Cheer Squad.

As a teenager I supported my local Australian Rules Football team. I joined the cheer squad, dressed in the team's colours, lead chants, waved flags, built banners, it was a hoot. I met a lot of people with a common interest, felt part of something.

After a few years I realized that my local team wasn't local, the athletes were highly paid professionals from all over the country. I was changing and growing up but the game itself was changing too, my club had become a business. I still love the game, for those who haven't seen it Aussie Rules is the best game on earth, but I can't feign a passion for any one team now.

I've been watching a little of the Winter Olympics from Vancouver. Rampant nationalism everywhere, a little nauseating. I'm proud of the ideals that make my country a free and happy place to live but I don't believe that my country is any better or any worse than many others. I like France and the U.S.A. equally well and I'm sure I'll like other places just as much as I get to them.

Athletes claim to be competing for the glory of their nation. Bullshit. They compete because they love it. They wouldn't train a life time for one event if they didn't. I'm sure they love their countries too but they'd compete for Hell if that was the only option.

It seems to me there are nations that share roughly the same ideals about freedom and justice, not by coincidence they are the wealthy ones. Some of Europe, Scandinavia, North America, Australia, New Zealand, these places are free, happy and rich because they want to be. I'd be thrilled to live in any of them. I'll always be grateful for what the land of my birth has given me but I can't imagine cheering for it like I did as aa teenager.

Parkstreet.

Love Is All.

Love is all. Love is all that gets us out of bed in the morning, all that we'll remember. It drives us to achieve, compels us to create. Along the way we become distracted, start believing that achievement and creation are ends to themselves, lose track of love. If we are lucky one person arrives who reminds us that love is all.

Parkstreet.

Smart Men Can Be The Worst Lovers.

In every man there is an ongoing battle between his reasoned pre frontal cortex and the more primitive parts of his brain.

Due to my upbringing and education my frontal lobe has far too much control over my life, like HAL in 2001 it has taken over the ship and tries to deny the human. The opposite can be said of many men, the primitive is king and there is little control over anger and aggression .

We all have flaws in our make up and once we are aware of them they are usually pretty easy to change, if we want to. For me it is a matter of using the tool of reason when it is the most apt tool, putting it down and letting some primitive grunt come through when that is desirable. Without doubt this knowledge has improved my saxophone playing and hopefully it will improve my relationship with the world day by day.

This balance between reason and primal urge is always tested by both sex and love. Passion and desire cannot be reasoned yet we have to make a reasoned assessment of another person's desire for us. Does it get any more confusing? Every woman I know loves, occasionally, to be thrown down on a bed and given a good seeing to. Not all the time, but occasionally. The man who relies purely on instinct to know when it is the right occasion will get it right nine times out of ten. The tenth time he will serve eight years with a non parole period of six years. That's some dice to roll.

As a lover a little anatomical knowledge and some practised technique goes a long way but what a woman wants even more than an orgasm is to see and feel desire and passion, desire and passion for her. Desire and passion can't be thought through. They exist or they don't. They are freely expressed or repressed by too much thinking. A man who is thinking when he should be getting down is never going to satisfy a woman.

I hear stories about men's groups where they get in touch with their primal selves. Bullshit. A man doesn't have to look far. There was a hot girl in tight jeans in front of me on the esculator from the train station yesterday, and there was my primitive self. It is ever present. Paying attention to it and expressing it is easy. It is grunting loudly most of the time and doesn't have the manners to wait quietly. Getting back in touch with it at my age is like a new life. I'm digging it. I feel like a man again.

I prefer to err on the side of reasson in most situations. Men who are slaves to their desires are fools and live like fools. The raw, primitive self is as addictive as power. For me the battle goes on but now it is a fair fight and reason is learning it's place.

Parkstreet.

What's So Old Fashioned About Peace Love And Understanding?

Tonight was Sydney Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras parade night. It is a fabulous occasion in every sense of the word.

The parade itself runs down inner city Oxford Street, a gay village on the edge of the city. It is just the start of a huge night of parties and wildness all 'round the area. I live about ten minutes walk away so the spill over crowd ends up here. It's about two in the morning and all I can hear is raised voices and police and ambulance sirens. No amount of feathers and sequins can prevent the usual results of drug and alcohol consumption.

The Sydney Mardi Gras started as a political protest in the 70's and grew into a major event that attracts tourists from around the world. The whole point is to celebrate all the different walks of life that people tread. Unfortunately it is also an idiot magnet. I can't understand how some try to turn it into on occasion for aggression and violence.

I wonder if this happens anywhere else in the world? Is this an Australian phenomenon or do fuckwits mar happy events in other countries? It's a serious question. There is a small homophobic element but I think it is a very small minority, it appears to be over excitement in the mob more than anything.

Maybe I'm naive, I just can't imagine ugly behaviour spoiling an international event in other major cities around the world. Would a gay parade in Rome, Paris, London result in straight boys punching on and broken beer bottles on the pavement outside my building?

I'm saddened by it. I'm sad that it is probably just an Australian thing. I hope you'll comment and let me know if this sort of thing happens where you live.

Parkstreet.

Rock Stardom.

Back in the 50's and 60's rock stars were people who could grow their hair long, wear whatever clothes they wanted, openly enjoy drugs and casual sex. Today any plonker can do these things, so why bother being a rock star.

When the cookie jar is always full what's the fun in cookies?

Parkstreet.

Autotune.

A pox on autotune and all who sail upon her. A pox on anyone who lets the producer put this effect on her voice, a pox on anyone who buys any recording with this effect featuring on it.

Just like food labels warn us of m.s.g. or traces of nut, downloads and c.d.'s should come with warnings of autotune.

Like any lame fad it will pass soon enough, we can hurry the process by refusing to have anything to do with it.

A pox on autotune.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

A Rose By Any Other.

Recently the Nigerian president had to leave the country for medical treatment, the name of the acting president is Goodluck Johnathan. Names are culturally based, what is normal in one culture is not normal in another, but in my culture Goodluck Johnathan is an extraordinary but bloody marvellous name.

I'm a firm believer that we should be able to choose our own names once we reach an age when we know ourselves well enough. Once a man knows he wants to be a politician he should be allowed to pick a suitable title. Fiscally Responsible Darren, Able To Plan Ahead Simon, Never Caught In A Sex Scandal Jeremy. Like Goodluck Johnathan I'd feel comfortable handing over power to men with names like these.

I reckon the name I'm Not Nearly As Left Wing As I Sound When Campaigning In Oregon Barak has a comforting ring to it, don't you?

In some cultures there are only a handful of names so most pick up a nickname along the way. This is effectively the same idea although the nickname may be chosen by others. If you live in a community where you feel people know and like you this could work just as well.

In my business nearly everyone chooses their own name. Stagenames and noms de plume have been around for centuries. I think it happens when a writer or performer feels they are producing work that needs it's own name. Really good work is channelled rather than produced, it's like the person who was named by his parents disappears and the medium with his apt title lets the work flow through him.

Girls named Wednesday always do it for me.

When you look back on your life, do you believe your parents were the most suitable people to bestow a lifelong title on you? Shouldn't that be a right for the man who knows himself? In Goodluck Johnathan's case it seems to have worked out, he's landed the plum job without facing an election. I must write to him and find out if he or his parents chose that name.

Parkstreet.

Goal Oriented Oral Sex.

