Tuesday, July 11th, 2006
South Molle Island, Queensland, Australia

Back on my Feet.

“I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest
man alive. A year ago, six months ago, I thought that I was an artist.
I no longer think about it, I am...”
~Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer

What a difference a month can make. Thirty odd days ago I was sitting in the same place as I am now. But the circumstances were quite different. That time I was footloose and fancy free. This time I am landlocked and work 'till three. Yes, after eight months of freedom I've rejoined the work force. But before I get to dirty details of my work detail, I'll go through an all to familiar process of fumbling through the past, trying to scrape a memory, straining to remember the details of a hectic month. And at this point my notebook may as well be a paper weight. I've yet to write a word in the new moleskine I bought in St Kilda. Ah! There we go.. a memory! I was in St Kilda recently... how on earth did I end up back there?

Well, in the last chapter I was headed to Brisbane in the old van, looking to free myself of a couple thousand pounds of shoulder weight. I do remember getting to Brisbane. I arrived around dinner time in my favourite place to be, and starting sniffing around for a place to stay. After half a dozen laps around Fortitude Valley and the CBD, I finally settled on Base Backpackers, the scene of the Great Van Robbery. Why not? Throw caution to the wind. After checking in, I lugged my gear up to an eight bed dorm only to find it filled with backpackers in various states of decay. With no free beds, I returned to reception. 'Well there should be a free bed'. Yes fantastic, but there is not. 'Okay.. well here's a list of the people who should be checked in, go up there and see who's occupying the free bed.' Uhh.. lady, no offence, but there's no way in hell that I'm going up there and playing hall monitor with a bunch of drunken backpackers. So after a couple minutes of that game, she finally put me in a single room where I retired for a shower. Once I had washed off the stench of van, and run through my entire set list on guitar three times over, I shuffled out into Brisbane to see what trouble I could get into. I remember being thirsty for live music. I had a couple false starts with some stale bands. I'm sure they were enjoying themselves, but I sure wasn't. On my third try I found a funky little speakeasy that had a great seven piece jazz band thumping and blaring their way through music that fit the surroundings perfectly. Beedop! Blazzz. I took a seat at the bar, slowly sipped a single malt scotch and squinted past the filterless cigarettes that curled thick blue smoke into a heavy haze that suffocated the tiny bar. Right down to the women in full flapper regalia twisting and bopping to the band, this place reaked of an America you only see in old movies. Someone, somehow, shipped this bar from New York circa 1930 and managed to preserve it in smoke. Once I had finished my Glenlivet, and the saxophone had played it's last note, I stumbled out the door, back into the 21st century. And back into Brisbane. And I'm uncomfortable immediately. And just in case I were to forget, Brunswick St served up a nasty display as I stood outside another live venue. As I talked to Kyle on the phone, an argument between a guy and a group of girls slipped from vocal to physical. I don't know what started it, but it ended with one girl getting punched by the guy, who in turn was attacked by everyone standing near him. Within seconds the police were on everyone, tying hands with zip ties and explaining to the guy that he'd have new accommodations for the night. Thankfully no one was really hurt, but once again I felt the urge to get the hell out of Brisbane. The next morning I was on a flight to Melbourne. Not sure why, it just made sense at the time.

With the van parked in long term storage at the domestic terminal I giggled to myself as I boarded my flight to Melbourne. I was about to return to St Kilda, the beginning of this whole mess. My restless home for two and a half months. And no one knew I was coming. I couldn't wait to rock up to the old Bernini, 10 Carlisle St, and knock on the door. Surprise! ...But what if no one was there? I know Marty moved out, and remember Jimmy was searching for a new place.. And Bebe and Amanda were supposed to be off to Thailand around now.. Hmm.. Perhaps a bit more fore thought would have been wise. But it's too late now. I'm at 10,000 feet and climbing, and I don't think they'd turn around and refund my ticket. So I might as well set my sights on St Kilda and see what happens.

