Since humans became civilized most cultures have included a tradition of celibate, holy men who dedicated their lives to knowledge and wisdom. The knowledge that used to be stored in the minds of monks is now available to all via the internet, but not the wisdom.
Knowledge without wisdom is useless. We can all select the information we desire to confirm our own opinions. We can know everything and lack the artistry to present it to others, the price of everything and the value of nothing.
Without the intellectual rigour of a spiritual order, the guidance of seniors, the culture of communal knowledge we may as well be machines ourselves. Monks appeared still, their traditions rooting them in the past but they were an evolving organism, adapting to the new whilst maintaining the old. Their humanity was essential to their understanding, they knew that beauty and love are as important as truth, elements of truth.
If it weren't for the celibate part of the contract I reckon I'd sign up. For some reason the conquering of sexual desire seems esential to a life dedicated to such labour. Like everyone else I believe it is an honourable choice, for someone else. I guess this is why there aren't many monks left. On the other hand those cowls are pretty damned mysterious and cool, I could dig wearing one of those.
The internet is just a baby, it will mature, as will our relationship with it. I hope an electronic monk evolves from it, a worldwibe web of wisdom, beauty and love.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
The Shared Pursuit Of Virtue.
Virtue isn't an opinion, a political stance, a religious faith, it's searching for the highest part of oneself, the best in word and action. In our daily pursuits it is easy to take the easy path, to seek status and wealth instead of virtue. Virtue is hard, humans are soft, they don't come together easily. Maybe virtue can be found alone, friends with the same aim can only make it easier.
I've recently found myself in the company of some musicians who are in pursuit of virtue through their profession. I've had many musical relationships based on mutual self interest, people I played well with, earned good money with, but this feels different. After just a few weeks the music is strong, sound, honest and can only get better. The time I spend with them is enjoyable, I learn every time we meet. Oddly my solo act is improving at the same time.
Music is just vibrating air stimulating a human ear. Music played from a virtuous heart turns that vibrating air into something beautiful. I can't help thinking that Aristotle dude had some good ideas, he would have been a great guy to play in a band with.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Monday, November 29, 2010
Your Outer Child.
So I'm at the train station, kneeling to tie a stray shoelace. I realize that I've tied my laces exactly the same way since I first learned how about forty years ago. The man is always connected to the boy, no matter how sophisticated we like to think we are.
The cliche of "tell me about your childhood" is one of those true cliches. Hurt the boy and you'll hurt the man, cherish the child and the man will cherish himself. The question is whether the man can step up, leave a bad childhood experience behind without losing the best parts of the child in his personality?
The child is the part that plays and creates. A lover who is out of touch with his child is a dull lover. The musician without the child loses the show off, the entertainer. At the same time a child is powerless, his life is affected by the adults around him, a man has to take control for himself, decide the experiences he wants from his time. Blending the two realities is an adult skill.
Those who suffered in childhood tend to leave that whole section of their life behind, become austere and in the end unhappy. They shun the childish in themselves and others. We all know someone like this. They are usually doing their best with what they've got.
The man doesn't take the same pride in tying his own shoelace that the child does. Maybe he should? All the skills of independance that seemed so hard to learn should be cherished and enjoyed. The joy of slowly becoming a man should be remembered, a source of pride. We shouldn't be embarrassed about looking like a child occasionally, it's part of who we are.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
The cliche of "tell me about your childhood" is one of those true cliches. Hurt the boy and you'll hurt the man, cherish the child and the man will cherish himself. The question is whether the man can step up, leave a bad childhood experience behind without losing the best parts of the child in his personality?
The child is the part that plays and creates. A lover who is out of touch with his child is a dull lover. The musician without the child loses the show off, the entertainer. At the same time a child is powerless, his life is affected by the adults around him, a man has to take control for himself, decide the experiences he wants from his time. Blending the two realities is an adult skill.