Men have turned oral sex into a target focused parlour game, like darts, hit the bullseye and chalk up your points.

When receiving they are obsessed with ejeculation, and where it goes, in or on what. When giving, if they do, orgasm is the only target, not the joy of the sensual experience.

This is partly due to ego and the primal urge, but has become mainstream and boring because of the abundance of porn and the inanity of glossy chick mags. Another triumph of the media over the message, form over content, one of the most beautiful acts two adults can share has been turned into a Point A to Point B journey, get on at one airport, wake me up when it is time to get off.

Parkstreet.

What Is Style?

I love words like "style", indefineable yet we all know what it means.

I remember a man my father used to work with, someone once commented on how well dressed he always was. He responded by saying he was short, fat and ugly so he had to get something right. I'd never noticed that he was short, fat and ugly until he said it, I guess his style had bluffed me, bluffed me superbly.

I have a young friend here in Sydney, she is a student and a waitress, the definition of poverty . She can wear a singlet and jeans like no one else, with no money she looks sexy and beautifully turned out every time I see her.

My local, regular cafe is near a couple of groovy clubs. Late at night the crowds pile out of taxis and parade around a bit before they fill themselves with drugs and bad manners. They are beautiful young people dressed in the latest fashion, but few have any style to speak of. Most wear heels they can't walk in, tops they are falling out of, jackets a size too big or small, shirts that look great on t.v. but kind of silly in real life.

I like that style isn't about money or looks. I like that fashion is often the enemy of style. I like the way it represents the value people put on themselves, not an attempt to gain approval from others.

This week's mission is to look at myself and my own style, what I wear, how I carry myself, how I see myself in the world. I think it's time to improve my style.

Parkstreet.

The Australia/U.S. Alliance.

A couple of years ago I had a conversation with a fellow in Portland Oregon. He was about sixty years old but full of schoolboy charm, a little drunk, a little wild, very very likeable.

Turned out he'd served in Vietnam, spent most of his R and R time in a bar called the Bourbon and Beefsteak in Kings Cross Sydney. My home at the time was about thirty yards from that bar, I could see it out my front window. Kings Cross is the red light and entertainment district in Sydney, we compared notes on how it had changed, how it hadn't.

I'm an upper middle class fop musician, my new friend was an African American who'd been poor enough to have to join the army during a conflict, a pretty tough guy, yet we got along easily and happily, shooting the breeze and sharing a few truths. He'd served with a few Australians, had a lot of time for the Aussie soldier.

I hear a lot of naff anti American nonsense here in Australia, and it pisses me off. It usually spills from the mouths of arty, left wing types who've never visited the U.S., never thought beyond the standard lines they know to be cool and acceptable amongst their like minded friends.

America turned the word freedom into an ideal. They saved our arse in a world war. We share some history. We are family. I can't wait to return to America later this year, make some new unlikely friends.

Parkstreet.

Killer Whales.

If a bunch of killer whales took me prisoner, held me on a tiny island, made money out of having other whales along to watch me perform degrading tricks for food, I would kill one of those whales if I could. Given the chance I'd kill them all.

The thing is that whales would never do such a thing to a human.

Parkstreet.

Oregon Summer Berries.

When I hit Portland this summer the first thing I'm going to do is go to that fruit and vegetable market on S.E. Hawthorne, purchase as many summer berries as I can carry, take them home, smother them in at least one gallon of Tillamook cream and eat as many as I can, eat until I start hallucinating.

Sometimes there is a deep truth to life, other times it is as simple as Oregon berries taste good. They taste so good that the whole world seems simple and joyous while I'm eating them. I'd swap every deep thought I've ever had if I could squelch so much joy out of every simple experience.

Parkstreet.

Control.

Those who want to control other people's lives generally have no control over their own. Handing over control of one's life to one of these people is like diving into the surf and waiting for the waves to smash one's head into the rocks.

Parkstreet.

A Straight Life.

A new digital t.v. station here in Sydney has started playing The Sopranos from the start. I can't get enough of this show.

There is one episode I can't wait to see again. Christopher's girlfriend gets rolled by the F.B.I., he has to decide if he wants to go on the witness protection scheme with her. He loves her and seriously considers the prospect.

He goes to buy cigarettes, sees a working class schmo buying nappies, imagines himself living a straight life, waiting in line, taking shit from others instead of dishing it out. Instead of going home he rings Tony, his girlfriend is shot in the woods, life goes on.

Nothing this extreme ever happens to most of us, but we do have fork in the road moments. Most of us opt for security over adventure most of the time. When I look back on my life the moments when I said "what the fuck" and chose adventure have been the most exhilarating. Nothing bad has ever happened as a result. I wonder why I don't do it more often?

One of the reasons the characters in The Sopranos are so attractive despite their ugly natures is that they are truly alive. They are alive to their desires, they take what they want from life without apology. We'd all like to be more like them.

Parkstreet.

Seperate Rooms.

A friend once told me this story about sharing hotel rooms on tour.

He was booked for a nine week tour of Europe, a jazz act so there was no rehearsal, the band met up as they arrived in Berlin one by one. My friend was assigned the piano player to share with. On the plane the night before the piano player had accidentally swallowed a gold tooth. On arrival he promptly shat in the bath and was using one of the tiny shampoo bottles, or maybe it was the conditioner, to fumble thropugh his own crap, desperate to find the valuable tooth.

"G'day mate, I'm John, won't shake your hand, don't s'pose you could give me a hand here could you?"

That was his introduction to the man he was to share a hotel room with for the next nine weeks.

People ask me why I insist on my own room when I tour. This story is just one of many reasons.

Parkstreet.

One Of Those Guys?

I think we've all met those guys who appear to have no idea what is going on around them, seem to shamble their way through life in a happy daze, never quite engaging with the people around them.

These guys somehow fumble through. They always have just enough money, they get done what they want to get done, everything seems to work for them and no one knows how, least of all themselves. Life is a long series of happy accidents, nothing surprises them because they don't expect anything, nothing really appears to hurt them because theey aren't connected enough to anyone to be hurt. Apart from their love lives the world dishes up everything they need, silver platter after silver platter.

This kind of dumb luck should be annoying for the rest of us but the innocent charm of these guys wins us over, they come and go and are remembered fondly.

Those of you who've been reading this blog for a while will know I've been scrutinizing my life over the last couple of years. One of the things I've realized is that I am, in fact, one of those guys. I'm one of those fumbling, shambolic, socially clumsy romantically awkward guys who somehow trips over everything I need. It is a pretty comical thing to learn about myself.

Knowing oneself is seen to be a good thing. I'm not certain that this self knowledge is such a good thing. Do I now have a responsibility to get my shit together, connect with the world, stop relying on charm and arse to get me through? Will awareness itself ruin the whole thing? Being self conscious might change my observation of myself and the world.

I think it is hilarious that I am one of those guys, truly hilarious. I wonder what happens next? I'm sure I'll trip over the answer soon enough.

Parkstreet.

What Is Discernment?

I just doodled with a ball point while I was on the phone. I produced some pigment on a surface. Turner used paints and canvas but in this post modern world both are considered pigment on a surface and of equal artistic merit.

My doodle is a little bird I always draw, Turner's work creates light effects that blow a man's mind, change his view of the world. The two works are in no way equal.

A friend recently used the last of my laundry detergent, went to the supermarket to replace it. He found a plastic bottle of the same size, colour, shape, paid for it and left it in my cupboard. The bottle contained fabric softener, not detergent, but the packaging was similar.

