This Page Has Not Been Intentionally Left Blank

A LARGE GROUP OF YOUTHS WERE GATHERED into an empty concrete warehouse and spread out along the perimeter of it’s walls. Each youth was designated a large area of wall and given ten cans of paint and a paintbrush.

"Each of you has an allocated area of wall" a man said through a megaphone, blasting his ampliified voice to all corners of the building. He walked in small circles at the warehouse floor’s centre trying to ensure that all four corners could hear him.

"You have twenty minutes to paint whatever you want on the wall. After twenty minutes you must put down your paints and nothing more can be done. You must leave your area of wall as it is."

There was dissent amongst the youths as they heard this and a barrage of sighs and internal mutterings ensued. Each respective area of wall was vast: 10 metres wide and 3.5 meters high. It seemed impossible to do anything to it in just twenty minutes.

"I don’t understand" said a boy to the girl next to him. Each were placed in one of the corners. "Did he say we only had twenty minutes? His megaphone is not very loud and the acoustics in here are bad."

"I don’t know" said the girl. "I think that is what I heard."

Looking around the warehouse and reading the body language of others, they assumed that what they had heard was accurate.

"Do you know what you are going to paint?" asked the boy.

"No idea" said the girl.

She looked at her large section of empty wall.

"I don’t even know where to start."

The boy scanned his eyes around the warehouse in an effort to gage people’s intent. But everyone appeared different. Some were ponderous, some focussed, others worried, agitated and pacing.

"Okay" the boy and girl in the corner thought they heard the man in the middle say. "You’re time starts now!"

And at that moment a loud buzzer sounded, like the kick off to a sports event.

Evertything took the boy and girl by surprise. Before they knew what was happening, the warehouse exploded into life, hundreds frantically going about their business.

People ran to their paint cans and back to their wall, commencing to make their marks.

But the boy stood on the spot stupidly, frozen, as the initial moments passed by.

He watched as some people started to draw an outline of an image, others just going about painting a background base colour. 

But everyone had different styles, the boy noticed. Some were extremely meticulous and slow. Each stroke had to be perfect and straight, there had to be a certain depth of colour and consistency in stroke. Whereas others were quick and erratic. It appeared that they had something in mind but their vision was only confined to the immediate area of wall, they knew what they wanted to do in one section of it but they would be at a loss for what to do for the rest of it. The total area was so big.

The boy looked back to his wall and contemplated it’s seemingly impossible area of space. Then he looked at his paint cans.

No one is prepared for this, he decided. One cannot plan, only have a rough idea.

He looked at the girl beside him who had also been slow to get started. She laughed at him as she held a green paint can in her hand and tried to cover a small area of wall.

"You going to get started or what?"

The boy watched as the girl started painting her section of the wall and took note of her speed. She went about things quickly but even by continuing at her speed, she would not cover even half the wall.

After a minute she realised this. Hopelessly, she looked back at the boy who still did nothing. Her face was concerned, pannic stricken, like she was onboard a sinking ship.

"Enough mathematics" the boy said to himself.

He pried open a paint can, dipped a brush inside and ran to the wall.

At first, the boy wanted to get a sense for the size of the wall. He slapped the brush against it’s surface and made large, rough, up and down marks, jogging along it’s length to and fro. After several dips of paint and back-and-forths he regarded the wall and the wave-like pattern he had made. He realized that even by reaching as high above his head as possible, he had not even reached half way up the wall.

The boy decided that he needed a different tack. He needed to go to the extreme. He pried the lid off another paint can, picked it up and began to swing it back and forth. His eyes were set on the top of the wall. Eventually, when the paint can had developed enough momentum he halted it in the midst of its upward swing sending paint hurtling in a fountain splattering the top of the wall. He did it again and again, in different spots, at different angles and trajectories until the paint can was empty and a section of the wall was awash. Watching and inspired, the girl did the same. Soon they were opening more and more paint cans and emptying them with reckless abandon, on their walls, pleasure evident on their faces as they watched the colours bleed.

But more texture was required thought the boy and there was still a lot of space left to cover.

He paused again for a moment and thought about things. He looked at his wall and at hers.

"Want to collaborate?" he asked.

The girl smiled. "Sure."

"Anything goes?"

"Why not" she replied. "The clock is ticking."