The flight was quick. Deceptively quick. I'm pretty sure it took a couple months to get from Melbourne to Brisbane the last time.. But, twenty four hours after arriving in Brisbane I was landing in Melbourne. One bus and a cab later I was standing outside of our old flat. With fingers crossed I pressed the buzzer. Well actually that's a lie. It would have been a little uncomfortable to push the buzzer with crossed fingers, but you get the idea. A familiar voice crackled over the speaker. 'Hello?'. That's gotta be Amanda.. 'Buzz me up darlin'. 'Who is this?'. 'Jesse'. 'Jesse who?'. 'Jesse Bradstreet'. 'Oh my God'. Click. Click? No buzz? I stood there for a second. My cries of 'Oh come on... buzz us in!' fell on deaf speakers. Finally I saw Amanda slinking around the corner. Looked like she had seen a ghost. A 'What the hell are you doing here?' was accompanied by a hug and a laugh. I explained my random reasons of being, and walked back into Apt 6. Not much had changed. Marty, Kyle and myself had been replaced with Amanda, Bebe, and two newcomers. The first was a French Canadian named Cynthia, one of the girls who had lived Bebe and Amanda. We had met briefly before at Bebe's birthday, but it wasn't until this trip that we had a chance to get better acquainted. Second was Jun, a girl from South Korea who was over here “studying English”. I include quotes because “studying English” was the story that Jun's parents got. The truth was she just wanted to get away from Korea for a while, so here she was living and working in St Kilda. While we all got better acquainted, the rest of the characters from previous chapters started trickling in. The first was Jimmy. The stunned look on his face when I said 'Hey Jimmy' as he walked in the door was priceless. Almost as good Amanda's 'Oh My God' Click. Once again I ran through the past couple of months to my bewildered audience. Then Bebe returned from work. Rinse, wash, repeat. Finally Jimmy called Marty and got him to come over under false pretences. When he eventually shuffled in, I got my last victim, and we all returned to that time and place where we had all lived under the same roof. Of course it wasn't really that long ago, but it seemed it. For me especially. It was dizzying to think of how much had happened in the two or so months that had passed since I was in St Kilda. And now that I had returned I realized how much I missed it. When I was starving in anticipation of travel, I was antsy and uncomfortable sitting in one place. But now it felt like slipping into an old comfortable pair of jeans. The cakes and pies of Acland St. The beautiful people sipping their lattes. My favourite little café where I first wrote about Australia. Of course I had returned in winter, so the favourable weather was replaced with grey skies and nipply evenings. But I'm Canadian damn it. And this ain't cold. Now, where did I put that sweater..

So St Kilda was home for another week. Didn't really plan on staying that long, but as I'm fully aware, St Kilda has a hold that's hard to break. Getting back together with the boys felt like a reunion of old friends. And we picked up right where we left off. Stagerring up and down the streets of Melbourne in search of hijinx. A couple nights at the Espy, a couple lazy days watching movies, and everything in between. Even met up with Lou, who we had spent a week with in Byron. The day after arriving, or something along those lines, Bebe and Amanda had a going away party to celebrate their sentence served in Oz. Two years or something to that effect. There was loud music and dancing. Neither of which I quite understood, but I followed along with a curious expression on my face. At some point the night ended, sure to invite hangovers for the participants the following day. Sleeping in the Bernini again. Can't get over the time warp.