I used to buy chicken and leak pies from a guy who made them himself. He was dubious about handing them over even though I'd paid for them, needed to know I'd reheat them sensitively, not ruin them. A friend invited me for lunch, he'd bought a chicken and leak pie from the supermarket. It was labelled the same, so for him it was the same.

I display discernment by knowing both these friends were real friends, both cared for me. We have different views on what is important in some things but in friendship we understand each other.

Stravinsky produced some tunes, so did ABBA. The two are on different planes. I'm hip to post modernism, but I still believe there is a place for a judgement call. There is a risk we will lose sight of what is quality and what isn't, if the packaging, the label, the media are the same then all will be considered equal.

Not all friends are the same, not all art is the same.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Another Hemisphere, Another Planet.

It is after midnight here in sub tropical Sydney. It's hotter now than it was an hour ago, my laundry on the clothes horse is getting damper rather than dryer as the humidity builds. Tomorrow it will top one hundred degrees.

My television is showing images from another hemisphere. Humans are performing physical feats with various different blades on their feet, sliding around on ice and snow. Living on this dry continent where less than a handful of peaks maintain permanent snow the images on my television may as well be from another planet.

The physical feats are unfamiliar, a man slides down an ice track on a breakfast tray, a couple dance on a rink, a woman flys an impossibly long distance, large men wearing masks beat the crap out of each other. The games are unfamiliar but the tests are always the same, talent, strength, flexibility, fortitude, dedication, artistry. Perhaps we are from the same planet after all?

In a couple of hours I will turn on the air conditioner before I go to bed. This east facing apartment will be hotter than James Brown's band by a few minutes after sunrise if I don't. It will be the middle of the day in Canada and probably colder than the coldest night in a Sydney winter.

Australia is too young to have her own culture, our climate and distant geography define us. We find out what it means to be Australian by travelling to another hemisphere, another planet. This dry giant island will be here when I return.

Parkstreet.

Inanity.

Modern physics suggests there are at least thirty two dimensions, of which we perceive four. Maybe the things we say and do mean something in one of those dimensions but they certainly don't in the four we are familiar with.

The only place where our words and actions matter are inside the tiny universe that is ourselves. There they are essential. When we stop believing in ourselves and our relationship with god, love and art everything we do becomes inane, to the world around us and to ourselves.

Nurturing this relationship with god, love and art gives value to our relationship with the four dimensions of time and space that we can operate in. All faiths, mystical or concrete, come back to this idea.

Inanity is the enemy of the spirit.

Parkstreet.

Oh Brave New World.

For the last decade or so Australia had a conservative government. They maintained power by usurping the other party's main premise, turning the country into a worker's paradise.

Their version of the workers paradise ensured that every household had a car, a large television, an air conditioner. It was a simple and effective method to win election after election. Doesn't sound like much, does it?

Given affordable beer, readily available porn on the laptop, a spectacular every now and then the workers were happy with their lot. With the state as parent from hospital birth to taxed death, the welfare system and schools made adults superfluous. Already insulated from the world by distance we became more like Huxley characters every day. The savage laughable, the banal exalted.

Sex and drugs and rock and roll, in a sanitized form, became part of the mainstream. Sex online, prescription medication and video hits on the teev.

The people who led this government were young in the 1960's. Whatever happened to the revolution?

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Testing The Theory.

I'm testing a theory, an urban myth. People always tell me that I have to "put it out there". Apparently by stating what I want it will happen, the mystical powers of the universe will hear me and make it so.

So here it is. What I want is to land a gig playing saxophone with a band working a contract job somewhere outside Australia. The usual options are Dubai, Shanghai, Seoul, but anywhere will do. The reason I want this is so I can apply for a U.S. artist's visa, working a documented job outside one's own country is a criteria for this visa.

I want to save the U.S. dollars I earn on this job, take my two year visa and work and live in Portland Oregon or San Francisco California. This isn't too much to ask, is it? I'm not asking to win the lottery, I'm willing to do the hard yards. I'm working my sax playing up to scratch, getting new demos done, making sure I'm up and ready when the universe hears my call and lands the gig in my lap.

I'll let you know the result of this simple experiment.

Parkstreet.

Where I Live.

Sydney, you glamorous, vacuous, sexy bitch of a city, I love you despite myself.

You are the dyed blonde boy or girl on the dance floor, you've taken a pill and just want to dance then fuck, in that order. Conversation is pointless, just dance then fuck.

Your art is a marketing opportunity, corruption your lifeblood. Settled by cops and robbers, your philosophy will never change. You strip us all back to our pimp, hooker, John nature, there is no point lying to you. We buy and sell ourselves to be with you, we buy and sell our art when we've been here long enough.

Everyone is from somewhere else, been here ten years and don't know why. We all want to live with another city, one that will love us back, but we come back to you.

Soon I'll leave you, this time for the last time, but I see you smile, you think I'll be back.

Parkstreet.

News Of Saints And Sinners.

The Vatican has announced that Australia has it's first saint. Mother Mary McKillop. If you want to believe she was something other than human, then good luck to you. She was a cool chick, stood up to patriarchal nonsense in her church and spent her life helping poor people, three cheers whether one believes in sainthood or not.

I still believe Errol Flynn should have been Australia's first saint. He spent his life fucking and fighting all over the world, a true represeentative of the Australian character. If you needed help he would have slung you a few bucks and told you to get off your arse and help yourself.

Celebrity sinners are always fun. Tiger Woods is the latest. I'm sorry? Bullshit he's sorry, sorry he got caught. An educated man with a wife and children doesn't shag everyone with a pulse by accident, he does it because he thinks he can get away with it, he does it because he doesn't give a fat rat's arse about the affects it will have on his wife and children if he does get caught. I've never been rich, famous and away from home a lot, so I don't know what I'd do in the same situation, but given that I'm not sure I wouldn't have pledged fidelity to one woman and fathered children with her before I found out.

An educated man knows what the responsibilities of fatherhood and marriage are. The sin isn't in the sex act it is in the denial of that knowledge.

Parkstreet.

Saxophone Love.

Sometimes things get a little steamy between a man and his instrument. Saxophone is the only woman in my life right now. She is perfect.

She responds to my fingers, my lips, my tongue, every time, every time. Her moans are powerful, pain and joy. we both need the other to express ourselves fully in this world. We hold hands on the street. We share intimate moments privately and publicly.

When we are together doors open for us, others are enchanted by our affair, we are more than the sum of our two parts. Because we are free to play with others we don't ever feel the need. Neither of us makes the other feel trapped, smothered.

We are new together, but old together. We fit. We share hunour, ernestness, intensity, lightness. We are of the same breath.

Saxophone fulfills me, I can't see room for another.

Parkstreet.

The Goon Show.

At five thirty this morning I was listening to The Goon Show on the radio. I wonder what normal people do when they can't sleep?

I worked out that there was about twenty minutes of script, two songs make up the half hour show. At an everage of three great gags per minute these guys were producing sixty jokes a week. I'm happy when I produce one in that time.

Spike Milligan did most of the writing, no wondeer he lost the plot along the way. The whole of Great Britain stood still for that radio show in it's prime, can you imagine the pressure of having to produce that sort of work week after week? The public loves failure, many would have been hanging out to call it when the writing quality dropped off.