Those who suffered in childhood tend to leave that whole section of their life behind, become austere and in the end unhappy. They shun the childish in themselves and others. We all know someone like this. They are usually doing their best with what they've got.
The man doesn't take the same pride in tying his own shoelace that the child does. Maybe he should? All the skills of independance that seemed so hard to learn should be cherished and enjoyed. The joy of slowly becoming a man should be remembered, a source of pride. We shouldn't be embarrassed about looking like a child occasionally, it's part of who we are.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Pissing Into The Wind.
Tonight I watched a tired, angry young man attempting to move a very heavy keyboard, in a very heavy roadcase, from a trolley to the back of a van. A three metre long strip of packaging material, coarse paper reinforced with nylon mesh, had blown in front of the van, kept getting tangled under the young man's feet.
The young man kicked at the pesky material, again and again, each time it blew back under his feet. He was kicking it into the wind, becoming more and more frustrated. All he had to do was kick it the other way, let the wind carry it away, but his mind was on his mission, the heavy object, his mind was confused by weariness and anger, his mind was not his ally.
When the task was all but completed he tripped on the three metres of torment that had been blown into his life. The very heavy keyboard, the very heavy roadcase, fell heavily into the van, on top of all the other fragile equipment and instruments he had loaded previously. The young man turned and kicked the strip of packaging material one last time, this time he was facing downwind, the stuff that had been so aggravating flew off easily down the street.
Of course I could have gotten up off my lazy arse and helped him, but I was kind of glued to my seat, unable to look away. It was one of those all too obvious lessons, not to concentrate solely on one task so intensely that you can't see it in context, that you see only the task and not the surrounding circumstances. If the young man had been both concentrating and not concentrating at the same time the solution to his problem would have been simple.
The phrase "pissing into the wind" is picturesque, it creates a funny image in our minds. Tonight I saw it in real life.
Parkstreet.
http://www.parkstreetblog.com/
The young man kicked at the pesky material, again and again, each time it blew back under his feet. He was kicking it into the wind, becoming more and more frustrated. All he had to do was kick it the other way, let the wind carry it away, but his mind was on his mission, the heavy object, his mind was confused by weariness and anger, his mind was not his ally.
When the task was all but completed he tripped on the three metres of torment that had been blown into his life. The very heavy keyboard, the very heavy roadcase, fell heavily into the van, on top of all the other fragile equipment and instruments he had loaded previously. The young man turned and kicked the strip of packaging material one last time, this time he was facing downwind, the stuff that had been so aggravating flew off easily down the street.
Of course I could have gotten up off my lazy arse and helped him, but I was kind of glued to my seat, unable to look away. It was one of those all too obvious lessons, not to concentrate solely on one task so intensely that you can't see it in context, that you see only the task and not the surrounding circumstances. If the young man had been both concentrating and not concentrating at the same time the solution to his problem would have been simple.
The phrase "pissing into the wind" is picturesque, it creates a funny image in our minds. Tonight I saw it in real life.
Parkstreet.
http://www.parkstreetblog.com/
Sunday, November 28, 2010
The Business We Call Show.
So I suddenly find myself back in the music business. I don't know how it happened. A small amount of organization and hard work, but really, a very small amount. It's a good buzz, I'm coming back with a load of experience but everything is fresh at the same time, I'm confirming old information and taking on new.
Wednesday night was a saxophone and flute affair with a lunatic world jazz ensemble, Machiniso. We played one of the better venues in Sydney, sound check and proper staging and all the rest. I felt comfortable, at home, the first time in such a room for ages yet all was well.
Thursday was a solo flute job, a corporate gig to pay the bills. I haven't played flute without accompaniment for over a year, it takes a completely different state of mind to blowing over a drum and bass line up. All melody, tone and pulse, toying with volume and tempo are the variations at hand.
