It is now very possible that I will not be leaving sometime in late August… but more like sometime in early June. The salesman job has not paid as much as I’d anticipated. And so I’ve quit.
That’s right, quit. I had my two months to get something out of it and I have. A lot actually. But now it’s over. Two weeks ago I was despairing—I was ready to quit. But I worked out a plan. I worked out that I would need to make $500 a week to break the $3000 mark, pay the bills, and get my tourist visa. That hasn’t happened. I’ve worked doubly hard, improved my results, and still… this last week I made (tops) $400. That’s if not one of those ingrates cancels. Bless their hearts for buying from me.
This last week I took a lot of pictures. I took them because, well, I might not have another chance to. In fact, I almost certainly won’t. The last day I went to work was saturday—from here on, I intend to find other gainful means of employment. Much more gainful.
Which is not to say that I haven’t gotten a lot out of being a salesman. I loved this job, or a least had a strong personal bond brought about by perceived necessity or recurrent unexamined intentions (like getting up and going to work every day). As I said when I started doing it, I never joined up for the money. I could’ve made a lot of cash, but didn’t. And why not? I dunno. I guess I was a slow learner. Although if you asked me now, I might say it’s because I needed a lot of work personally. Seriously… I had no confidence in what I was doing, or my actions. And now I do. Thing is I’m not doing it anymore. Conundrum? No. Just moving on to greener pastures.
The harder a job is, the more it teaches you about yourself.
I’ve given two weeks notice on my apartment. O Apartment: I hardly knew ye. So that makes May 15th the day I move on… to wherever I move on to. I’m thinking Queensland, someone siad there was a lot of work to be had up there. I only have till June 9th, though. Better make it snappy.
It’s my week off. I came to Australia to work, and I have. Now I can do whatever I want. And what I want is urbex.
What is urbex, you ask? Urban Exploration. I first read about it in a very cool magazine I picked up called Transit. It’s traveller’s fare packed with articles on bullfighting, girls with pet kangaroos, Sir Richard Francis Burton, and Irish Pikees. The very last article was called “Cave Clans.” Subtitle: “urban explorers are going places they’re not supposed to.”
Hello! I had no idea that there was actually a name for this sort of thing. I was certainly aware of it since I’ve done my share. Ording was what we called it—because we lived on Fort Ord. Surrounded by the abandoned army base, there wasn’t much else to do on a sunny afternoon than explore the old empty shells all around us. One can find all manner of dilapidation: barracks, swimming pools, incinerators, railyards, sewage plants, firing ranges, and that’s the beginning of the list. So that’s what I did. And I became addicted.
You may be familiar with the concept of d�rive: exploring a city in a way that was not intended. I love it. And Urbex is exactly that. Not only is it a physical challenge hearkening back to the days of the intrepid tree-climb, it’s also a fantastic way to see something new. It’s literally underground tourism. The article spoke of a group of such explorers, the Cave Clan. They’ve been around about 20 years, bringing like-minded people together, sharing information, having underground parties and the like. Sounds awesome, right?
I’ve got a date. May the 14th, I’ve got a drain to explore. Which is not to say that I won’t be doing it sooner. You’ve been warned.
Wow! I realized today that I’ve been using Flickr for a whole year now, as of April 18th. I’m established. I’ve got 631 photos. I’ve come a long way since that first photo. That counts for something.
I just got done uploading a new batch from over the Easter weekend. A selection:
So what? I have not written in almost a month. My thing is broken. I can’t set the location anymore. Is this an excuse? Why even bring it up? Cause I’m a cheater. Within like, a day I’ll have that space filled in. Like it was never there. So enjoy the emptiness while you can. I’ll think of something to write. You just wait and see.
I’ve got a new place, as of yesterday. Nothing too big, nothing too impressive. But I now have… my own private room. This opens up the possibility for a lot of things. Things like collecting milk crates to store stuff in. Or collecting things I’ve found interesting (thank you, Keaggy.com). Or sleeping in the same bed ever night. Shopping for groceries. Having reliable internet (EDIT: well, semi-reliable). Yes, there are a lot of things nice about not living in a hostel. For one thing I know my roommates names. Mostly. I can stop with this all over the map nonsense. And of course, I can… have… visitors?
Nah, probably not. But it is a comforting thought that I do have somewhere safe, and same, to return to every night.