The double edged nature of success isn't a new idea. Every king in history has had to perform conquest after conquest to maintain authority. I think the secret is to change fields every decade or so, seek success in a new guise before the haters get on your back. I'm saying this as an observer, I've never met with nation stopping success myself.

Like many performers I think I've been a little afraid of success in the past. It's only natural, success is a heavy cross. Self sabotague is a common story in my field of endeavour. Others thrive on the pressure, are better for it. Sixty great gags each week might not sound like much, but you try it. Do it for one week and I'll kiss your arse in the main street.

I think the secret is to love what you do. I'm sure Milligan and crew set out to make a damned funny radio show, not with the aim of becoming massively popular. It's an old fashioned notion but I reckon that any undertaking taken on with a pure heart leads to success in some form.

Writing sixty great gags a week is success in it's own right. I'll get back to you when I've come up with my one for this week.

Parkstreet.

Sand Paintings.

Has anyone seen those crazy monks who spend hours building elaborate sculptural images out of coloured sand only to sweep them away once they are deemed finished? I love those guys.

For many years I was a serious minded flute player, I practised every day and played gigs a minimum of five nights a week. Like a crazy monk I refused to record, for me improvised music was played once then disappeared, the vibrating air that is sound flowed into all the other air, hopefully the vibrations resonated in some humans along the way. Obviously this way of thinking is like taking a vow of poverty. Poverty is never as cool or romantic as it sounds.

Recording is the modern way of producing music, it is in the spirit of the times. I know I have to do it if I ever want a normal relationship, a home, a small amount of security. Despite knowing this I wonder if the crazy, contented monks have it right? They could photograph their work, sell the coffee table book to all the middle class buddhists around the world, but they choose not to. The images they create are of the moment, symbols of the transient nature of life. To record them would be to lose their essence.

I'm yet to resolve this conundrum. I'm not a monk. I want some of the worldly joys, sex, romance, a rare steak every now and then. As I move back to playing improvised music I want to recapture the pure, intense approach I used to play with, but it gets harder as I get older.

Life is transient, music is just vibrating air, honest improvised music happens in the moment and can't be replayed. The question is whether or not I can commit to being a monk?

Parkstreet.

Dead Stars.

Light travels pretty damn quickly yet some stars are so far away that their light reaches us millions of years later. Some stars have died in the meantime, the light we see is from a star that no longer exists.

Alive or dead, the light still thrills us.

And so it is with the human stars we've known.

Parkstreet.

Creepy Lyrics.

As I remember them, the lyrics in the chorus of the song I'm Gonna' Make You Love Me go like this.

I'm gonna' make you love me,
Yes I will,
Yes I will.

Now imagine those words without the jaunty tune behind them, slow them down, maybe hear Leornard Cohen speaking them, or if you like it a little more dangerous, an old Johnny Cash.

Comes out creepy, huh?

Anyone who performs this song should be sentenced to eight with six, have his background thoroughly checked.

Trying to make someone love you is a path to madness. They do or they don't. You can put your best foot forward, display your interest, affection, desire, but other people are other people and they will only respond if they have the same feeling. I've seen friends turn themselves inside out, trying to be the person they think she'll love. It even works on occasion, for a while. I've done it myself. It hurts both parties.

Contrary to popular belief you can get a square peg into a round hole. If you really want to you can force it in, push the hole out of shape, or hack the edges off your square. None of these options are as pleasant as waiting for a peg or hole that are the same shape as you. Oooh, the innuendo, pegs and holes, but it's really what it comes down to. Do you fit together?

I'm gonna' make you love me? Creepy.

Parkstreet.

Crisis.

When people let their lives run out of control, end up in crisis situations, they are thought to be interesting. If they deal with the crisis well or not, they are still looked up to.

When people are in control of their lives, see a crisis looming, avert it or detour around it, they are seen as boring, even though they have prevented pain in the arse problems for themselves and everyone else.

Strange, no?

Parkstreet.

Selfish?

I'm wondering if being selfish can be a positive thing? Can taking care of exactly what I want right now be the best thing I can do for everyone?

I've mentioned before that I'm at a stage in my musical career where I'm happy to play saxophone under a railway bridge, I really don't mind if there is an audience or not. I like audiences, but I'm really playing what I want to hear now. Strangely I'm more entertaining when I'm in this frame.

Personally I feel the same way. I love people but I don't mind if they are around or not. Is that unhealthy or just where I'm at? Would I be doing anyone a favour by pretending I really want others company?

We traditionally display love through our actions. It never feels like a problem to do anything for anyone we love. Maybe I'm learning to love myself, better late than never. I hope through my actions, doing things I want, maybe I will eventually believe that I love myself, maybe I'll win myself over?

All I can do is run with it. Try being selfish, in a positive way, see if it does have any negative affect on anyone else. I'm pretty sure it won't. It might even have a positive affect on those I love, I might have more of myself to give. Whatever happens I'm enjoying a feeling of desire to please myself, which makes me a wanker or a better man. We'll see.

Parkstreet.

The Southern Cross Hotel.

Years ago I worked as a bartender and drinks waiter at the Southern Cross Hotel in Exhibition Street Melbourne. I walked past it's address recently, noticed the hotel was gone, a new building in it's place.

The Southern Cross was the hotel where The Beatles stayed on their Melbourne visit. I wasn't working there at the time. I'm old, but not that old. Beatlemaniacs still came to see the place in the 80's. Some of the old porters who actually had been working there at the time loved the attention. They'd tear up old towels that were to be thrown out, hand out tiny scraps to infatuated John, Paul, George , Ringo fans, telling them,"I've had this in my locker since the 60's, (insert band member name here) used this towel and I kept this bit that I cut off, you're obviously a dedicated fan, why don't you have it?"

This sums up Beatlemania for me. There was some music, I don't mind most of it, but the band was tiny scraps of faux memorabilia almost before the last album was released. Bigger than Jesus? Perhaps better marketed than Jesus?

The Southern Cross is gone, new architecture in it's place. I remember the hotel fondly, but it's gone. It's gone, let it go.

Parkstreet.

How Others See Us.

Do you ever wonder how others perceive you? I do.

Do you remember 70's t.v. shows, when they'd superimpose people on backdrops? The technology was new so it didn't really work that well, the person always looked slightly out of place. I reckon that is how others see me, just slightly out of place with my surroundings, no matter where I am.

Or maybe this is how I see myself?

Parkstreet.

Whatever and Bored.

Generation Y often gets a bad rap, mainly because they use language differently to us older folk.

Two terms they use are misunderstood. Keep in mind that this generation has taken in more information before they were twelve years old than every previous generation added together took in their whole lives. When they say,"whatever", they aren't being dismissive. They have assessed the available information, can see the pattern and direction, know where a long conversation will end up and are happy to let it go. They see the person as more important than the argument, don't need to win, accept disagreement as part of friendship or any relationship.

Wait until you hear "whatever" again, see it in context, you'll find these Gen Y folks are wise beyond their years. Of course old squares have taken the term up so it is losing it's meaning, make sure you are hearing it from the mouth of the young horse.

The other word I often hear is "bored". This generation uses it differently to any other. They have been surrounded by entertainment constantly from birth, organized within an inch of their lives by manic parents who insist on over achievement. Fifteen years of every minute of every day being filled with school, drama, ballet, musical instrument, sport, any number of socially desirable activities, these kids want to be bored. They welcome boredom. They love sitting still and staring at nothing. If they said they were zen instead of bored we would be in awe of them.

