Prelude No.12 (in A-minor) OR everything is the worst sometimes

21-09-09 OR the horror at camp jelly jam

Ecology camp! Imagine—five days in Kivig; five days by the Baltic Sea. There were thirty of us, all students of ecology. By the end of the week, after we had become the closest (and farthest) of friends, it seemed like a lot less. Each morning, in the crisp Swedish air, we adventured into the wilderness. We explored; we investigated. Biodiversity, competition, predation, adaptation, evolution: no biological concept remained untouched. Also, in the afternoon, we threw a frisbee, so it wasn't a complete waste of time.

In Australia, the movement of thirty-something students requires—at the very least—a medium-sized bus. Also, you have to fill out at least an infinite number of forms just to get anywhere near the bus. Even then, you will probably find that the trip has been cancelled. In Sweden, small vans are the people-mover of choice. (For the mathematicians among you, a common or garden bus equals five small vans.) Best of all, students are allowed to drive—no forms necessary! Jessica was my chauffer for the week. She nearly crashed, twice; she is French-Canadian.

Kivig, as you know, is the apple-growing capital of Sweden. By some miracle, Applefest (literally, Festival of Apples) was nearing its juicy climax and I was fortunate to glimpse the famous Apple Picture (literally, Picture of Apples) before its grand unveiling. Imagine—the biggest apple mosaic in the world! Once again, man has triumphed over fruit, and gravity. I also visited an apple museum. The big barrels of apples at the entrance seemed to say help yourself. Later, I realised they actually said we're for decoration, please don't eat.

For whatever reason, I was not looking forward to the excursion. In my mind's eye, I imagined myself cold and wet and miserable—weeping uncontrollably in a ruined tent, tired and hungry. On the contrary, the weather was perfect, the accommodation was exceptional, and I ate like a glutton.

When I returned on Friday I was pleased to see some familiar faces. Benny, Wally, Vasco... I wonder if they missed me. V: Andy, how are you? A: I'm well. I've been away all week, in Kivig. V: You were away? No, they didn't.

23-09-09 OR shir-leen

For the second time in however long I forgot my mother's birthday. It's a shame, and I am sorry, mother. The first time was in 2004, on my school’s ski trip. I forget exactly what happened but I remember seeing mother through my dormitory window and telling her to kindly go away, but in fewer words. In my defence, I was a teenager, and teenagers are idiots. My defence this time is that I'm in Sweden, which is a long way from Australia. Also, it's a different time zone, so I got confused. Although I may have forgotten to wish mother a H.B. I did sing compleanos felit to Nacho, my Spanish friend. Does that count? I think so. In a way, I'm the best son ever. Also, my phone was out of service and I didn't have internet access. Kivig, if you recall, is powered by apples, and I don't mean Macintosh.

26-09-09 OR the worst day

Twelve years ago I kicked my toe on my grandparents' concrete driveway. I was angry, and sad. Today, I kicked my toe on the bottom of the stove.

What could have been is now not.

(When will the Saints march in?)

30-09-09 OR exactly

Suddenly, Lund is very cold. Worst of all, the wind always blows in the same direction, which is towards me. I rode down a hill today—it was steep, nearly vertical—and the wind stopped me in my place. This evening, when I returned from a quiet drink at Kalmar Nation, I made a cup of tea. But I wasn’t just cold, I was hungry, too. I needed something sweet. On my bedside table, I noticed a box of Turkish Delights. It had been given to me by Can (John), my Turkish classmate, although it is entirely probable that I stole it. The box was covered in white powder—icing sugar. I do not envy the Turks for eating their delights all the time, but when supplies are limited and your tea is losing it edge, you take what you can get. Here's the rub: now I have white powder all over my black shirt.

(Moral: never trust a Turk.)

Prelude No. 11 (in F-minor) OR melting pot

10-09-09 OR talar du engelska?

Ostra Torn is filled with international students. Actually, inhabited by, not filled - if I have created the impression of Monkeys in a Barrel then I have failed. There is a healthy representation of students from each and every continent: Oceania, Eurasia, Eastasia - everywhere except Antarctica (although I could have sworn I saw a dancing penguin the other day [although it may have been a midget in a tuxedo]). Many of the students/penguins/midgets have come to Sweden to improve their English. My neighbour, Wally, can speak three languages. I have another friend, X (I forget her name), who can speak seven! Imagine that! I feel so uncultured. I can barely speak one language, let alone any other positive integer.