And with that, she watched as the boy ran at his wall and jumped, pressing his body right up against it, such that it created an imprint of himself on the wall and the front of his body was completely covered in colour.

With a blue face he smiled back at the girl, who by this stage was laughing, then ran to her wall and started to press his body all over it in various poses.

The girl ran to his wall and did the same, each drawing from each other’s inspiration, both bodies constantly crossing back and forth with glee.

There were handprints, footprints.

Patterns.

Delicate finger drawings.

They gathered clumps off liquid paint in their hands and flicked them at each other.

Competitions arose to see who could jump the highest and leave a hand print.

Then, realizing both attempts were futile, the game evolved into a collaborative effort, the girl standing on the boy's shoulders in order to reach the top of the wall.

Her inscription whilst up there: "This is the top of the wall"

"Is that all you could think of writing?" asked the boy.

They stood and contemplated the phrase. 

"Take me up again" demanded the girl.

The newly adjusted line: "This is the top of the wall, ...bitches"

Then when the megaphone man announced that there was only a few minutes left and they had covered most of their walls, they both paused, panting, exhausted, hungry for air. Without talking, there was a consensus that they needed to pull things into a dramatic finale.

"I’ve still got a can of paint left" the boy said.

"Me too" replied the girl.

"I’ve got an idea. Grab your last can."

He walked over to the corner of the warehouse where his wall met hers and stood on one leg, his other splayed in the air but pressed against the wall. With one arm outstretched he reached for the corner where his wall ended and hers began.

"I want you to throw the paint on me" he said. "It will leave an outline."

The girl did as he asked and the image was perfect.

With time running out, the girl did the same, the siren sounding just as the last few drops of paint hit the wall.

"Paintbrushes down" commanded the man on the megaphone. "Step away from your walls."

The final image was ideal. It was the richest in colour and had the most definition. It was as if two bodies were being pulled apart but they held onto each other, both hands reaching for each other and meeting in the corner.

Dragging their multi-coloured bodies away from the wall, each of them collapsed on the ground leaving a trail of paint.

"You look quite ridiculous" the girl said trying to be serious but unable to contain her laughter.

Around the warehouse, painters looked at their walls. Some appeared somewhat satisfied, some discontent. They compared their work to the works of others. Although each had made a dent on the wall, the majority of the wall was still predominantly grey. But the lack of colour was not noticeable until the far corner of the warehouse was reached, where on the floor two bodies soaked in colour lay, chests rising and falling with great expansions, completely worn out.

When it was time to leave both the boy and girl made a lap of the warehouse to check out the artwork of others. There was some boring stuff. Some people had painted in only one colour, devoid of pattern or image in an effort to fill in the wall. Others had some good ideas, some had artistic skill but 95% of their walls were left blank.

"If only we had more time" said the boy, completing the full circuit and exiting into the engulfing bright light.

"I agree" said the girl, the paint not yet properly set on their skin.

Don't date someone who travels

There's been a lot of these floating around lately so I thought that I would just add to the noise...

DON'T DATE SOMEONE WHO TRAVELS for they are clearly not career focussed and know more about life and culture than they do about conformist slavery and mortgages.

They can’t be relied upon for funding those weekend trips to malls to buy things you don’t even need to impress people you don’t even like.

Don’t date someone who travels because they are good with budgeting and otherwise termed ‘cheapskates’. They know that a typical $80 dinner for two equates to a week of accommodation in India or three days worth of royal treatment and adventure activities in Central America or Asia.

Don’t date someone who travels because you will never be able to impress them with your belongings, work achievements or general bragging. They don’t care about your favourite soaps and dramas, the current reality television craze or the facts that your coffee mugs match your coasters.

Don’t date someone who travels because their life focus is completely different to yours.  They will most likely be focussed on experiences and memories that they feel no need to tell anyone about. There are too many and you will likely never be able to relate. They have given up because all their stories have been met with blank expressions or jealousy and conversations that have been steered towards episodes of ‘The voice’ , ‘The Biggest Loser’, or ‘Xxx Idol’. Such conversations send them looking for the first plane to the other end of the earth.

Don’t date someone who travels because they are extremely selfish. They care only about themselves and want to understand the world. They leave their homes, country and culture looking for hope and meaning because they seek a universal truth.