Every generation takes on it's own language, don't be bluffed, listen to what they are really saying.

Parkstreet.

Gone Native.

This song is the bookend to The Song Of Travel And Redemption as recorded in my last blog. It was written just before I went away to Portland Oregon again, without the girl.

Gone Native.

If the letters stop coming,
You'll know I'm dead.
Or I've found someone new,
Or the fame's gone to my head.

If the letters stop coming,
No words from my pen.
You'll know I'm back on the booze,
Or on the road again.

'Cos Oregon has called me away,
It's the most chilled out state in the U.S.A.
While I'm gone I'll write home every day,
Until there's nothing left to say.

If the letters stop coming,
And I guess they will.
You'll know I've gone native,
Succumbed to that North West chill.

'Cos Oregon has called me away,
The most chilled out state in the U.S.A.
While I'm gone I'll write home every day,
Until there's nothing left to say.

Parkstreet.

The Song Of Travel And Redemption.

Filmed by David Grove.

Like it always happens, I met the girl just before I went travelling. I planned to come back the best goddamn Kent I could be.

The Song Of Travel And Redemption, (The Josie Song).

I've scattered all my inner ashes,
And buttoned up my love lined coat, and I've,
Updated in my silent fashion,
Launched my little sailing boat, and I've,

Been singing a travelling song,
Now I'm singing a loving song,
And I won't leave again,
Unless she comes along.
Unless she comes along with me.

I've written my last will and playbook,
And straightened up my fearless tie, and I've,
Hung my soul out on a fish hook,
I've puckered up and I've kissed the sky, and I've,

Been singing a travelling song,
Now I'm singing a loving song,
And I won't leave again,
Unless she comes along.
Unless she comes along with me.

Come along with me, you and me, we could sail away together.

I've swum up from the darkest places,
Eaten from the street of life, and I've,
Looked in the eyes of all my faces,
I'm gonna' make that girl my wife, and I've,

Been singing a travelling song,
Now I'm singing her a loving song,
And I won't leave again,
Unless she comes along.
Unless she comes along with me.

Come along with me, you and me, we could sail away together, or we could just stay home, come along with me, come along with me.

Just about completed a new version of this song for the new e.p., which will be completed in a week or two, or three.

Parkstreet.

The Lady Next Door.

I've been minding a house in the suburbs for a couple of weeks. The old lady who lives next door has me fascinated.

Her and her ex husband bought the land and built the house when there was a steam train line across the road. I say across the road but the builders had to carry bricks across paddocks because the road hadn't been put in yet. The land was cheap because no one wanted the soot from the train landing on their clean laundry line every day. I guess if I had to boil a copper to wash my sheets I would think about such things.

Together they raised some children, divorced when it was fashionable back in the 70's, have been getting together for lunch and a root a few times a week ever since. The small house I'm in was built on land she cut off her block so she still sees it as hers in a way, the current owner will come and go and she'll still be there. Her own house is worth a fortune now because it is near an electric railway line.

Imagine living eighty odd years and having nothing to say? Imagine complaining about your ex husband is your entire conversation? They say that if you sit in one place long enough the world will come to you but it isn't true, not in the suburbs anyway. Nothing has come to her, she has no memory of actually doing anything, life has passed her by like a steam train, some of it's grit has landed on her but she has never taken the ride.

I find the lady next door heartbreakingly sad. She is secure, affluent, non existent. Her life is my greatest fear. I'm inclined to be small and obsessive so I'm glad I met her. I'll leave this suburban house tomorrow certain that I will never be her.

Parkstreet.

Worlds Within Oysters.

Photograph by Kris Reichl.

Energy in, energy out.

Love in, love out.

The universe is an infinite oyster colony, a bivalve reality, no conscious thought, just energy in, energy out, love in, love out.

Pearl planets are rare.

We share the sea but live in our own shells, pretending to think. We are nothing but energy in, energy out, love in, love out. Will I create a pearl before I am opened up and eaten?

Am I a man dreaming I'm an oyster, or am I an oyster dreaming I'm a man?

Energy in, energy out.

Love in, love out.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Unicycle.

I'm currently writing a show involving one man playing a saxophone whilst riding a unicycle. Looking at my notes two entries stand out.

* Purchase unicycle.

* Learn to ride aforementioned unicycle.

I'm pretty sure this whole show idea is just an excuse to buy and learn to ride a unicycle. I've wanted to do it for years but always put it off, found it difficult to justify blowing a few hundred bucks on a toy I will probably tire of soon enough.

I've recently realized that small joys are valuable, they can lead to places and ideas you'd never expect. I think that's what play is for. I might get a great show out of it, I might have a shit load of fun, I might become quickly bored once the challenge is conquered. The joy is in the,"who knows?' part of the answer.

If it all comes to nothing I will still have the singular joy of seeing horror on the face of a parent when I give the aforementioned unicycle to a young child.

Parkstreet.

C.B.T.

Has anyone else noticed that the acronym for Cognitive Behavioural Therapy and the acronym for Cock and Ball Torture are the same? Anyone who has been through either experience might wonder which is more painful.

If you know someone who has depression and is genuinely trying to get well it may appear they are doing nothing. In fact they working their arses off. completely changing the way one perceives the world is a heartbreaking experience. Loyalties, beliefs, habits disappear leaving one standing on air. The anchor is cut loose, the boat drifts, until a new, happier way to be replaces the old much of the day is spent just resisting panic.

O.K., it is better than having one's bits placed in a vice. Life does get better, the pain subsides, each day becomes a new joy rather than a new agony. If you know anyone going through this process and can stick with them you will be rewarded. They are often the most beautiful and sensitive people. Watching them bloom, their gratitude for a new life, what they produce will bring you joy too.

Parkstreet.

Bastardization.

There is a news story here in Australia involving firemen and their disturbing initiation of new workmates.

The details include anal penetration and urine, they are in a mainstream newspaper so I'm sure we are only hearing part of the truth. The perversity of this behaviour is not the behaviour itself it is the fact that it is not consensual. Plenty of adults would see stuff like this as sexual foreplay, but not when it is forced on them by a group of mob driven and probably drunk large men.

If these men enjoy these sort of acts, or anything else out of the ordinary, why don't they find other adults who also enjoy them? Isn't that what the internet is for? Why push it onto people who don't like it? The reason is that Australians inherited an English approach to sex so no one can say out loud what they are into. Everyone has some sort of kink but we all keep it hidden because we have been taught to be ashamed. A man never tells his woman about his fantasies because he thinks she will judge him, and sadly he is probably correct, she will judge him. Experience tells me she will judge him. And women are judged by their sexuality no matter what they do.

If we could feel free to express our natural sexuality frustrated, repressed idiots wouldn't have to resort to inserting firehoses where they aren't welcome. Surely sexual expression is a right like any other, surely repressing sexual expression leads to much of the mental illness we see in our culture. Surely.

So, what am I into? I'm an Australian, I'm keeping that to myself.

Parkstreet.

Rock And Roll Is Dead.

All the pop music produced after punk, including mine, sucks big elephant dicks.

Punk was the death throes of a great era, now we should let rock and roll be. Everytime we go and play another covers show we may as well be Elvis impersonators, digging up his coffin to borrow his clothes.

Like the ashes of a loved one on the shelf, hanging onto a dead form of music prevents us from finding a new love. As artists we should be searching for what is, not what was, putting our hearts and minds to playing the new, not rehashing the old.