I'm in the middle of a race war. There's the Spanish quarter, the French quarter, the German quarter, the South-East Asian quarter... Then there are the rogues: Australia, Switzerland, UK, US, Canada, India, Kazakhstan, elsewhere. Unofficially, the Cosmopolitan quarter. How many quarters is that? It is a case of the sum of the parts being greater than the whole. 25% greater, in fact. Ironically, there are no NZ'ers, so it's not really a race war at all.

The layout of Ostra Torn is fairly simple. There are three main clusters of low-rise apartments: North, West, and South. In the centre of the open-ended rectangle thus formed is a grassy area that, with the careful positioning of a few spare shoes, can be transformed into a football field. There is also an adventure fort, but you must be under this height _ to play.

Every other afternoon, there is a football game. Teams are improvised, or in my case, the interchange is improvised. If there's one thing I've never been good at, it's soccer. My foot skills are woeful, and don't even bother explaining offside. I am, however, good at chasing balls and being a general nuisance to opposing players. I have a feeling that, before long, I will become a dangerous footballer. (I am reminded of the monk-like scientists in Danum Valley who played badminton every night - what else is there to do in the middle of the rainforest?)

Today, I played a game of football. It was a lot of fun until the ball exploded.

12-09-09 OR toothpaste sandwich

Do not worry, mother, I am eating well. Actually, I am feeding well. For this, I have Walter to thank. This evening, for dinner, I prepared a delicious meatball pasta with lemon-scented potatoes and peppered-onions, delicately countered by a bowl of marmalade gelato. I had finished perusing my lecture notes and was wearing my legalise gay shirt - it was time for bed. My bedtime ritual is something like: 1) brush teeth 2) floss teeth 3) rinse mouth 4) fall asleep. There is also an intermittent step between 3) and 4) where I move, with the grace of a slender possum, from basin to bed - very rarely do I fall asleep in the bathroom. So, there was I, in bed, teeth radiating, when the doorbell rang. It was Wally. Andy, you must join us for dinner. It will be ver' special. Who am I to refuse! Two dinners in one day, or however the Crowded House song goes. Wally and Vasco had prepared a real dinner with real ingredients. Beans, tomatoes, capsicum, onions, potatoes, spinach, extra-virgin olive oil, the lot. If there was a difference between the two dinners, it was that mine came from a packet. I forgot to mention that earlier.

Tonight, we dine like Princes!

Prelude No.10 (in Bb-minor) OR rhinoceros beetles and their allies

04-09-09 OR Where's Wally/Lloyd?

I have a new favourite word: pre-lash. Perhaps you have heard it before. I hadn't. Ben Roberts, lately of the United Kingdom (the English bit), introduced it to my vocabulary. Lasty, fancy joining us for a prelash?

Pre-what?

The easiest way to arrange a prelash is on the old Skype network. Where would I be without Skype? Lund, Sweden. Skype and location are not causally related - you're a fool for even thinking it! Incidentally, before I tell you about prelashes and how wonderfully exciting they are, I'd like to share a little story with you. Don't worry, it's not very long. In fact, I'll even write it in italics...

Often, when you are on a bus, or in a bus, you overhear conversations. John and Jan might be discussing how terribly inconvenient university is ("... it's the attendence that I really hate! And can you believe I have to write a report...") or perhaps Michael and Fiona are comtemplating classic literature ("... do you love Jodie Piccoult as much as I do? She's the best... it's like she says exactly what I'm thinking, but with words..."). In any case, there's usually a dense cacophony of bus banter. Sometimes, people simply make noises. Not words, just sounds. Like whistling. I like to whistle, do you? No? But anyone can whistle - just ask Sondheim! Today I heard a boy whilsting the Skype ring tone. There was a moral to this story, but it has since evaporated...

So, to set the scene, I am in Ben's apartment. Lloyd, lately of the United Kingdom (the Scottish bit), is also there. I am not sure about prelash etiquette, so I have brought crisps. I ask Ben if Wally is coming? Ben turns to Lloyd: aren't you Wally? To cut an awkward story short, Lloyd has a new nickname (Wally 2.0). Ben brings out the liquor, "Lasty, prepare to get prelashed!" Or words to that tune. I try my hardest to endorse the time-honoured icon of Australian-as-beer-drinker. If I were made of stronger stuff, or had a few extra (let's say 50) kilos under my belt, this would not be so difficult. However, I am, as the locals say, en rädd, konstiga, lilla kille , so the drinks go right through me. Later, Ettienne creeps by the window, wearing a raccoon-skin hat. We invite him in, even though he is dressed like a procyonous ruski. Then Volker arrives, escourted by the real Wally. Honestly, I don't know why Martin Handford looked so hard, they're ev'rywhere!

Meanwhile, the crisps have worked a treat.