Shortly after Bebe and Mandy's party we crammed into the Elephant and Wheelbarrow to catch a World Cup soccer match between England and.. er.. someone else. Once again I didn't understand what was happening, but I cheered along as the Poms kicked ass and ball to victory. Hurray soccer! Sorry, “football”. This was repeated on several nights. Basically if Brazil, England or Australia were playing a match, we were watching. And my enthusiasm for soccerball, somehow, still remains flat. I'll take a dozen goons on skates chasing a rubber puck any day over this kick, wait, kick, aww... display. And so the week drew on. Soccer and pints. Lots of laughs. No fights. Just good ol' St Kilda fun. I was enjoying the comforts and company of our old stomping ground so much that I kept delaying my return flight back to Brisbane. I even got to witness the ridiculous exodus of our Brazilian neighbours. Although the going away party happened when I first got there, the actual 'going away' happened a week later. And I have never seen a more shameful display of packing in my life. No offence girls, but that was insanity. For two girls travelling to Thailand, then onto Europe, there was enough clothing to clothe a small country. Boxes and bags of clothes and nicknacks where packed and shipped back to Brazil. Tons of it. There were hurried packing/cleaning sessions that would last hours and whole days leading up to their departure. When the tearful goodbyes finally came, they still had so many clothes they needed us to act as porters and carry their bags to the car. Hours passed and Jimmy finally returned from the airport. And right behind him returned Bebe and Amanda. Turns out the staff at the airport was also impressed by their packing. Too much shit. $500 worth if they wanted to haul it with them to Thailand. So they lugged it all back and had another late night session, trying to figure out which pair of white pants, out of 6(!) that would make the cut. Another day in Oz. Another set of bags shipped to Brazil. And more tears, hugs and handshakes. When Jimmy returned that night, the Bernini and it's occupants had seen the last of the Brazilians. And considering I had spent over a week in Melbourne, when I should have really been selling the van, I took my cue and booked the next flight out.

Back to Brisbane. Right. Got a job to do. Gotta sell the bloody van. What followed was a frustrating week of mechanics and body shops trying to get the van in selling order. Luckily I bumped into Emily upon return and I managed to find a free place to stay with her and her friend Maha (sp?). My new home for the week was Maha's dad's place in an area of Brisy called the Gap. A beautiful house, in a beautiful area. Almost made me appreciate Brisbane. So my days were spent with the afore mentioned mechanics, fixing rust and running through a list a mile long. My nights were spent hanging out with Emily, Maha, Maha's boyfriend (fresh off the boat from B.C.), and Maha's room-mate of sorts who proceeded to stick me with needles. Seriously. She was studying acupuncture so I sat still, pincushioned for half an hour, as she opened my four gates, or something like that. I did appreciate the free needling, but I have to say that whole rigamorol isn't for me. All I felt was four small pricks (get your mind out of the gutter) and a bit of numbness in my right foot. Supposedly I was supposed to feel free and relaxed. Uh-huh. No thank you ma'am. I'll stick to massages thank you very much. But thank you.

As frustration built with Old Reliable Unit #8, with hundreds of repairs turning into thousands, I was ready to leave the van parked in Brisbane and just walk away. Seriously. I phoned Kyle at one point and told him. I was at my breaking point. Although this stay in Brisbane was far more comfortable than any before it, I was scratching to get back up north. And I was sick of dealing with the van. Luckily, in the ninth hour, I talked to Dave, the guy who was interested in the van, and gave him the honest low down. Ceceecil needed a speedometer cable, a horn, engine mounts, new shocks, injector leak fixage and the real kicker, a new fuel injector pump. The very same thing we had replaced during the engine swap in Sydney. And to the grating tune of $1600. But Dave was still interested. We finally agreed on a price that left him in good shape to fix everything and more money than I would have received by abandoning it in hasty frustration. So we lost a mittfull, but we were finally free. It took a couple days between saying goodbyes and dropping the van up in Maroochydor, but I was finally free. Finally back on my feet with my belongings stuffed into a dangerously overflowed bag. I sent Kyle a simple text message. 'Sold. Heading up north'. And so it was. And so I was.

Dave gave me a lift to the nearest bus station and I finally said goodbye to Reliable Unit #8, Old Clankety, Beloved Ceceecil. And I have to say, with all the trouble we had, I almost teared up. After three months of living and travelling in her, we were finally parting ways. I'm glad to be moving on, but in some ways it feels like I spent more time with that van than anyone else so far, including Kyle. Probably not accurate, but man was I comfortable in that van. But no more ground gears. No more engine management. The intoxicating aroma of diesel no longer omni present. It's a good thing. Move forward. Don't look back. As I heard the old girl drive away, I turned in search of a new ride. What I found was a forty-odd seat Greyhound heading Airlie Beach way. For $160 I was treated to a sixteen hour tour of a familiar coast in a seat designed to eliminate any notion of comfort. I did manage to score two seats to myself, but that just led to a dozen failed attempts at sleeping on a bus. No matter which way I pretzled, my six foot frame was not getting comfortable in that bus. And even though it was so freakin' bumpy that reading became a challenge, I managed to entertain myself enough to avoid going crazy, and devoured To Kill a Mockingbird in a single sitting. The first in a long list of “classics” I'm attempting to read on this trip. Seven eternities later I was back in Airlie. 6:30 am. So very tired. I tracked down a coffee and made small talk with a couple of fellow bus-ites until the next bus that would lead me to the ferry for South Molle Island.