Friday was a background gig, guitar and vocals, a bunch of old songs for restaurant diners who never applauded but all came up afterwards to say thank you. I've been playing short sets of my own tunes for the last year, to play three long sets on my own, strumming out every tune I know, maintaining a cheery tone isn't always easy, but I had fun, recalled my first solo guitar gigs a few months after I bought my first guitar. I don't play much better than I did then but I certainly know a lot more about selling a song.
Then Sunday, recording a demo the new reggae band, Kent Parkstreet and the New Reggae Allstars, (shameless plug included at no extra cost), leading a band with new material, trying to keep one ear on the sound whilst playing and singing well myself. I recorded a three part harmony with myself, something I'd never considered doing before, but a fresh start opens the mind to trying new skills. I reckon I pulled it off, I'll hear it tomorrow night and find out.
So Monday, today, a saxophone recording session for singer Jimmy Vargas. Really difficult songs, strange guitar tunings, strange keys, genuinely intense material technically and emotionally. And tonight a guitar and vocals duo for a pub full of backpackers.
After twenty years I'm finding myself having a lot of fun, like I've just started out in my early twenties. I don't know how it happened, but who cares how it happened? I'm packing up my guitar and going to work.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Wednesday night was a saxophone and flute affair with a lunatic world jazz ensemble, Machiniso. We played one of the better venues in Sydney, sound check and proper staging and all the rest. I felt comfortable, at home, the first time in such a room for ages yet all was well.
Thursday was a solo flute job, a corporate gig to pay the bills. I haven't played flute without accompaniment for over a year, it takes a completely different state of mind to blowing over a drum and bass line up. All melody, tone and pulse, toying with volume and tempo are the variations at hand.
Friday was a background gig, guitar and vocals, a bunch of old songs for restaurant diners who never applauded but all came up afterwards to say thank you. I've been playing short sets of my own tunes for the last year, to play three long sets on my own, strumming out every tune I know, maintaining a cheery tone isn't always easy, but I had fun, recalled my first solo guitar gigs a few months after I bought my first guitar. I don't play much better than I did then but I certainly know a lot more about selling a song.
Then Sunday, recording a demo the new reggae band, Kent Parkstreet and the New Reggae Allstars, (shameless plug included at no extra cost), leading a band with new material, trying to keep one ear on the sound whilst playing and singing well myself. I recorded a three part harmony with myself, something I'd never considered doing before, but a fresh start opens the mind to trying new skills. I reckon I pulled it off, I'll hear it tomorrow night and find out.
So Monday, today, a saxophone recording session for singer Jimmy Vargas. Really difficult songs, strange guitar tunings, strange keys, genuinely intense material technically and emotionally. And tonight a guitar and vocals duo for a pub full of backpackers.
After twenty years I'm finding myself having a lot of fun, like I've just started out in my early twenties. I don't know how it happened, but who cares how it happened? I'm packing up my guitar and going to work.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Short Break, Hopefully.
I won't be blogging for a couple of days, a few eye problems are making it too difficult right now.
They told me I'd go blind if I didn't stop it!
Hopefully back soon.
Parkstreet.
They told me I'd go blind if I didn't stop it!
Hopefully back soon.
Parkstreet.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Parkstreet's Golden Rules Of Rock And Roll #8.
If the oldest member of your band wears glasses and knows how to read music he shall be nicknamed "The Professor".
Parkstreet.
Parkstreet.
Satellite Of Love.
So it's a sweet, sunny, breezy day here in Sydney, I should be out enjoying the day, instead I'm at home watching the cricket. Don't worry, I'm not about to attempt explaining the nature and intricacies of the game of cricket, but I just witnessed one of those universally beautiful moments that sport can exhibit.
A batsman who has been struggling for form, was considered lucky to maintain his position in the Australian team, has just scored one hundred runs. A "century" is considered a major milestone in this game. He has made these runs at a time when his team was struggling, he saved the day.