Don’t date someone who travels because they have spent their lives getting to know their own humanity. They look at life the way someone looks at the stars - it is infinite, a journey never-ending. They have become so caught up in this that the conventional life has little meaning. It seems irrational, a predictable and costly repetition. They have found more exciting alternatives.

Don’t date someone who travels because they will piss you off. They will turn you upside down and empty all of the contents. They will ruin you and everything that you believe in. They will force you to face your fears and encourage you to expand the limits of your personal boundaries. They will look you in the eyes and ask questions that only you can answer.

They will spend a bulk of their free time researching the feasibility of climbing peaks in Kyrgyzstan or overlanding through West Africa.

They are unpredictable and spontaneous.

They are a combination of capitalism, communism and subsistence farming hippies.

They have the ability to embrace standard muesli and milk like it is the nectar of kings.

They look at 5 star hotels and yawn, calculating the price of every fake smile.

Don’t date someone who travels because you know it already. You know it all. There is no life with them. They are a flash in the pan. They will struggle when it comes to raising a family. They will struggle when it comes to retirement. They will end up nothing but glorious memories with nothing to their name. They will embrace their share of oxygen to the very end. 

Is this your view of someone who travels? Are they unreliable? Undependable? Beggars asking for one more chance to dream?

Do they live in a fantasy land in which the real world never meets, or do they embrace the world for what it really is?

Good. Find someone just like you. Build a picket fence around all that you strive for and cast your photos into the annals of history.

One day you will probably look a traveller eye to eye and you will both scratch your head. You will be caught at odds and both ask the same question: “What will you do with your life?” One answer will be obvious and the other will remain an unfolding mystery.

Don’t date a traveller because they are self important, egotistic and arrogant. They will look upon the life that you want to live and have the cheek that they can do it better.

Don’t date a traveller because they aim at turning the mundane into the remarkable. They are lost to the world, but in themselves they are found.

And they want the same for you.

Migratory Birds

"I really like it here" said the male bird to the female.

He traces his main claw, drawing small circles in a puddle of water on the rocky part of the bay.

"It's nice, this corner of the earth. It's not too hot but the sun is strong and the air is fresh."

The female bird looks at him longingly.

"Do you come here often for vacation?" she inquires.

The male bird looks intensely into her eyes and takes a purposeful step backwards as a stone flies directly in front of his face, the exact place where he had just been standing.

"Often" says the male bird disregarding the stone's threat casually. "But I go other places as well. There is a lot to explore and many nice places to pass a summer.

Both birds hear a stone pass sailing over their heads. This one is well off it's mark, as were the majority of stones in the 10 minutes prior.

They turn their heads and regard the stone's source, a freckled eight year old kid who sits on a driftwood log. He searches at his feet and looks for more suitable stones to throw.

"And how about work?" The female bird asks intrigued. She is a hint playful but also serious. "Where do you go?"

"I usually breed amongst the chain islands in the Berring Sea" he replied. "I enjoy the remoteness, the peace after snow-melt. There, I find a certain freedom in the wind."

"The Aleutians? Me too. Do you have a preferred island?" 

The male bird tilts his head to the side and thinks. There were so many islands, each one with its charms.

"I'm going to have to go with Kiska" he chooses finally.

"Oh, I'm not sure I know it."

The male bird nods knowingly. He thought as much. "It is a small island" he explains. "But not too small by Aleutian standards. Most flock to Attu, but I find Attu crowded. Kiska is what Attu was in the 70's."

The female bird is impressed. "Kiska eh? I'll have to check it out. Maybe I'll breed there in the next Northern summer. Do you have a breeding partner?"

"Not yet. Do you?"

"No" she replies and smiles.

Both birds hop closer together, each hop slow and delicate, their respective momentum driven by shiny notions seen in each others eyes. Their beaks are almost touching, the air warmer from each others breathing, when suddenly the male bird extends his wing and quickly pushes the female bird away. He does it just in time as a bullet like stone passes directly between them, the speed and force ten times greater than what they had been contending with before.

Startled, they each turn their heads and regard it's source. The boy's father now sits on the log beside him and joins him in searching for suitable throwing stones.

"Want to get out of here?" the male bird asks.

She nods and both birds take flight.