And that was my first prelash. The actual lash, however, was quite different. I had a vision in my mind of some pathetic hag, imprisoned in the stocks, being whipped by a deviant arch-executioner. It turns out you just go to a nightclub and dance.

09-09-09 OR occasionally, you will learn something

Billy Anachronism. The most exciting thing about being in a master level course is that I have fast-tracked my studies. Today I read an article about Rhinoceros Beetles in South-East Asia. It's all happening, I tell you! Also, Gabriela (whose cousin, by the way, is Nadia Comaneci) has adopted me as her son. In fact, she has invited me to dine with her family next week. If Bram Stoker has taught me anything, it's that Romanians are undead creatures of the night that feast only on the flesh of the living. Usually, I wouldn't go for that, but I'll probably be hungry in a week. Dilemmas...

Prelude No. 9 (in G-major) OR Pat thinks he's a really lucky man

02-09-09 OR Avada Kedavra!

What is a man if he is not busy?

Idle.

The same is true for women and other stationary objects. In any case, I'd rather be an idle man than an idol god. No, wait... that can't be right. I'd rather be a wizard.

I received a parcel today from the other side of the world. It was my first international mail experience, except for when I was sconced by a copy of Lund, Tisdag! What's in the box, in the box? (What's in the box today?) It was very exciting, like opening your brothers' presents at 11:59pm on Christmas Eve. Actually, it was more like when I opened my Hogwarts letter. Speaking of witchcraft and wizardy, I now own an actual wand. Holly, 11", with a phoenix core (made in China).

Avada Kedavra!

Dream: I am on my death bed, old and wrinkled. I am a prolific writer. I have written poems, novels, plays, scripts, ballets, operas, but it is my blog that keeps me going. I have kept the same format for 60 years... Prelude No. x OR y. Meanwhile, the doctor tells me I have minutes left. I write my final blog: Lude No. 1 OR tacet. I write it in comic sans. Not even the nurse laughs.

(Themes: beauty, truth, freedom, love, fonts)

Death is the ultimate form of procrastination. Kierkegaard was wrong, by the way: one may as well case the Acasta Gneiss the philosopher's stone because it has given us so much thought for 4.03 billion years.

Prelude No. 8 (in A-minor) OR yes, but do they dance like THIS where you're from?

01/09/09 OR first day of school, first day of school

For me, the most difficult thing about living in Sweden is opening and closing doors. In Australia, doors are fairly homogenous. That is, when you see a door, it is very difficult to differentiate it from others doors you have seen. And they are always easily opened, even when they are locked (or especially when they are locked).

But in Sweden, each door is a new door; no two doors are the same. In fact, no one door is the same. What looks like a door is actually a window, and what looks like a window is actually a door. And what looks like a door with a window in it is actually neither. On my first day I made the error of pushing a door when I should have pulled. The next day I made the error of pulling when I shoud have pushed. The next day I made the error of pushing and pulling a door that opens automatically. To be sure, I have given up opening doors. Instead, I wait outside them until they are used by someone else, and sneak through them a'la Indiana Jones (I've even had a hat tailored). There is a possibility that I will be left waiting outside a door for hours. There's also a possibility that I might one day choke on a butter menthol. Such is life.

Swedish lecturers are fond of their coffee breaks. So are Swedish students, especially Gabriela, even though she is from Romania. A typical university lecture will last for three hours. A not-so-typical university lecture will last for several days, and is conducted in complete silence, but attendence is usually very low. The least typical lecture of all time was given by Jorgen Nilsson in 1934. Entitled Uranium-235! Why not?, it was presented in total darkness in an abandoned mineshaft near Lomma. As far as I am aware, it is still going.

Steph, if you read this, there are too many Australians in Lund (even if you don't, there are still too many). And that's not even including UK Ben, who really does the worst impression imaginable.

Prelude No. 7 (in G-major) OR I don't like the Time Warp, let's not do it again

25-08-09 OR 31-08-09

Felix, Lloyd, Jun-Sen, Holly, Walter, Volker, Vasco, Ettienne, Marie, Davysh, Lionel, Karolina, Max, Verena, Marena, Carmen, Can, Ignacio, Gabriela, Amenesh, Oliver, Aha, Daniel.

One name is fictitious.

Strangers become friends so easily in Lund, especially when the strangers are international students. Ostra Torn is a cosy residence. I have my own apartment. I feel a bit like Jerry Seinfeld, except not as Jewish, or funny. Who will be my Kramer? My Newman?

Am I jet-lagged? Is this what it feels like, when the doves fly? I have a week to settle into my new home, or at least I did two weeks ago when this actually happened.