The television cameras focused on his family, his wife holding a very young child in her arms, trying to applaud at the same time, a slightly older boy leaping up and down, ecstatic about his Dad's performance. What motivates a single man and what motivates a family man are very different animals. There is a period after a child is born when the man becomes a satellite, circling the home, the mother and child. He goes out into the world to provide for those he loves. Sometimes he even provides an example to his children, teaches them how to be an adult outside the home.
I've often seen this period causing the end of marriages. I believe it is because many men can't make that transition from striving to serve themselves to striving to serve their family. It is a hazy line between these two motivations, they can appear very similar. The cricketer strides to the middle of the ground aiming to score runs for his country either way. His wife and children are in the stands supporting him, but he doesn't look any different from when he was a single man. The difference is that his family knows he would give up the glory of playing cricket for Australia if it were the best way to serve his family.
When a stadium full of strangers is standing and applauding a man must feel like a giant. When he looks up to see his infant son literally jumping for joy he must feel like a man.
Parkstreet.
Solo, improvised flute track, Warm Up, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
A batsman who has been struggling for form, was considered lucky to maintain his position in the Australian team, has just scored one hundred runs. A "century" is considered a major milestone in this game. He has made these runs at a time when his team was struggling, he saved the day.
The television cameras focused on his family, his wife holding a very young child in her arms, trying to applaud at the same time, a slightly older boy leaping up and down, ecstatic about his Dad's performance. What motivates a single man and what motivates a family man are very different animals. There is a period after a child is born when the man becomes a satellite, circling the home, the mother and child. He goes out into the world to provide for those he loves. Sometimes he even provides an example to his children, teaches them how to be an adult outside the home.
I've often seen this period causing the end of marriages. I believe it is because many men can't make that transition from striving to serve themselves to striving to serve their family. It is a hazy line between these two motivations, they can appear very similar. The cricketer strides to the middle of the ground aiming to score runs for his country either way. His wife and children are in the stands supporting him, but he doesn't look any different from when he was a single man. The difference is that his family knows he would give up the glory of playing cricket for Australia if it were the best way to serve his family.
When a stadium full of strangers is standing and applauding a man must feel like a giant. When he looks up to see his infant son literally jumping for joy he must feel like a man.
Parkstreet.
Solo, improvised flute track, Warm Up, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Parody.
When I was a kid, when I was making funny faces, my mother would joke that if the wind changed my face might stay that way. It was a bit of fun, she knew it would only encourage me to make more funny faces, but there was always that doubt in my mind.
When artists parody others, make fun of them, they risk becoming what they despise. It doesn't happen suddenly, with a change in the wind, but it does happen. It is like when we travel abroad, we start imitating the local accent for a laugh, pick one word that takes our fancy and repeat it. Eventually we can't say that word any other way, and the accent starts creeping into ours. The more the artist tries to get inside the mind of the people they are imitating the more that way of thinking becomes the way they think.
The other night I saw a parody of a lame club act. All I saw was a lame club act. What had started out as a joke, a bit of a laugh, had taken on a life of it's own and become an embarassing parody of itself. Parody is a very low form of wit, reserved for those who have run out of their own work. When their ability to create the new for themselves dries up they resort to crapping on everyone elses. Once they've taken that step it's all over, their faces stay that way.
Parkstreet.
Solo, improvised flute track, Warm Up, available for download at iTunes, the other sites.
When artists parody others, make fun of them, they risk becoming what they despise. It doesn't happen suddenly, with a change in the wind, but it does happen. It is like when we travel abroad, we start imitating the local accent for a laugh, pick one word that takes our fancy and repeat it. Eventually we can't say that word any other way, and the accent starts creeping into ours. The more the artist tries to get inside the mind of the people they are imitating the more that way of thinking becomes the way they think.
The other night I saw a parody of a lame club act. All I saw was a lame club act. What had started out as a joke, a bit of a laugh, had taken on a life of it's own and become an embarassing parody of itself. Parody is a very low form of wit, reserved for those who have run out of their own work. When their ability to create the new for themselves dries up they resort to crapping on everyone elses. Once they've taken that step it's all over, their faces stay that way.