"I know a good spot over the headland. There are less people there. None of the city holiday campers like we get here."

"Why do you think the humans hate us birds so much?" the female bird asks.

"I don't know" replied the male, effortlessly floating into the sky.

They watch as both father and son stand up from their log now and hurl stones rapidly with all of their might. They grow smaller and smaller, like tiny ants, the power and trajectory of their throws pathetic and feeble.

They extend their wings and glide through the air with ease. The earth taking shape beneath them. Their paths careless, unencumbered.

"I have no idea at all. Perhaps they long to be free?" he muses.

"Have you been to the Hawaiian islands? Kauai in particular is magic this time of year..."

In response to the person who questioned what I was doing with my life

First of all. Why such critical and condoning tone? Why not such question posed with love or concern? What does it even mean to you? Does my life effect you in some way? Do I cause you pain? You say that I have no stability or foundation. What do you expect from me? I'd build a house if I knew where to put it. I'd make a home if it agreed with my heart. Both are not for lack of resource. I'm not an unwise and foolish penny-less vagrant.

Are they monuments, a wife and children? Are they things to erect on my lawn? Everything happens in its own time and I trust that everything works out as it should. So let it be.

You fail to see this journey I'm on. And I'm working it out slowly. I've been studying and I've been discovering, and I'm lost somewhere within the depths of me, the universe makes sense.

I've learned what it is to look through these eyes. I've stepped through the past and come to terms. I've held things in my hand and let them go. I've taken hurts and lies and thrown them into the light.

Because this journey is not about a destination. You see, it is so deep and amazing that we never truly arrive. It's not about milestones or trophies. It's not about accolades or comparisons. It's a personal and shared experience. Blessed are those that sink into it's weight, and feel it's endless bounds. Do you know what love is? Are you in awe of its power? It will collapse your knees!

So what about my years? So what if I'm thirty?

I am a deliberate man and I am deliberate in my actions.

So please don't criticize me when I can honestly say;

I am ready to love.

Honest Living

Sometimes I wonder what life would be like if everyone made an honest living. What if all jobs were in some way a benefit to mankind and what if companies didn’t charge too much for products or services. What if everything was reasonable? What if there were no monopolies? I know I’m asking too much. But what if everyone just did enough to have what they needed?

I look at people and their lifestyles and wonder how they keep it all together. These thoughts have stuck with me having rented a spare room temporarily with a family. Both parents are thirty-something health professionals and they have two children, 4 and 3.

I wouldn’t normally stay with a family but for 5 weeks it was convenient.

I watch them. The family. Not in a creepy way but the way someone watches things when lazily microwaving a potato for dinner. I look at the alarm (6AM) when the kids are tearing up the house in the morning. And I watch him (the father) fall asleep on the couch at 8:30PM with an un-drunk cup of tea in front of the television.

Is this the future? I think.

This cannot be the future.

It is this fear of this sort of thing becoming my life that has prompted thoughts about living modestly and making honest gains.

Why do we work so hard? What makes us work so hard? Do we have to work so hard?


These are my answers;

Capitalism. The rich have power. They rich have luxury. The rich have people under them making them money. Why not be rich?

Yep. That’s about it.

But I wonder how many of us working class get there? I mean truly get there. And what is the cost?

I’m not coming from a “let’s move the country and start a commune” point of view (although I do fantasize about it from time to time). Business and industry is important part of society. But what if people worked less? I’m not saying work less hard. I’m saying: still work hard, simply work less. What if we job shared? The tasks would all get done. The cogs of society would keep turning. We’d all have more time for recreation. We wouldn’t always be microwaving potatoes for dinner and we’d all have better quality of life, health and well-being. There would also be a lot less unemployment.
It’s a wonderful thought: A three day work week and a four day weekend.

I know, I know, this is sounding a bit like communism. But isn’t the idea of communism quite beautiful until human nature kicks in and the balance of the scales are corrupted by laziness and greed? There will be people that want something for nothing and there will be people that want everything at the expense of others. We can’t eradicate human nature and therein lies the problem. 