Today in a cafe I heard some young people singing along with The Beatles. It was too horrible. If rock and roll were living up to it's live hard die young ethos these kids would never have even heard of The Beatles, the band broke up twenty years before they were born.

I know these are big words from the hack musician but from now on I only want to play the music that comes from this time, from my heart, from the love of this moment.

Parkstreet.

Being A Judge.

I was once a judge for a battle of the bands competition. I regret doing it, competition has no place in music.

Competition in sport makes sense. Mutually consented definitions provide the opportunity to strive against oneself and others, a chance to prove courage, to grow, to excell. Competition in music makes no sense, there are no definitions to make it possible even if it were desirable. Music is an expression of love and competition is the enemy of love.

Being a judge was a funny experience. No one spoke to us, the three of us were twenty years older then the competitors, we must have seemed distant and foreign to them. The organizer parked us directly in front of the stage, in front of the massive speaker stack. We soon discovered three of the four bands were metal bands. They were frighteningly loud. The rock and roll maxim is that if it is too loud you are too old. My fellow judges put fingers in ears but I steadfastly refused to. I am too old, but I don't have to around admitting it.

We had forms to write our marks in, stage presence, originality, all the usual. There was also a section for our own notes. I had no idea these notes would be passed on to the bands. Some were useful, some were plain rude. I called one guy a cliched rock lord. I guess someone had tto tell him some time. The one wise note I wrote i took home for myself too. One band was worried about their bass player showing up, and they showed it. I realized I was going off them before they even tuned up. I jotted down,"you are on before you are on", meaning the gig starts from the time you enter the venue, from the moment the audience sets eyes on the band. I realized I'd always been slack about how I present myself for a gig.

As musicians we can compete with ourselves to improve technically, but the best way to be a better musician is to be a better lover. Music is a kiss, not a tackle.

Parkstreet.

Mmmm Pop Music.

New York London Paris Munich, everybody talking 'bout mmm pop music.

I never want to talk about, or listen to a conversation about pop music ever again. I don't want to hear professors of popular culture assessing it's affects on the zietgiest.
I don't care if one pop song is better or worse than another pop song. I won't drink coffee in a cafe that plays pop music at me.

Talking about pop music is like discussing the bubble gum that was chewed up and spat out yesterday. The nature of the pop business is designed redundancy, the product has to be replaced regularly to keep making money. It's sole purpose is to line the pockets of the rock and roll accountants.

In the conservative post war era pop music had it's place, it was a break from the old, an expression of youth and I imagine it was a shit load of fun. Now every kid can dress like a pop star, drink, smoke, pillpop like a pop star, fuck like a pop star. There is nothing left for pop music to do. It's done. It's over. Let it rest in peace with the rest of history.

Teenage girls singing and dancing along with naff romantic pop music is only natural. Good luck to them. silly teenagers are entitled to their moment in the sun, but let's not pretend it is more than that.

If I turn off the television, the radio, walk away from your conversation, you'll know someone is talking about, mmm pop music.

Parkstreet.

The Australian Psychics Society.

I remember many years ago walking towards a cafe armed with a bag full posters for the band Sam I Am and a large black marker pen. The plan was to drink coffee and smoke cigarettes whilst filling in the "appearing at" section on the posters.

On the way I noticed a brass plaque beside the door of a white terrace house; it read,"Australian Psychics Society". The urge to graffitti surged through me. The wall was white, the pen black, the psychics asking for it. I really wanted to write,"in case you didn't already know". I was feeling young and rock and roll with my band posters and all, but I piked and walked on. I'm happy that some other poor bastard didn't have to scrub down his frnot wall, but I still regret not doing it.

Real opportunities are thin on the ground. I'll never see that one again. I reckon I've let many other more important opportunities go begging, so many. The one I repeatedly get wrong is with the women folk. So many times I've met someone who has just broken up with someone else, I've thought,"I'll give her a few weeks before I go stomping around the romance graveyard" and the next time I see her she has already hooked up again. The more sensitive sex my arse.

i'm getting better at standing on toes, it doesn't hurt others as much as I thought it did. I can accept cpnsequences, a misdemeanour fine for graffitti, a brutal knockback from a woman, these things are trifling.

Who knows, the psychics might have seen the funny side?

Before everyone else.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Blues, Not Art, first single from Blute - Kent Parkstreet, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

The Australian Faaark Birds.

It is remarkable how many Australian birds sound like they are saying fuck. Some say faark with a distinctly Aussie accent, other give a short sharp fuckk. Considering how often Australian humans say fuck it makes me wonder which came first?

Parkstreet.

The Groove Is The Tao.

The Groove is the Tao.

The Groove is the one and the ten thousand things. It can be discerned by all the senses but is not of the senses. It is in nature, in everything.

It is realized rather than felt.

It can't be taught but it can be learned.

It is futile to pursue the Groove, all one can do is be open to it.

The Groove is life, the universe, the Groove is the Tao.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Message.

In the wee hours this morning I had the singular pleasure of hearing Grand Master Flash and the Furious Five on the radio, The Message. If you are too young to know what I'm talking about go and rustle through your father's cassette collection, it will be there somewhere.

A muffled guitar lick weaves in and out of this recording. It's hardly noticeable amongst what were then brand new synth and scratchy sounds, but it is essential to the groove. The song wouldn't work without it. Someone had the good sense to include it on the track; it doesn't matter what style you are playing the groove must be served.

It is often the smallest of things that make life cool, taking the time to notice them is a joy. Sometimes it is a word, a gesture, the way an object is handled, the way a groove is made whole by the muffled guitar lick.

We are all suckers for the grand gesture but next time you are on the receiving end of one think back if this person has done the little things day after day, then you'll know if they love you.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Detective.

Before he replaced the missing child's photograph in it's file the detective removed an imaginary speck of dust from it with the tip of his little finger. The mother noticed and felt her case was in good hands.

Parkstreet.

Love Is Jazz.

Love is jazz. It is improvization in it's purest form.

Some choose to play over standard themes, others play freely, without rules, but there is always a rhythmic pulse, a common beat. Tone, colour, intensity, passion, pain, joy, love is jazz.

Love is busking under a convenient streetlight, jamming alone until the groove begins again, it is touring with the same act until you die.

Jazz can't be played without love.

Love is jazz, love is all.

Parkstreet.

Food And The Gods.

It seems the gods are fascinated by what us humans eat.

I understand that many apparently crazy food laws started as ancient health regulations. As religion was the state a god saying not to eat a certain food wasn't so different to a government health department dictating regulations today. If eating oysters made people sick because other people were crapping upstream then god would decide oysters were out. Once the word god was attached to the directive it took on a life of it's own. Now we know better than to crap in our food sources we can eat oysters, they are delicious, but many are hamstrung by the fear of god, the fear of change.

The method of killing and hanging an animal was essential to health too, so was ruled by god to be the correct way. Again our methods have improved, we can now be less cruel about the process, but again fear of god, fear of change forces many to continue slaughtering animals in a way that causes unnecessary pain.

Other gods tell us to kill anything but cattle. Yet others tell us to kill nothing but vegetables. Just about every faith on earth has some regulation regarding food, However each rule started they are all now devices used to control humans. We all have to eat, the rules are a constant reminder, a subtle brainwashing. Extreme faiths and cults choose extreme rules, they differentiate us from them. In the more wishy washy religions the rules are nearly forgotten.