Parkstreet.
Solo, improvised flute track, Warm Up, available for download at iTunes, the other sites.
Closed For Thanksgiving.
Naturally we don't celebrate Thanksgiving here in Australia, it is a truly American holiday. Usually the first I hear of it is the radio news in the morning telling me that the U.S. Stock Exchange is closed for the day.
The idea of the world's most powerful financial hub shutting down to say thank you is quaint and gorgeous. Saying thank you to the earth, the Native Americans, thank you to family and friends, thank you for the blessing of sharing a table with those you love, a perfect reason to close for business for a day, a reminder of where everything comes from, why we go out into the world each day.
Some days I adore those American folk.
Parkstreet.
The idea of the world's most powerful financial hub shutting down to say thank you is quaint and gorgeous. Saying thank you to the earth, the Native Americans, thank you to family and friends, thank you for the blessing of sharing a table with those you love, a perfect reason to close for business for a day, a reminder of where everything comes from, why we go out into the world each day.
Some days I adore those American folk.
Parkstreet.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Ringing Ears.
Last night I went to bed with ringing ears. The band who played before me were too loud. Jerks.
Deaf, childish old rockers, the guitar player had his amp on full, the sound engineer removed him from the front of house mix but his giant amp screaming off the stage was plenty. Ringing ears mean damaged ears, you'd think a musician would prefer to avoid damaged ears. Many haven't, can't hear how loud they are, turn up louder. Jerks.
So if I'd lit up a cigarette during this band's set the venue manager would have ushered me outside, so I didn't affect the health and well being of anyone else in the room. If I'd gone around shoving super hot chillies into everyone's food I'd be ejected. If I shone bright lights into the audience's eyes, damaging their eyes, I'd be sued. Yet we tolerate this ludicrous volume in music, played by jerks.
Some people upped and left, I had to stay. I woke up with ringing ears.
Jerks.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Deaf, childish old rockers, the guitar player had his amp on full, the sound engineer removed him from the front of house mix but his giant amp screaming off the stage was plenty. Ringing ears mean damaged ears, you'd think a musician would prefer to avoid damaged ears. Many haven't, can't hear how loud they are, turn up louder. Jerks.
So if I'd lit up a cigarette during this band's set the venue manager would have ushered me outside, so I didn't affect the health and well being of anyone else in the room. If I'd gone around shoving super hot chillies into everyone's food I'd be ejected. If I shone bright lights into the audience's eyes, damaging their eyes, I'd be sued. Yet we tolerate this ludicrous volume in music, played by jerks.
Some people upped and left, I had to stay. I woke up with ringing ears.
Jerks.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
For Cinderella.
Being born beautiful in this culture has been likened to winning a lottery. Being beautiful opens doors to parts of life that remain closed to us average looking folks. The difference between beauty and money is that money can be hidden.
Many who win lotteries end up wishing they didn't. Everyone wants a piece of their good fortune, feel they are owed a share. Any other qualities they possessed before the win are forgotten, others only see the money. Beautiful women are only seen as beautiful, nothing else. Other qualities, intelligence, soul, talent, depth, are ignored, until beauty becomes all they can see in themselves. Unlike a lottery winner they spend their entire lives in this state, have no other perspective. They can't move away from their old life and start again, their beauty goes with them, visible to all.
Of course there are some wonderful benefits. Beauty brings joy into other people's lives. I smile when I see a pretty girl, I can't help it. We all enjoy a spot of attention occasionally, being able to grab more than your share without much work must be great fun. Confidence that people will start off liking you is a gift.