I walked across Spain on an ancient pilgrimage trail several years ago with my friend Matt. We stayed in refuges, most really cheap, some requiring only donation. It is a popular trail. Some do it for religious purposes although many do it to ‘reconnect’ with the simple way of life and ‘escape’ the trappings of their general realm of existence. Each day basically consisted of fellowship, walking, eating, drinking, sleeping and enjoying the scenery. The only problem was some people saw it as a race. They wanted to get to the next refuge before everyone else. They would get up at 5AM, turn the lights on in the dormitory, create noise by packing all their belongings and disrupt everyone’s sleep just so they could trudge on ahead. Maybe they were scared of not having a place to sleep. Maybe they just felt the need to arrive at the next destination first.

I revisited Northern Spain again earlier this year and re-walked some of the trail. A Hollywood movie had been made about the walk since and I was surprised at how much busier it had become. It was actually too busy. People were now getting up at 4AM and by lunchtime there were lines outside the refuges waiting for them to open. The prices for refuges had also been put up. Many people even cheated by taking a bus.

Maybe that is just like working life. People have this desire to have more than others or get there faster so they pursue these things rather than focus on meeting their own needs and enjoying the journey.

It is after all the journey that is important, not the destination.

I don’t know where the world is going. We have technology that is supposed to make things easier for us but it ends up making us more busy. We put our kids in a daycare or kindergarten so both parents can work and then this industry of child minding blossoms and pushes up the prices of time spent with our children. Suddenly we want a night out without our kids and then we realize that it’s going to cost us $100 for the babysitter because the going rate is $20/hour. Such is the case with the family I am staying with.

Maybe I’ve travelled too much and maybe I’ve fallen a little too out of touch but I just don’t get what it is everyone is aspiring towards.

On the Gold Coast everyone looks at and wants this;

Gold Coast Highrise and coastal real estate

But I’m looking in the opposite direction. I’m looking at this;

Gold Coast Hinterland

In ten years I wouldn't be surprised if people no longer walk across Spain but instead opt to drive.
There will be pilgrim taxes imposed for accommodation. The concept of 'pilgrimage' will be lost.


The family I have been renting a room off live on the Gold Coast but they never really get to go to the beach.

On the Gold Coast there are already public buses branded with images of women with large breasts advertising for 'medical holidays' in Asia. I hear nurses at work talking about them along with botox and nip-tucks. Meanwhile the 'hard' men are wearing sleeve tattoos and they drive around in fancy cars purchased on finance.

It's all smoke and mirrors.


Watch what you place your value in.

Watch what it costs you.

Choose wisely.

Live honestly.

Dying is for Suckers

Dying is for suckers so I'm not going to do it. Think about it. Wouldn't it change the way you looked at the world. Wouldn't it change your itinerary, your goals in life? Don't die. Just don't do it. It makes everything so much easier.

I meet people that are scared shitless of dying everyday. Most don't explicitly state it but I can tell. They proudly and importantly talk about their accomplishments and their achievements. They educate me on them because I am meant to appreciate their worth. They mention their boat, their overseas holiday house that they barely visit. The mansion they live in. They speak of their possessions as if holding onto them like they are slipping away. Good for them, I think. They may have generated considerable wealth. They may have established small empires for themselves. But what does it all mean? They're going to die. I'm not bothered with any of it.

That's not to say that I don't try to accomplish great things. That's not to say that I'm not after a home and a holiday. I'm just not in such of a rush. I'm in no hurry. I just take my sweet time. The outlook is pretty cruisy when you think eternal.

All I'm after is a decent conversation, a hike in the hills, a play in the surf. I'm here to learn and to share, to enjoy and to grow. You would think I'd be more concerned about advancing empires in the time that I have. When you are not going to die you can build something that can trump anyone else's. You can spend more time working and more time investing. You can buy more land and afford more labourers. The truth is, this is still a waste of time. Even though I have all the time in the world, there are so much better things for me to do.

I would rather tell people that they shouldn't die because it is that simple. All they need to do is realize that they have a choice and choose not to do it. Just don't do it!

There are so many sunrises waiting to be seen from mountaintops. There are so many seas to be sailed. There are crops to plant and feasts to be shared at harvest. There is nothing else for us to do and there is no need to overcomplicate it.

I'm not going to die.

Even when my body is riddled with cancer and I'm on my deathbed.

Dying is for suckers.

