older than Google, but as far as mountain bikes go, l am older than them. I now have grey hairs in my beard to prove it, and at around the same time as Google had come about, l had stopped programming. I stopped as my programming career was as successful as my cycling racing. I would, with good reason, never go on to be a professional. But in my bildungsroman of a walk about, my bicycle enabled me to be free. And like all freedom it comes from suffering or work, it is a lesson learnt, and l found it was applicable to all my endeavours, or enterprises in life. I explored and went places that l could never afford to go, because I road there. And although not being in the league of Indian artist PK Mahanandia who when he met Charlotte Von Schedvin, road from India to Europe to find her on a second-hand bicycle, I would go onto find love, and use a bicycle like him to facilitate that love. I would use the education of discipline in life, that l had gained while riding it. I would suffer both physically, and from the broken heart it helped give me. As a result, I seem to be a lot more introspective as l get older, and looking back in hindsight, it was the thing that chiselled a boy into a man.
Walk about. A bildungsroman in progress.
Going walk about.
A trip by bicycle in Australia.
Depicted by David Gulpilil in an Australian classic movie Walkabout, was, a “walkabout”, if you don’t know what it is, that is fine, it is a not so unfamiliar tail despite what the trailer might have you believe. Here is a link to the official trailer, www.bing.com/videos/search?q=walk+about&docid=6034988... please note that the trailer has dated much more than the movie, and that the trailer does not do the movie credit. It is about the test of a young man, that is regardless of origin or race, a story that is universal. In general, it is as some Europeans call it, a bildungsroman. The formative years of an individual’s life that are spiritual in nature. And like a monk’s pilgrimage it works best when you do it alone. Well, at least for a period anyway.
While riding my bicycle around exploring the city I once lived in Melbourne, I met a pair of Austrians or Swedes at the Carlton bar, in Bourke Street, (here is a link to the map, of where to find it www.bing.com/search?pc=W145&q=carlton+bar&form=BW... ). It was somewhere in the nineties. The Carlton, l was informed before l went there, was meant to be a bit of a dive. But despite that, it was a Melbourne institution, as, when everywhere else was closed, you could always go to the Carton. It was an institution that had run down a little around the edges. Financially as drugs took over the neuro stimulus trade, it reduced the ability for a proprietor to sell a beer at a profit. Despite this, the two Austrians, or Swedes, were enjoying their beer in moderation. They were not impressed with me so much; as, and to be specific, with my process of self-destruction, one that l was applying at the time, well, it was the nineties and grunge was a lifestyle, not a genre of music. Despite a few differences they had imparted their tales of their own walk abouts on me.
One was a carpenter; a highly skilled trade, and I would latter go onto find out via a documentary on another European carpenter, about how hard it is to become a carpenter, of actual standing, and, or gain the qualification. He told me that he produced houses with no nails, it seemed like a foreign concept to me. No nails in a roof? He was talking about the frame, and he informed me that the buildings were incredibly strong. I presume that they, the houses he built had to be incredibly strong, to withstand the winds and snow that occur in the mountains of Europe, and his indigenous country.
While broaching the subject of carpenters, it should be said, that, I apologize to European carpenters especially Swedish ones. I am apologizing, for saying in an essay, (an essay that become a part of my bildungsroman), an essay that I failed at university, one that, I stated and to quote, “that although the Swedish flag carried the cross of a carpenter”, as in the cross of Christ, “they had superseded carpenters with Ikea”. I said, and to paraphrase, that, “yes, the Swedes, the Swedes had made carpenters redundant”. It seemed highly ironic on many levels, and the inference was that Christ was, and his people were, no longer required. I was not trying to be crass; l was not trying to be obtuse, it was a real observation, one that l had aligned with an abandonment as far as l could see for some Austrians and Swedish of their heritage. I may be wrong, and to be sincere, l hope l am.