Prelude No. 6 (in C-major) OR the fat controller

23-08-09 OR the emperor's new clothes

Train: London to Copenhagen. What a funny little place Denmark is! What funny little people! And look, there's Mary Donaldson! Hello, Mary, how are you? For whatever reason I expected Copenhagen to be an ultra-modern, concrete-and-glass kind of city. It's not. In fact, it's one of the most historic cities in the world, if that's the word I want. Nice bridge, by the way.

If I were to describe the airport in one word (which is exactly what I'm about to do) it is acute. The walls and ceilings taper to the most impossibly dangerous angles - I've never been more afraid of losing an eye. The train from C-Hag (as we say in S-Den [as we say in the B-Town {as we say in chess club}]) was superman fast.

When I arrived in Lund, I felt, for the first time, utterly alone. What now? Decision and indecision. So, I sat for a little while. And then I thought for a little while.

And then I walked for a long, long while.

The locals smiled and waved at me as I walked: En turist! Patetiskt!

I smiled and waved back.

My only reference was a fading grey and white maps.google map; where is Stralsundsvagen? I circled the town square. Then, despite the Marx Brothers' advice, I went east. A church appeared from behind a small tree, and then, behind that, the most spectacular building I have ever seen. Actually, I have seen it before... but where? Ah! Yes! Madeline! In an old house in Paris that was covered with vines...

How else to put it? This Sweden is different to the Sweden I saw in my mind. To begin with, I was disappointed. But now I see the beauty. And how about the weather? Beautiful one day, perfect the next (and, I suspect, miserable the next). And the sky! As clear as an azure sky of deepest summer. High above, streaking across the sky, were the powdered trails of passing airliners, as though Hansel and Gretel had usurped the aviation society.

I wish I had the key to my apartment, but I didn't. My only key was a crumpled note. The train hostel. Sometimes, when you search too hard, you mistake the obvious for the impossible. The Train Hostel is, in every sense of the word, a train. I walked past it six times. Really, six. There were no vacant 'rooms', so I shared a tent in the garden with a fellow Australian, Michael Gunter. When I woke the next morning, I was not cold, but I was misarable.

Train, where from? Where to? (Home?)

24-08-09 OR Hercule in the Orient

Orientation day.. Hundreds of nervous international students shuffled their feet and folded and unfolded their arms. For what were we waiting? We needn't have. Abandoning the others, Michael and I walked to the SOL (sprach-och-literatur) Centre where we were (where we were, say it again - it's fun) greeted by blue shirts and the student mentors that inhabited them.

I stood in the world's longest queue for five minutes. Then I was redirected to the world's shortest queue. I want those five minutes back. Why do I/we stand in queues when I/we don't know what's at the end? Idiot/s.

Recipe for disaster:

Ingredients: students (x 200), small room (x 1)
Method: place students in room and mix

A key! A door! An apartment! A new home!

Sleep.

Prelude No. 5 (in F#-minor) OR the longest night II

20-08-09 (21-08-09?) OR what is an Emirate?

Often, without expecting to be there, you will find yourself in a new place. A new space, in a new time. You may be walking the streets, thinking sweet nothings or sour somethings and suddenly you are in a taxi, or a train, or a tree. You may climb a fence, jump, and land in someone else's garden, or on someone else. I did not expect to be in the Dubai International Airport, but then I was.

Guessing, I would say that Brunei Darussalam is a third of the way from Brisbane to London. Guessing further, I would say that Dubai is a half of the way from Brunei Darussalam to London. Guessing even further, I would say that London is a whole of the way from London to London.

Never in my life have seven hours seemed to pass so slowly. I fell asleep after the first round of meals. It felt as though I dreamed for hours, but in fact it was only about five minutes. Plot: I am visited by every girl who ever has swooned for me, and I lock them in a room. I mean to write them a poem but I can't find a pen. When I open the door they are all gone. There is writing on the walls: sugar is sweet...

Far below, orange lights. Saundi Arabia, Cyprus, Turkey, Romania (Bucharest), Bulgaria (Budapest), Austria (Vienna), Germany (Munich), Belgium (Antwerp), Netherlands (Amsterdam). Europe! At last! I had been reverse-fighting the moonlight for nearly 12 hours. As the day slowly caught up with me, the horizon became a spectacular red arc. It widened as I crossed the English Channel. Inspiration, come to me!

There's no place like London. In fact, there is. London.

21-08-09 OR platform nine and three quarters

How do I describe it? It's like... have you ever seen Love, Actually? Well, it's like that, except there was no one waiting to actually love me (not even that little drummer boy). London was nice, like a grandmother's cottage. I walked everywhere; I saw the bridges and the buildings. I even sor Fernando Saw. Also, I passed GO and collected $200!