FISH III: I am an avatar

This continues the story about a young man called 'Fish'. In 2011 he quit his job because he hated it so much and ventured forth into foreign lands to seek enlightenment and a lifestyle where he could retire at the age of 26 (see A Short Story, A Parable, A Tale of a Man Who Hates His Job)  only to find himself lonely and isolated and questioning what exactly he was doing with his life (Sink or Swim). Now, March 2012 the story continues...

FISH RETURNS TO THE CITY and is invited and obliged to tag along to various dinner parties with young adults his age. He doesn't really know any of them, at least he didn't really before and given the setting doubted he ever would. But his friends - the one's that he did know - thought they owed it to him to invite him to such places. He had gone for years without "regular civilized social interaction" and they thought a decent amount of reintroduction was necessary.

So he sat and ate his meal carefully with the cutlery, smiled and laughed when prompted, like all the others when they laughed - such wonderful and exaggerated laughs!

Everything with an exclamation mark!

The conversation so witty!

Sighs so poignant!

Jobs so interesting!

Holidays so brilliant!

The drama!

Excitement!

Excitement!!!!!!!!

He didn't feel at ease in such settings and wondered if anyone else at the table actually did. Amidst the conversation he scanned his eyes around the room at all the knick knacks and posters and paintings and statues and empty bottles of alcohol that should have been put in the recycling months ago but seem to like being left out on display.

"Why?" fish asks himself. 

He finds himself at various friend's homes in the days that ensue. They have not seen him for so long and long for his company but soon he is sat down on their couch and a downloaded cartoon episode of the Last Airbender or something along those lines is put on. He watches as the Avatar who is specially skilled bends and manipulates water, fire, earth and air. She moves to the city where she wants to extend her skill and training but there is a protest in the streets and they chant desires to rid the city of Airbenders because they are detrimental to society and cannot be trusted.

Fish does not care for the show but his friends are enthralled. He looks out the window and thinks of suggesting doing something outside later otherwise he knows that another one of these shows will be put on after this one has finished. These were his geeky friends. This is what they always did. Bored, he googles the meaning of avatar. One of the meanings interests him;

2.

an embodiment or personification, as of a principle, attitude, or view of life.

  

The next day it is sunny and he rides a bus through town. On the bus half of the passengers sit staring into their cell phones and three quarters are plugged into iPods. Outside Fish notices that there is a coffee shop almost every four shops and they are all full with people sitting in front of them sipping their medicated beverages. He refuses to be like them. Reliant. Not in control. Suckered into and addicted to an expensive and unnecessary social norm.

The night before a news broadcast had stated that there were plans to send people to Mars because life is habitable there. There were already people in training for the harsh living conditions but they were excited that the place was 'liveable'.

Why send people to Mars when you can live somewhere like Arizona? is all he had thought about since hearing such news.

He wants to take all his clothes off in the bus.

It's the answer, he thinks.

No pretense. No hiding. The truth will set you free as long as you are willing to look at it. Everyone needs to do it.

But he reaches his bus stop and walks down the street and down a small garden path to his friends door and as he presses the buzzer he gets the feeling that he is an avatar. 

He just needs to harness his skills.

He hears rushing footsteps growing louder and the door swings open and his friend, all dressed up, envelops him in a huge excitable hug.

'It's so nice out' she says. 'Let's go get a coffee!'

A Short Story, A Parable, A Tale of a Man Who Hates His Job

Meet Fish.

Fish works in a pencil sharpening factory. It’s a small factory and his job is to sharpen pencils, by hand. When Fish started work at the Factory he wondered why machines didn’t do the work for him. 

“We can’t afford that sort of Technology” said his line manager. “We are a small Factory.”

Fair enough thought Fish. 

When Fish started his job he was young and stupid. He was laughing that someone would pay him money for doing such a mundane and brainless task. At the end of his first day he was bragging to all of his friends. The money that he would receive! The simplicity!

But that was five years ago.

In the last two years Fish has only worked eight months. He can no longer stand the sight of pencils. He has also come to hate written language and art necessitated by pencils. Grudgingly, his employer let him take time off because if he didn’t he would lose him for good. Fish had become the most senior pencil sharpener in the factory and was so fast that he sharpened pencils three times faster than his peers.

Initially Fish experimented with time off, not really knowing what to do with himself he slept in, ate breakfast at lunch, and lunch at dinner. He had plans to hang out with friends but they were all working during the day. Fish was alone.