The true friend is the person who treats you exactly the same, rich or poor. Being a friend to a beautiful person means accepting their beauty, even enjoying it, but knowing that the real person isn't all on the outside. Hug a beautiful person today, tell them they are smart, funny, talented, kind, whatever is true.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Many who win lotteries end up wishing they didn't. Everyone wants a piece of their good fortune, feel they are owed a share. Any other qualities they possessed before the win are forgotten, others only see the money. Beautiful women are only seen as beautiful, nothing else. Other qualities, intelligence, soul, talent, depth, are ignored, until beauty becomes all they can see in themselves. Unlike a lottery winner they spend their entire lives in this state, have no other perspective. They can't move away from their old life and start again, their beauty goes with them, visible to all.
Of course there are some wonderful benefits. Beauty brings joy into other people's lives. I smile when I see a pretty girl, I can't help it. We all enjoy a spot of attention occasionally, being able to grab more than your share without much work must be great fun. Confidence that people will start off liking you is a gift.
The true friend is the person who treats you exactly the same, rich or poor. Being a friend to a beautiful person means accepting their beauty, even enjoying it, but knowing that the real person isn't all on the outside. Hug a beautiful person today, tell them they are smart, funny, talented, kind, whatever is true.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Drunk Masturbating Monkeys.
One of the tactics the French Foreign Legion deploys to break the personal will of it's cadets is to feed them slightly less protein than they need to maintain the work they are required to do. The men feel confused, dissatisfied, easy to manipulate. This tactic only works because the Foreign Legion trains in the desert, in isolation.
North Korea is using this tactic on an entire nation. It can only be maintained whilst the country remains isolated. They are so focused on missile technology because they know they can never send a land army out to the real world.
Defeating the North Korean Army would be easy. Predict their lines of attack and confront them with large platters of steak, then crates of liquor. Follow up with a leaflet drop of pornography and the job would be done. Food isn't the only restriction for North Koreans. An army of drunk soldiers lying in the fields with their khaki trousers around their ankles wouldn't be such a challenge.
The soldiers in the French Foreign Legion have one motivation, to serve their time and become reborn, a new identity, a new or life, for many the other option is suicide. Given that the North Korean system is all stick, no carrot, or actual carrots, there would be no motivation for the men once their bodily needs were met.
Any man without motivation quickly becomes a drunk masturbating monkey. I lived without motivation for a period of my life so I know this is true.
Leaders can restrict food, information, communicatiuon, solace, and their people will become compliant. Each of us should take the time and effort to provide ourselves with our human requirements. Isolated we can treat ourselves appallingly, given a society we can thrive. Be your own leader, allow yourself both carrot and stick.
You can still take time out to be a drunk masturbating monkey.
Parkstreet.
Solo improvised flute track, Warm Up, available for download at iTunes, the other sites.
North Korea is using this tactic on an entire nation. It can only be maintained whilst the country remains isolated. They are so focused on missile technology because they know they can never send a land army out to the real world.
Defeating the North Korean Army would be easy. Predict their lines of attack and confront them with large platters of steak, then crates of liquor. Follow up with a leaflet drop of pornography and the job would be done. Food isn't the only restriction for North Koreans. An army of drunk soldiers lying in the fields with their khaki trousers around their ankles wouldn't be such a challenge.
The soldiers in the French Foreign Legion have one motivation, to serve their time and become reborn, a new identity, a new or life, for many the other option is suicide. Given that the North Korean system is all stick, no carrot, or actual carrots, there would be no motivation for the men once their bodily needs were met.
Any man without motivation quickly becomes a drunk masturbating monkey. I lived without motivation for a period of my life so I know this is true.
Leaders can restrict food, information, communicatiuon, solace, and their people will become compliant. Each of us should take the time and effort to provide ourselves with our human requirements. Isolated we can treat ourselves appallingly, given a society we can thrive. Be your own leader, allow yourself both carrot and stick.
You can still take time out to be a drunk masturbating monkey.
Parkstreet.
Solo improvised flute track, Warm Up, available for download at iTunes, the other sites.
Hey, That's Me.