So here we are. South Molle. My new home. And probably the most bizarre experience so far in this whole jumbled mess. Definitely the most bizarre moment in my employment history. I've saved this for the end, because I know most of my friends and co-workers back home barely read these journals, and I'm trying the brace for the ridicule that will surely follow. So let me ease into it.. When I arrived on South Molle, I had everything I owned and no real purpose. Desperately broke at this point, a job was no longer a distant memory, but a necessity. I guess no matter how much I said I was retired, travelling, it would seem, required money. So who's got a job for Bradstreet?

At first I took a day to catch my breath and catch up with Kyle and the rest of the gang that I had met during my previous trip to South Molle. If you're not familiar with it, South Molle is one of the islands that compromise the Whitsundays, the stuff of postcards that make friends jealous (until they find out where you're working ;) ). Beautiful Mountains rise from the sea, covered in lush jungle. Coral reef traces the shore. Palm trees jut out from every angle, threatening to drop a coconut on your noggin at any moment. And multi-coloured tropical birds wake you up to eat fresh fruit from your hand. Enough sand, sun and fun to feed your soul for months on end. My good old buddy had been there for a month mixing Pina Coladas for Ozzies on vacation. And I was ready to bite the bullet and (gasp) work. The last time I showed up unannounced I was able to sneak in as a guest of Kyle's, but this time they were hip to my scam. With the boss off the island for a day I was forced to either leave on the last boat and return to Airlie (which would only lead to no good) or get a room in the resort. And so once again I spent money I didn't have. A beautiful room with a view of the ocean and a spa bath would be my last taste of freedom. Or so I thought. After a hefty room bill and a night at the bar, I found out I would have to return the mainland to enquire about a job. I was livid. The only reason I had stayed at the resort was to talk to the manager. And now people were telling me it was all for not. Grrrrrr.... As I drank my coffee by the beach, I was not a happy camper. Eventually I lost my funk and decided to take a hike around the island with a girl named Jamie to clear my head. Again the beauty of my surroundings was calling. I want to stay on the island damn it.

When I returned from my hike, I found my bags had been packed on the last boat off the island, unbenounced to me. Again, the anger built. I was this close to leaving. But before I had time to run screaming, Kyle managed to get the manager's ear and explain the situation. 'Show up in the morning with your bags and we'll find something'. Finally. I was ecstatic. I had a smile that lasted well into the next morning. Sure I was returning to the employed masses, but I was on a tropical island (okay sub-tropical) and all was groovy. Groovy. Remember that feeling chump. Paradise is hard to enjoy when you work the 8am to 4:30pm shift in your new job. What, pray tell, do I do now? Well after working my way to supervising effects for multi-million dollar movies, managing a team of forty artists, I've taken a bit of a step backwards.

Ladies and gentlemen. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Jesse Bradstreet. Twenty Seven years of age. A storied career in Hollywood. Currently holding down an entry level position in Housekeeping. Housekeeping. Housekeeping. This can't be. Oh it be man. Right now I'm sitting in some discounted honeymoon suite in Airlie (long story) on my first day off. The last two and a half days have been consumed by eight hour days sifting, sorting, washing and folding. From the nicest room in the resort to washing the very sheets I soiled. It's temporary mind you, until a better job becomes available, but it's left me in a confused daze. I was used to hearing about everyone's “dirty laundry” on the island, as gossip spreads fast, but I never imagined I'd be literally washing it. But there's an odd appeal to this whole crazy mess. For so long I've held a good job that I more or less fell into out of high school. I worked my ass off to get where I got in the end, but money was never a problem, and by the end I felt like a senior at school. I knew how it all worked, and everyone knew me. But now I was back in Kindergarten and learning my abc's. The challenge to get ahead in the world is back and it's morbidly fascinating. A good chunk of my check supposedly goes towards food and accommodation. But the food is not exactly stellar, and my “accommodation” is a tiny closet with a small musty bed and no bathroom. The staff showers are a flip-flop must. But on the flip side there is zero stress in my job. The only tense moment came when I put the coloured backpacker's sheets (not a racist statement, the sheets were green) into a bleach cycle, but they came out unphased so disaster avoided. Every day two little parakeets fly onto my shoulder because they know I'll sneak them an apple or handful of grapes from the staff kitchen. And the people around me are all decent folk. So I'll stick it out for the next little while and see what happens.