Not working, Fish learnt that he still had to meet the costs of everyday living. He still had to pay his rent, the power and telephone bill, food, the list went on. Fish’s employer had only granted him unpaid leave.

Everything is so expensive Fish thought. I can’t go on like this.

So Fish decided to cut down on his spending. He started to realize that if he spent less money, he would not need to work as much. He started to loathe his apartment, his cell phone, his eating habits. They were all sending him to work! His lifestyle made him work!

So Fish left his apartment and stopped buying meat. He lived in his car and only bought vegetables and fruit that were in season. He bathed in streams, cooked with a portable gas stove and started to develop a passion for rice.

Fish calculated that if he lived like this, he would not need to go back to work for another 3.24 years.

Three months pass.

Fish’s hair is long and he has a beard. He wears recycled clothing and looks derelict and disheveled, wild, but surprisingly indie. He is sick of living in a car. When he meets girls and takes them back to his place they would leave disgusted before even inside.

“This is your house?!” they would say.

“Yeah” said Fish.

“That’s disgusting! You’re a freak!”

Fish craved luxury again but still he detested work. His friends and parents gave him pep talks. They tried to tell him that his job wasn’t that bad and that he was actually making positive difference in the world.

“Everyone needs sharp pencils” they said.

“There’s no point” replied Fish. “They’re just going to get blunt again.”

Fish applied for other jobs but no one wanted an experienced pencil sharpener regardless of his Bruce Lee-esque hand speed. They were mundane jobs anyway, thought Fish, demoralized. He started to wonder how he could live in luxury on his savings without spending more week to week. He wondered if it was possible to retire at age 26.

So Fish travelled to Asia.

Then India.

Then Africa.

He lived on islands.

In jungles.

Amongst Himalayan Yaks.

He kept traveling in search of the most cheap and sustainable living arrangement. Once found, Fish would never have to work again.

Eventually he found himself in a Kenyan village opposite a refugee camp. He shared a mud hut with a family of eight who affectionately termed him “Mizungu”. 

Each morning Fish would sit on the mound of dirt sipping tea strained through Zebra hide. He would watch the people in the refugee camp go about their daily business, lining up for food rations, children going to school, playing football, healthcare. It had everything! He did some investigation regarding the cost of living in a refugee camp.

He worked out that if he lived in the refugee camp he would not have to work for another 112.81 years.

Another three months pass and Fish has managed to starve himself to a suitable level granting him access to the refugee camp. He lives contentedly inside and considers the lifestyle and company new and exotic. The only thing he didn’t understand was all the complaining that went on inside. Everyone wanted jobs, big screen T.Vs, they wanted to leave the camp, travel overseas, to lands of ‘opportunity’, lands of the ‘free’.

Fish shakes his head. These people didn’t realize that they were living the dream. They didn’t know what it was like to work in a Pencil Factory.

And so Fish lives in the refugee camp. He watches people come and go. He sees the new tents get put up. His friends and family would write to him and plead him to come back but Fish wouldn’t want any part of it. Everything about home was expensive, and where there was expense there was need of sharpening pencils on his behalf, or some other equally monotonous and meaningless task. They had all become the same in his eyes and he detested them all. He had found a new home now. Life in the refugee camp was meagre but he was at his own liberty. He accepts it and embraces it.

One day a group of UN workers come with gifts for refugees in the camp and everyone lines up in excitement, Fish included. When Fish reaches the front of the line he is given the same gift as everyone else. It is a pencil and the lead is broken.

The children in the refugee camp are ecstatic. They run to walls of buildings making effort to inscribe but nothing happens. Adults try and do the same. Everyone has broken pencils, they all try to use them, none of them working, then turn to Fish - the only white man in the camp - for answers.

“Mizungu! Why dis not work?”

“It’s because it needs...” Fish does not complete the sentence.

He watches boys press with their pencils so hard on the walls that the paint from the pencil exterior starts to come off and stick to the wall.

“It working now!” they exclaim.

The remainder of the camp is dubious. They look at their broken questions and question their worth. Once again they have been given unwanted and technologically defunct gifts from the West in the form of aid. They wanted pens.

Fish goes back to his tent and gathers his things. He decides he must leave. He will head south to Uganda.