I just received a copy of a recording I played on last year. It seems so long ago, I can't even remember when we did it. It was a live session, all in one day, I remember it was a cold, wet day so it must have been last winter, June or July in Sydney. I'm removed enough from this recording that it's a pleasant surprise, like Kent Parkstreet popped up when I least expected him.
Listening to it is like being shown a year old photograph of myself. "Is that really what I sound like?" Live sessions are warts and all, and there are a few warts on this recording, but on the whole it sounds pretty good. It's like looking at one of those photographs that are surprisingly good, I'm actually smiling and my eyes are open.
A long time ago I used to record quite a lot. Due to some strange circumstances all my copies were lost to me. As a mainly live player the only concrete history of my work was lost, I never had the heart to chase up replacements. So it goes. I've only just started doing sessions again, collecting a new library of me, if you will. I can't imagine the same set of circumstances occuring again, I'll try to hang on to this lot.
I'm not certain that music was ever supposed to be recorded. It has to be done, it's a source of income, but for me music really is a relationship between musician and audience. How the music comes out on the night, played for those people, that's what music is for me. In the same way I find holiday snaps a little pointless, without the atmosphere of actually being there they are just an impression of the real thing.
A collection of discs with my name on them is a useful thing to have, like a business card. I'll never get around to listening to any of them more than once, but they're nice to have. I'm doing another session on Monday, in a year or so I'll receive a copy of it, hear myself from the past again.
Parkstreet.
Machiniso single, Hexotica, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
Listening to it is like being shown a year old photograph of myself. "Is that really what I sound like?" Live sessions are warts and all, and there are a few warts on this recording, but on the whole it sounds pretty good. It's like looking at one of those photographs that are surprisingly good, I'm actually smiling and my eyes are open.
A long time ago I used to record quite a lot. Due to some strange circumstances all my copies were lost to me. As a mainly live player the only concrete history of my work was lost, I never had the heart to chase up replacements. So it goes. I've only just started doing sessions again, collecting a new library of me, if you will. I can't imagine the same set of circumstances occuring again, I'll try to hang on to this lot.
I'm not certain that music was ever supposed to be recorded. It has to be done, it's a source of income, but for me music really is a relationship between musician and audience. How the music comes out on the night, played for those people, that's what music is for me. In the same way I find holiday snaps a little pointless, without the atmosphere of actually being there they are just an impression of the real thing.
A collection of discs with my name on them is a useful thing to have, like a business card. I'll never get around to listening to any of them more than once, but they're nice to have. I'm doing another session on Monday, in a year or so I'll receive a copy of it, hear myself from the past again.
Parkstreet.
Machiniso single, Hexotica, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Mirror Autobiography.
Do you ever take a long look at yourself in the mirror? Physically, not metaphysically. I did this morning, naked, floor to ceiling. I'm a funny looking, curly haired raggedy man, I really am. Years of combining hard living with laziness was always going to end up looking this way.
Our bodies are an autobiography, a self written story of what we've done, where we've been. Five years ago I had a crew cut and a slim belly. Now I don't need any day jobs my hair is long, now I stay home and cook good food I have a self satisfied waistline. What I do each day is reflected in that mirror.
I can see a scar from a youthful drinking incident. My eyes are different colours following surgery. My teeth were fixed, against my better judgement, as a teenager. My left ear is pierced, twice. I'm a different man from what I was, I can see it.
My look works o.k. on stage, my guitar covers that belly and the lights love my hair. For me real life only happens on stage so I don't care too much how I look day to day. For some it's how they look in a suit that's important, for others how they look on Saturday night. Nude is how we really look. There is no choice but to live with it.
We all share our naked selves with other people. Some choose just one partner, others get their gear off at any excuse. We are giving away a lot about ourselves when we do get naked in front of another, as much as we would in a long honest conversation. Those who falsify their bodies with surgery are telling a story in their own way too. I don't know what pumped up gym bodies are saying, for me nothing worth hearing.
Standing in front of my mirror this morning I saw myself, my life. It doesn't tell a beautiful story, but it's mine.