Now let's pause for a second.

Let me just throw this load in the dryer.

This is where this journal should have ended.

It was the 11th of July when I last put down my pen. I wish I had posted this back then with the punchline intact, but one of the caveats of island life is little things like internet access are limited. So as rooms got cleaned, housekeeping, and sheets got folded, this text remained hidden. And another month slipped by.

For the next week I started slipping, fumbling with what I was doing here. Briefly nervous about the future in Australia. Stuck in a dead end job, that was strangling my creativity. I remember working a mindless job as a kid (13? 16?) stacking shelves at Frank's Grocery. When I wasn't busy I would go crazy. Same in school. When I wasn't being challenged or being creative I would grow restless. Talk out in class. Find extra ciricular activies to blow off steam. The more bored. The more extra ciricular. Skipping class more and more. Finding a group of similar kids who were bored with the cookie cutter assembly of teachings that are supposed to work for all kids and mould you into what society thinks you should be. From the outside, from a parent's point of view, it probably just looked like wasting time. Smoking and hackysacking. Hanging out at the donut shop. Sure, it wasn't the most productive we could have been, but we also engaged each other in conversation and pushed our minds harder then a calculus class could at the time. Some times it would devolve into childish pranks and borderline criminal activity. Stupid stuff that I regret at times, but never too serious. Luckily I grew out of that stage. I was lucky enough to have great parents who somehow impressed upon me that such stupid behaviour wasn't a viable career path. And so, it would seem, the majority of my friends understood deep down, as we all seemed to shake that punk kid attitude and eventually find our feet. Only one or two that I can remember that fell from grace. So ten years later you'll find us in various states of employment. Some are lawyers. Some are internet moguls. Some have families. And some start in laundry at 8:00am. Oh right. I was going somewhere with this..

Guess I've deviated drastically from my original point. Didn't mean to get into all that, but familiar circumstances and similarities opened up a quick succession of memories, and this is my journal damn it, so out it came. And for some reason I feel a need to cuss a bit too much.

So, what I was getting at with all this nonsense, is that familiar feeling of being stuck. The first time was at that grocery store on Avenue Rd in Toronto, and would repeat many times throughout an existence in school that I found unchallenging and forced. And so I finally left school. And, after a couple minor detours, fell into Visual Effects where I flourished creatively and personally. Sure it probably wasn't that apparent to my employers in the beginning, as my work was quite amateur getting started, but inside I was alive and challenged. And all of it. Consuming and exilharating. That was a feeling that never completely left me during my nine years at Core. Of course it did fade, and spike, from time to time, but even in my last year I had moments where I felt as alive as I ever have. When it finally made sense to leave and take a different track, find a different life for a while, Australia brought back the rush that only comes with your taste of new excitement. A new drug. Five months ago I had smile that was cut into stone. And now it's even broader. :)

For that first week I was stuck. Stuck on an island with a small population comprised entirely of staff. Stuck in a job that was in no way challenging. Stuck with a debt that desperately needed to be chipped away before any more serious travel was an intelligent option. But I was conflicted. I questioned why I was being so negative. My surroundings were unbelievable. People usually pay $1000+ a week to live in a setting like this. And here I am complaining about staying here and getting paid. Not a terrible job, all things considered. But that stuck is impossible to ignore for me. Whether or not it's rational, if it's selfish and childish, the only way I've ever shaked free is to make a drastic jump. It's worked before, it's failed miserably before, but I always got unstuck.