The documentary I watched, talked about carpenters from the region having to leave their homes or areas and work in foreign parts. The travels where no less than as practiced by males of other countries, as would have been exhibited, and or experienced by people like Gulpilil before and after colonization. Like Gulpilil in Walk About, they had to survive, and, or earn a living by themselves. At the beginning of their journey, they would take only rudimentary money, and possessions. Relying on their trade to supply them with all they would need to survive. It seemed no less than a walk about, one that l had heard of, and or learned of through Gulpilil as a child. It showed, and displayed respect, for both teachers, the trade being taught, and the student. It was a measured risk, by those that set the young men on their journeys, and for the young men.
On my journey aided by my bicycle, I met these two young men, they were respectful young gentlemen. One a carpenter, and the second a younger man, informed me was the descendant of a European scientist. A scientist of such standing, that he was on his nations bank notes. I can’t remember what he did for a living, but he seemed to be of money, in a way that the carpenter was not. Despite having studied science, and its history, both in an academic setting, and on my own time, for the life of me, I cannot remember his last name, or if he was Swedish or Austrian exactly. It is something that vexes me to this day. Because where I excel in memory, l have a savant like ability to forget names. I make up for my deficiency in the detail, or an ability to remember, what l am interested in, and to recall what I speak, or spoke about. This type or level of memory recall has its issues. I have joked before that I will not remember your name, but every detail of your life’s history you impart upon me. It has had me labelled weird, not normal, and after having my IQ tested, it is not, nor would l hope, be ever normal.
We spoke about his trip, and his Australian rendezvous, with a young woman, who he knew from Austria, or Sweden. They were to, and did meet, on Australian soil. Like him, she was also on a rite of passage. We spoke about his grandfather the scientist. We spoke of his love for a young woman he hoped to marry, and we spoke of his deep appreciation of her. He described in detail his night with her on a New Year’s Eve, gazing into the southern sky of Australia, a visual not seen in the northern hemisphere. He spoke of his total trust, in the fidelity of their friendship, as they walked different paths, and experienced various times in Australia. He was very decent, and the conversation imparted on me, a respect by a young man for a woman that no other man young or old ever has, it wasn’t despite his innocence, it was because of it. Despite his polite nature, he felt at liberty to correct me on my observations of women. Right or wrong the conversation went stale, I thanked the men for their conversation, and wished them well. I wished them well, for both for their trip around Australia, and on their trip through life.
My observations are that a walkabout for the man who has the talent, i.e., talent enough to be a man, can, and is, a mutual exchange between the areas or countries involved. Like the carpenter l had left home with little money, and while getting an allowance of 25 dollars a week for food and tram tickets, I soon realised early on, after doing some rudimentary accounting, that my mode of transport, would be a poor man’s alternative, that of the bicycle. I bought it, my Japanese Lotus chrome molly Mountain bike, from a man who used to race the Sun tour. I scrounged up the money for it. It was a bike that would last me approximately ten years, before an accident with a car, where l was nearly killed and maimed. My bicycle had given me a freedom from trams, and cars, and although it came with the potential of death, l could at least afford to eat, and have a roof over my head.
It has been said that the area I come from, (Shepparton, Victoria, Australia), that it has produced more than its fair share of world champion level cyclists, of which, I would never be included even closely in the ranks of, due to lack of talent. This was despite passing two young men, a state champion and a future world champion who rode several tour de Frances. I passed them with no hands on the bars, during a race, or during their attack to be more precise. It was a bold move, and it still makes me laugh, it was utterly shameless. The small city and the area had, an amazing history when it comes to cycling. One local even went on to open a hotel in Flanders, Belgium, here is a link for its page flandrienhotel.com/ A hotel dedicated to cycling, and cyclists. He became a masters world champ while at it, he was a bit of an over achiever, to say the least, and it made me wonder why this area had been so productive, in the production of cyclists. I can only really speculate on it, as I looked from the not so distant outside at these brilliant athletes, that changed, or altered the world of cycling forever. Their names etched into cycling immortality, I speculated that like Flanders it was the persistent winds we get here, the great people, the long straight roads, and the close rolling hills. The roads make you into an accustomed sufferer, like all men, as even the hard men of Flanders should be, or outright must be. A right of suffering minus the cobbles, one that enables them to ply their trade, and be considered men. You learned to work, because every corner is 5 to 10 kilometres away, you learned to work as no one gives any quarter as to how good you are, or cares what your reputation is. You learn to work, because being dropped from the peloton, or pack, makes the ride home a sobering process, one of personal introspection, about your abilities, and your capacities as a man, when compared to others. And just like Geppetto, an elderly wood worker who carved himself a boy, a cycling community with many kind and gentle old men produced champions from unlikely wood stock. Imparting on them not just about riding bicycles, but how to do it like a man.