Some faiths include cannabalism. It isn't any more or less crazy than any other rules. All religions have human blood on their hands, why not finish the job? Why not honour our ancestors by making soup of them? It is no sillier than saying this religious rite requires the eating of a turtle, bread without yeast, any other dietary regulation.

Why anyone believes a god would give a crap what we eat is beyond me. Sure, give thanks to your god for the blessing of actually having enough food, but don't believe for a moment there is an all knowing deity in your kitchen, judging your quality by your diet.

Parkstreet.

Tuning.

Because they are so in tune with themselves and their environment Polynesian navigators can know which island or atoll is over the horizon just by the way it affects the waves.

We all have moments of prescience. I'm inclined to believe it is because we have subconsciously read the signs, not due to some mystical force. The more we are in tune with ourselves and our environment the more it happens. People who concentrate on being at one with themselves and their world are often seen as mystical masters, but they are just paying attention.

Knowing what is over the horizon is one thing, knowing what to do or say when it arrives is another. Preparation doesn't always help, sometimes hinders our instincts. Given too much time to think we can bluff ourselves out of enjoying whatever comes. The navigator is too busy reading the ocean, the sky, the birds, the stars, the wind to worry about how he will act when he reaches the island.

Parkstreet.

Pointy Bits.

Close your umbrella,
It's just a sunshower.
Let the blessed rain fall on your blessed head.

The umbrella
Lowers your horizon,
You can't see the rainbow.

I can't see your eyes.

And when you wave those pointy bits at the edges near my face it freaks me out.

Parkstreet.

Look At Me, Look At Me.

I imagine a six year old preparing to dive off a three metre board.

"Look at me Mum, Mum, look at me."

At that age any act unwitnessed does not exist.

At some age, different for all of us, we reach a point where we will dive for the sheer joy of it, for ourselves. I don't know if forty two is early or late to get to this point but I think I've finally reached it.

Playing music can be attention seeking behaviour. When it is done for the attention music rings hollow. The strange thing for me is that I knew this when I started playing at twenty three then lost the information somewhere along the way. I got distracted by the business, by all around who didn't understand that real music usn't about wealth and fame.

Recalling the reasons I started playing is a joy beyond words. I'm diving, flying, splashing because I can, because it feels good, because there is an elegant truth in it. I hope I can bring that joy to others, share myself with them, but I'll do it with or without them.

In one week I'll be home to my tenor saxophone and real life will begin again.

Parkstreet.

Red Brown Dust.

Red Brown Dust.

She's an inland girl,
From an inland town,
This wide brown land,
Is bringing me down.
I'm yearning for the sea.

I'm yearning for Josie,
But I'm yearning for the sea.

I'm a seaside boy,
From a seaside town,
Gotta' leave my girl,
I'm homeward bound.
I'm yearning for the sea.

I'm yearning for Josie,
Yearning for the sea.

Red brown dust is in my mouth,
I've had enough I'm headed south.
Want that salt air in my hair,
I'm Port Fairy bound.

Josie is my girl, I'm sure she'll,
Understand, she'll find another man.
There are ten men for every woman,
In this town.

I love that inland girl,
Not her inland town.
She won't go I won't stay,
There's no middle ground.
I'm yearning for the sea.

I'm yearning for Josie,
But I'm yearning for the sea.

It's interesting where songs come from. I overheard a conversation between two young blokes in Albury, an inland town in Australia, they were wondering how they ended up, "back in this inland town". That was the spark, the rest came from thinking about a woman who I thought I'd do anything for. The idea of two people coming from very different places, in every way, isn't new, but I reckon geography plays a larger part in our daily life than we often realize.

A live, solo version of this song is on iTunes, all the other sites.
http://www.reverbnation.com/play_now/song_8297346


Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Billiard Room and Change.

In the mid 1980's I was the night time steward for the billiard room of the Royal Automobile Club of Victoria. It was a pretty conservative place, I had to take my ear rings out before I started work each night.

If you've ever seen the film On The Beach you've seen the room I'm talking about. On The Beach was about the end of the world, at the time Melbourne Australia was seen as the last place on earth. I think it was made in the 1950's, an Ava Gardner fan out there will tell me. For comic relief they had two retired barrister types drinking the best of the cellar before the end, they sat in leather chairs and chatted nonchalantly about port and life. The set was my billiard room, and it looked exactly the same all those years later, I could pick the chairs they sat in by the portrait that still hung above them

Working in a place with such tradition is a great experience, finding the method to be oneself whilst maintaining what has gone before. It was an acting job as much as anything to do with pouring drinks and brushing down the eight, gorgeous, full size billiard tables.

The club was the first to allow and encourage female membership, but the billiard room and the attached gentlemen's reading room were kept male only. The female billiards champion of Australia was allowed in to practise, but not to fraternize or drink there. One night after a two hour practise session I poured a beer and took it to her. She grinned at me, told me I'd get in trouble, laughed when I said,"fuck 'em". Within weeks a handful of women were happily playing snooker on a regular basis. I don't think I pulled the beer that changed the world, just the beer that changed one room. One room at a time, eh?

We had competition snooker three nights a week. One Monday night a team of young Vietnamese dudes came in, members of a slick pool hall up the road. They had gone to the trouble of suiting up for the occasion, my old members were delighted, even a little emotional. The young blokes wiped the home team off the tables in the first round, keen eyes and steady hands, they potted everything from anywhere. There was an unspoken meeting of eyes among the R.A.C.V. team, they knew what they had to do. The young guys were pool players, they could pot like demons, but the old boys played snooker, moved the white ball around the table, hid it behind penalty balls, generally frustrated the crap out of their opposition, came in with a glorious victory. The post match dinner was the most warm hearted occasion, the respect between two groups of men who couldn't have been more different was a beautiful thing. I'll never forget that night, it was a treasure.

Part of my job was to play against members who came in on their own. My game improved slowly until I had to decide if I should win or not. Some members liked a good game, some liked to win.

Change happens in different ways, so slowly you don't notice, quickly with one gesture, learned with practise. The billiard room is gone now, the club has moved, but the ghosts of bow tied gentlemen drinking port in the billiard room of the Royal Victorian Automobile Club will stay with me forever.

Parkstreet.

Sometimes.

Sometimes we meet someone who gives us exactly what we need at exactly that time. It doesn't happen often so we should revel in it when it does.

I'm at a time and place in my life where I'm feeling good about who I am, slowly letting more and more of who I really am out into the wide world. Today I had coffee with someone who to my eyes and ears is simply herself, not something you can say about many people. All she did was show me how easy it is. We can let life bluff us, sometimes we need to see something in action before it becomes obvious how easy it is.

I don't believe there is a mystical force that brings people in and out of our lives, for me it is much more likely that we recognize the right people when we are ready to, they are probably around us every day. In this case we live in different cities so it is a passing friendship, in person anyway, but the length of time we know someone doesn't define the effect they have on our lives.

I left the table feeling different from when I sat down. How often does that happen? For me these happy experiences only occur when I'm feeling and thinking clearly, knowing myself and where I'm at. When I'm not clear about myself my feelings for others get confused, today was sweet and easy.

Sometimes we should give ourselves half the credit. My part in this experience was to be open to it. Sometimes we shouldn't think too much, shut up and smile.

Parkstreet.

Happiness.

"Don't forget what happened to the man who got everything he always wanted . . . he lived happily ever after."

