follow me.... myspace / twitter / facebook

Blog...

Past 1/20/2010 Australia: Land of Contrast

Tasmania: Animation, Self Gratification and Appreciation

By: Dustin Pari

Its is a pretty sad realization in the life of a man, or a woman for that matter as I do not think the presence of breasts and a vagina change the scenario at all, anyhow, regardless of what may or may not lie betwixt your legs, it is a pretty sad realization in one’s life when they must admit to themselves and whomever else bothered to ask, that the only thing they know about Tasmania, is based upon the whirling, frothing, eating machine as depicted in the Warner Bros. cartoons of yesteryear.

Yet there I was, humbled at the age of 32 years, having to admit that once again, my knowledge is most heavily derived from glimpses of reality, immensely saturated by animation and influenced by commercial jingles.

With such helpful insight as “the Tasmanian Devil eats pretty much everything (especially wabbits)”, I struck out on my sojourn through the rural backwoods of Tasmania. A mere white-knuckled flight from the coast of Australia, through some of the highest regularly noted winds at airports worldwide, and there I was in cartoon land- not a cross dressing rabbit in sight.

The weather was crisp and cool, it reminded me of Thanksgiving morning back in New England, without the sweet smell of turkey, without the comfort of warm mashed potatoes, without the parade, and without the people for that matter. In a word, the place appeared nearly desolate, a losers’ Thanksgiving at best.

I ended up spending a lonely soul searching week in a very isolated spot just outside of historic Port Arthur, known for being a vast prison complex which Australia, a formal penal colony itself, sent its own prisoners; Outcasts amongst outcasts. Tasmania: the original Isle of Misfit Toys. Where was King Moon Racer when you needed him?

I toured the prison grounds, visited the buildings, and read the informative placards as I strolled throughout the sprawling settlement. Not wanting to spend any more time than I needed to in prison, I used my handy get out of jail free card which I won when I landed on Free Parking, and I made my way to see the much-heralded Tasmanian Devil, which looked nothing like it’s animated cousin out in Hollywood.

If it was physically possible for a bear to mate with a hamster, assuming they were both in love and of legal consenting age and their parents approved, the Tasmanian Devil might be what such a romantic union would produce.

The Devil looked about the size of a large housecat or a small dog, depending on if you are a cat person or a dog person; I make the analogies, you decide what works best for you.

Black and white, with wiry looking fur and strong snapping jaws, the Tasmanian Devil makes a living eating whatever is thrown at it. And usually, it is thrown at it, as they are a dying breed due to a specific cancer which they have been passing around to each other through their constant biting and bickering, so some of the healthy ones now live in captivity and are fed scraps of meat and bone. And yes, they do eat bone and all. The snapping and popping sounds are immense as they tear through their meals. If only the Mafia knew of such an animal they could have saved a fortune on cement shoes.

A series of photos, a stroll through the kangaroo farm where you can pet these tame creatures that were rescued from roadside accidents, and I was on my way back to my room, burdened with the knowledge that I had spent more time talking to the animals than I did with people. Look out Doctor DoLittle you have competition!

The little hotel was nestled in a woody area that very much resembled the hairy patches of a fat mans belly, sporadically placed and seemingly without any good reason. The place was decent enough though, as most rooms for rent are. I had a couch, a hot water kettle, a mini fridge, a shower and a queen size bed. Pretty much the necessities were supplied; all except for heat, oddly enough. I was given an electric blanket however, which warmed my weary bones at the end of the day, and comforted my soul, bringing me back to my childhood nights, snuggled up in my feety-pajamas and toasty warm blankey.

Many moons had passed since I was as a kid, wide-eyed and innocent. Sneaking out of bed in the late hours of the night to catch a glimpse of any R rated movie that might be so kind as to even cast a brief flicker of boob across my pre-pubescent gaze. Ah childhood, how fleeting; animation by day and gratification by night. My mind like a sponge, absorbing whatever clues of culture and cubes of knowledge television was offering, and scrubbing away my aforementioned innocence like and unwanted bit of broccoli from the dinner plate. (Which I still choose not to eat)

Alas, there was nothing to watch on the two channels Tasmanian TV had to offer, so I stepped out for a walk in the night air, looking up to the moon shining sadly in the sky like a lonely prostitute on Valentine’s night. Every business has an off-season, even the world’s oldest profession.

Whilst walking, I stumbled across a sign for a place called Pirate’s Bay, and being a modern day plunderer and pillager- I decided it was only natural that I should wander that way.

It was peaceful, it was empty, and it was like sitting too close to a movie screen. My vision was filled from corner to corner with stars and the reflection of stars as they danced and played upon the waves. The Southern Cross constellation shown mightily in the dark sky, an “x” marking the spot I was meant to be in at that moment in time, at that page in the dime-store pulp fiction novel of my life.

I felt small, as one should feel. There was a glimmer of innocence reflected upon the crests of the waves. A hint of hope hung silently in the night air as to not give away the future, but just enough to make sure you continue to play the game.

Maybe it was because I hadn’t really seen many people in a few days time that I was so thoughtful.

Maybe it was because I had found a scorpion in my sneaker earlier in the morning, just as I was about to slip my foot inside.

Maybe it was because we are not meant to know all that is going on, and much like sitting too close to the movie screen it prevents us from seeing the whole picture, leaving us with nothing to do but wonder and ask questions and sneak out of our rooms late at night to glimpse a brief smattering of skin on, the appropriately named, “boob tube”.

Whatever the reason was, I suddenly found myself thinking more about the big picture of life, and how each day is truly a blank canvas to be thankful for, whether the picture turns out to be a masterpiece or a complete disaster. It’s our masterpiece, our disaster, and as long as there is breath in our lungs, we have the chance to create once again tomorrow.

We can continue to try, to hope and to play the game, or we can continue to grunt and groan, piss and moan, and slowly bite each other into extinction.

As for me, I’m going to paint