Despite not being such a great cyclist, one area, that I never had much issue with was memory. It has both been a boon, and a mysterious problem for those that have never met me before. It taught me the frailty and fear that some people have, when it comes to others. I recall while speaking to a bar maid at the Carlton hotel, (yes, that was the historical name for her profession), she was an Islander woman from the pacific, and somehow l had managed to distress her. She thought l was stalking her, when I recalled a conversation. A conversation we had had a couple of weeks earlier. I understand now why she felt that way. I, as part of a research program, with one of Australia’s elite universities, had my IQ measured. It was found, that in some respects, of the IQ equivalency test, l could nearly not be accurately measured. One of these areas was memory. In our earlier discussion she spoke to me about her and her partner’s band. I raised it in the conversation we had weeks later, and she asked security to have me removed from the pub saying l was a stalker. It was a disturbing accusation, and I never went back to the pub for years after it. As it turned out, it would not be the last time this scenario would play out. It also happened, when at another pub in Malvern, I spoke to a librarian from a university, we spoke about her dog, and her job, it was quite a cordial conversation. But several weeks later, I spoke to her again, and she could not remember me at all, she did not seem that drunk when I first met her, but she freaked. I had recalled the breed of dog she had; a Labrador cross, I still can. I tried to speak to her about her job as a librarian, because she had seemed quite interesting the first time we had met, but she weirded out. I did not think she was interesting anymore. I realised she was probably a bullet dodged, to use a euphemism. She had become part of my walk about. Part of my walk about, was to be confronted by males and females protecting women with no memories of the conversations they held. It dawned on me that they may have never had a male listen to anything they had ever said. That they had never genuinely, met a man interested in what a woman had to say, let alone recall it weeks later. And like Gulpilil in his iconic movie, I just moved on.
A bicycle is a gift. Using my bike to go on my walk about, enabled me to cover more ground than actual walking. And just like a trade, to do it well, takes skill. As a child, or a new teen going to high school, I would ride 20-kilometre round trips on a new type of bicycle, a mountain bike, to visit friends. People laughed at my bike. A bike that was neither a road bike nor a BMX, yep, l am that old! Some people joke about being older than Google, but as far as mountain bikes go, l am older than them. I now have grey hairs in my beard to prove it, and at around the same time as Google had come about, l had stopped programming. I stopped as my programming career was as successful as my cycling racing. I would, with good reason, never go on to be a professional. But in my bildungsroman of a walk about, my bicycle enabled me to be free. And like all freedom it comes from suffering or work, it is a lesson learnt, and l found it was applicable to all my endeavours, or enterprises in life. I explored and went places that l could never afford to go, because I road there. And although not being in the league of Indian artist PK Mahanandia who when he met Charlotte Von Schedvin, road from India to Europe to find her on a second-hand bicycle, I would go onto find love, and use a bicycle like him to facilitate that love. I would use the education of discipline in life, that l had gained while riding it. I would suffer both physically, and from the broken heart it helped give me. As a result, I seem to be a lot more introspective as l get older, and looking back in hindsight, it was the thing that chiselled a boy into a man.