Prelude No. 4 (in F#-minor) OR the longest night

20-08-09 OR Keluar

It was late afternoon when I landed in Brunei Darassalum, and the setting sun had transformed the South China Sea into a golden meadow. In the distance, I could see the mist of a tropical rainforest. Ah! Borneo. It's good to be back. I do not usually subscribe to mysticism or spriritualism, but this place is, simply, magical.

Do international airport terminals transcend political geography? Did I ever set foot in 'Brunei'. The answer doesn't really matter. Brunei International Airport is essentially an octagon filled with security guards and jewellery. What a rich place. So much money. Paul McCartney was right. Abba, too.

Also, my plane got blessed. Thanks. Tirimasu! Quarter past the hour, every hour, is prayer time in Bangar Seri Begawan. What a racket!

During the flight, I had planned to read S. Pinker's The Language Instinct and prepare notes for my ecology report, but instead I did neither. I did, however, complete Robert van Kuik's immigration card. Who the hell is Robert van Kuik? All I know is that he was born in the Netherlands on the 18th of February, 1932, and was on his way to Bankok. His vision was not so good so he asked me to read the immigration questions aloud. He was not very dexterous, either, so I had to write the answers too. Also, he didn't appear to be all there - a few wavelengths shorts of the proverbial red light (as they might say in Amsterdam) - so I answered most of the questions for him. He's probably in jail now.

I also watched the Princess Bride. Not by choice (but secretly, by choice). Anne Hathaway makes me swoon. Also, I wonder how many films portray the transformation of a shy, mousey girl into a beautiful, confident woman? At least a million.

Prelude No. 3 (in A-major) OR the orchestra was just tuning up until now

19-08-09 OR Stevie's (Andy's) last night in town

Why? Why is it so difficult to find a table for nine? Solution: join three tables together. (As a courtesy, tell the waitress. She will smile and light a candle for you [and, I suspect, curse you under her breath]). Ian, Shirleen, Tess, myself, Bob, Chloe, Stephen, Emma, Patrick. I don't know whether we consciously wanted to make things easier for the chef, but we all ordered the T-bone. I'm just a T-bone kind of guy. Love that T-bone. In fact, you might as well call me T-bone. Then where for dessert? Gelatissimo, of course. Is there anything as good as a free taste? I wonder how many cunning homeless have taken advantage of the free taste system?

How? How is it that Stevie can grow a beard? I suspect it's magic. Also, Chloe is almost certainly a Monroe-bot, and although he says he works at Half-Brick, I have a suspicious feeling that Stevie is still a burger boy at Red Rooster.

From where? To where? Queen Street Mall to Astor Metropole Hotel.

20-08-09 OR up in the air, I fly (zoom, zoom, a-zoom zoom zoom)

The hotel was dark and dodgy, like in a horror film; there were blood stains on the carpet and sofa. And something else wasn't quite right. Oh yeah, there were no windows. Despite this, I woke feeling refreshed. Breakfast: cereal and peanut butter on bread (traditional Last cuisine). It was a crisp Brisbane morning; the sunlight was breaking through the distant Eagle Street apartments. If the weather is anything like this in Europe then I am sure to have a pleasant time. However, the fact of the matter is that it will not be.

I love airports. To me, they exist outside of time and space. What do you think? Airports are still a novelty - I suspect this will change before too long.

In the terminal, Paddy and I sang songs from Aladdin. Dad, I think, is convinced that I'm going to leave my luggage unattened; Mum is convinced that I'm going to disappear through the gap in London. Tess and Bob also came to say goodbye. What is that Spice Girls song? When three become two? Tess was sad, and Bob, well, I knew he was crying on the inside.

My family, my friends: how do I love you? Let me count the way...

As I rode the escalator down, down, down to funky town, I turned and waved a final goodbye. And then I was on my own. A song appeared in my mind's ear: '...they did the Mash, they did the Monster Mash...' What would Freud say?

Customs. Done. Sorted. Next. Gate 78. My flight was delayed by an hour so I wandered about the place, looking for an internet kiosk. I have become far too reliant on the internet for connectivity. What ever happened to writing letters? I napped in the gate lounge; my flight was delayed even further. Boarding was very quick, though. The plane was, I think a Boeing 737, which means that it is 737 times better than a common or garden variety Boeing. The seats were wide and comfortable and I sat on the aisle. Also, the plane was only half full (or, if you're a pessimist, half empty).

Airline food. I'm proud/ashamed to announce/admit that it is disgusting/delicious.

Prelude No. 2 (in Eb-major)

Soon, or perhaps later, I will discover, and, in turn, be discovered by, myself.