Willy Wonka.

I like this idea. After too many years of following sparse Asian philosophies I reckon it's time to ask for what I want.

Then live happily ever after.

Parkstreet.

Good Shot Willie John.

When Richard Douglas has had a few pints of Guiness Stout he might tell you a story about a man named Willie John who kept the post office in his home village, and how Willie John leapt from his first floor window armed with his shotgun and shot two burglars off their motorcycle as they tried to ride away after robbing his post office, and you might hear Richard Douglas say,"good shot Willie John", if you make a difficult pot on the pool table or if you hit the the triple twenty on the dart board, and then later, when you're back in Australia and you're a few beers down the track you might hear yourself saying,"good shot Willie John", and find that you have to tell the story to explain and you might notice that the folk story that has been created is real and modern and tells you something about one man and his background and his view of the world.

I found this amongst other old writing recently, I met Richard in London in 1996 so I must have written it soon after. He was, and probably still is, a damn fine flute player, story teller and a man who knew where to get a drink after chucking out time in London. He worked for All Flutes Plus in the West End, a world famous shop for flute players, the last I heard was on the B.B.C. World Service when he was interviewed about his playing career back home in Ireland so he must have gone on to greater success. Couldn't happen to a nicer bloke.

I like the way this piece is all one drunken sentence, in the spirit of the original story.

Parkstreet.

Twenty Year Old Words.

Some twenty year old nonsense I found at the back of a cupboard at my Mum's place.

The blood black ink
Of the pen you gave me
Will soon be dispersed
Across the full moon emptiness
Of my paper.

It's shades of grief
Will cast long strong shadows
Deep into the image
Of moonshine that I created,
For you.

The whisper of that ink
Is as sure as sunrise.
The insolence of youth;
Craving a perfect expanse
Of whiteness.



Riddichio Lettuce.

Rhythmically frightening,
Punch drunk lightning,
Subtlety, subtly, subtlety.

The tenor man's shoulders,
A blues, blues soldier,
Broadly broadly broadly.

Senses notated,
An intricate salad.
Riddichio lettuce.


Can't remember writing this shit, but I kind of like it. Twenty years later it is reminding me who I am, even if I am a bum poet.


Parkstreet.

Three Acts and Colin Hay.

A golfer warns his playing partners that he has seen a hypnotist who has promised surprising results with his game. At the first tee he puts his ball down, sits on it and clucks like a chicken.

A simple three act play. Act one, seeing the hypnotist, the set up. Act two, the conversation, the development, and act three, the payoff.

Colin Hay has stepped out of this verse, verse, chorus, verse style of three act songwriting. Many of his new songs are one act plays, no journey, no psychobabble, just him, the character, and through him the world.

My My My It's A Beautiful World is an example. Three verses about how he likes to swim in the ocean, make tea, drive in his car. A short chorus develops the character but there is no plot. He just tells us that despite all the awful shit in the world he can't find Jesus, then,"Still the emptiness persists, Perhaps this is as good, as it gets". He then restates that he likes swimming in the ocean, "where a man can still be free", "or a woman if you are one".

If all the world is no longer a stage, rather a televised search for everyone's fifteen minutes, then the one act play is as good as it gets. Godless, pure, honest.

Parkstreet.

http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

Horny.

Right now I'm like a frisky labrador who'll stick his nose up any skirt that rustles in the breeze.

I've noticed that women have a strange relationship with the horny man. It is well documented that women enjoy attention, and why not? It is flattering, exciting if a man finds them desirable, but if it isn't a man they deem suitable the concept becomes an affronting reality. A man must be Kane from the T.V. series Kung Fu, he must walk delicately, not break the rice paper beneath his feet, but keep moving forward just the same.

I often wonder how any couples ever get together? How does it happen? Obviously alcohol and other drugs play their role, but beyond that how does anyone ever work up the courage to say,"I like you"? Telling someone you want to fuck them is easy, telling them you want to spend some time with them, that you can imagine a future, a friendship and life outside the bedroom, that's the scary one.

At my age I just say it as I feel it. It scares most off, but it saves a lot of time. If she is freaked out by honesty so be it. If she is feeling the same then she'll be relieved she didn't have to be the one to appear clingy, or whatever the fuck it is that people are afraid of. The women who freak out seem to think they are protecting themselves, their precious single way of life. From the outside that life doesn't appear the treasure they think it is.

Physical desire is bloody marvellous, it makes me feel alive. Emotional desire, the desire to truly and fully love another, that makes me feel like I've beaten death. To truly and unconditionally love is the greatest joy. The physical is often the first sign, the rest will follow if both parties are open, ready, loving themselves, loving the world, unafraid.

If you come across a long haired musician who is bounding about like an over excited puppy, chasing skirts, give him a chance, see if there is something deeper in his heart.

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

Solo, acoustic, Red Brown Dust, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

On The Plane.

There was a couple on the plane. They were seated behind me, spent fifty of the sixty minutes in the air fighting. I'd seen them earlier, she was delighted that he'd thought to buy her a danish, gave him big cow eyes.

They were fighting about whether she should take his name when they married. He clearly thought she was being crass, discussing a private issue when surrounded by strangers who had nothing better to do than listen in. She thought he was being uncommunicative, if he couldn't talk about it then, when could he?

There were Koreans on the plane. My decision to never eat old cabbage combined with garlic and chilli before lunch time or love making has stood me in good stead. The kim chee aroma was all around, altogether too pungent and exotic before sunrise. The Koreans clapped upon landing. It sounded like a bad joke in a wedding speech, only a handful of loyal mates clapped, dropped off when everyone else was unmoved.

There were two lads on the plane. Reeking of nasty aftershave, shouting about everything even though there was nothing to shout about on the plane. One resisted the order to buckle up whilst the plane taxied. The naughty boy was verbally slapped down by a stewardess who'd spat out worse.

There were stewardesses on the plane. We like stewardesses.

My guitar was on the plane, in the seat I had to purchase for it.

My hopes were on the plane.

My desire to burn the past was on the plane.

Everyone and everything on the plane landed safely, left the plane and dispersed into other realities.

Parkstreet.

http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

The Online Friends.

I'm online for work. Really I am. I have had the good fortune, due to shared interest in music, to meet three online people in real life.

In all three cases they were friends, they just happened to be women. Yeah yeah, I know what you are thinking. "Were all three attractive women?" I have to confess they were, but all three were so much more than that. All three had a lust for life, a command of the language, a desire for something higher than money or the mundane.

Is this just luck? I'm thinking the internet is a bizarre filtering process. It can be a little like old fashioned letter writing, just delivered quicker. It is one place that words can be considered, thoughts and ideas brought forward, developed. The confusion of the physical is less prevalent, minds can actually meet. Where else in this doof doof culture does that happen now?

Of course physical presence is a huge part of a real human, Nuance, charm, twinkle, zing, they are all essential. Don't get me wrong, I'm a male of the species, if any of these women knocked on my door at one in the morning I'd let them in. Any time of the day now I think about it, but having female friends is a different kind of joy. They see the world and their place in it so differently to me that I'm constantly surprised, and happily surprised.

All three online friends live in different cities, countries, worlds to me. I may or may not meet them again. It doesn't matter so much, knowing they are out there in the real world has made them real for me online. It does change the online interaction, for the better.

Here's to you ladies, and to meeting the beings that carry those wonderful minds around.

Parkstreet.