Parkstreet.
Solo, acoustic, Red Brown Dust, available for download at iTunes, the other sites.
Our bodies are an autobiography, a self written story of what we've done, where we've been. Five years ago I had a crew cut and a slim belly. Now I don't need any day jobs my hair is long, now I stay home and cook good food I have a self satisfied waistline. What I do each day is reflected in that mirror.
I can see a scar from a youthful drinking incident. My eyes are different colours following surgery. My teeth were fixed, against my better judgement, as a teenager. My left ear is pierced, twice. I'm a different man from what I was, I can see it.
My look works o.k. on stage, my guitar covers that belly and the lights love my hair. For me real life only happens on stage so I don't care too much how I look day to day. For some it's how they look in a suit that's important, for others how they look on Saturday night. Nude is how we really look. There is no choice but to live with it.
We all share our naked selves with other people. Some choose just one partner, others get their gear off at any excuse. We are giving away a lot about ourselves when we do get naked in front of another, as much as we would in a long honest conversation. Those who falsify their bodies with surgery are telling a story in their own way too. I don't know what pumped up gym bodies are saying, for me nothing worth hearing.
Standing in front of my mirror this morning I saw myself, my life. It doesn't tell a beautiful story, but it's mine.
Parkstreet.
Solo, acoustic, Red Brown Dust, available for download at iTunes, the other sites.
Pizza.
There's anchovies, olives, Italian ham and great joy. The rest of the world can go to hell, I'm dining alone, this pizza is mine, all mine.
Some nights a man needs a vast serving of fat food, television and solitude. Being single can be a blue balled bitch, but it can also be bliss. How does a man explain to his love that he doesn't want to share his pizza, his couch, his remote control, his time, even if only for one night? There is no nice way of saying that. A single man never has to explain.
Later I'll eat dark chocolate, maybe some tea, catch up on e mails to friends abroad. I'll dream about being far away from here.
Then I'll eat the piece of pizza that I saved and go to bed.
Alone.
Parkstreet.
Solo, acoustic Red Brown Dust, available for download at iTunes, the other sites.
Some nights a man needs a vast serving of fat food, television and solitude. Being single can be a blue balled bitch, but it can also be bliss. How does a man explain to his love that he doesn't want to share his pizza, his couch, his remote control, his time, even if only for one night? There is no nice way of saying that. A single man never has to explain.
Later I'll eat dark chocolate, maybe some tea, catch up on e mails to friends abroad. I'll dream about being far away from here.
Then I'll eat the piece of pizza that I saved and go to bed.
Alone.
Parkstreet.
Solo, acoustic Red Brown Dust, available for download at iTunes, the other sites.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Susan Boyle, revisited.
So Susan Boyle has the number one record in the two big markets of the western world, the U.S. and U.K. Right now she is the most popular singer in western culture. I have three words to say. What . . . the . . . fuck?
This boring scrunched up fart of a woman is the singer who inspires the most people to go out and buy recordings? Don't these people have fucking ears? Can't they hear the battery of studio effects on every note she warbles?
An English promoter took Ms. Boyle, put her through auditions, make up, wardrobe, had her appear on television looking frumpy and stupid, then edited up a montage of feigned surprise and wonder. Did people seriously fall for this shit? Are they that stupid? Yes people, they are, and they own the cd to prove it.
Susan seems nice, probably good company over a cup of tea. She is not a great singer, nor an interesting or entertaining person. She is a nice singer, could happily hold her own in a good choir. She doesn't write music, has nothing to say when interviewed, records overproduced versions of popular song, her vocals overwhelmed with orchestration and ridiculous amounts of reverb and other studio effects.
People, you made her the top selling singer in the western world. You fell for it. There are female singers world wide, women who can really sing, with passion and technique, and these female singers are shaking their heads, wondering what they have to do to gain an audience. The answer is to be chubby and dull, then write a sob story about your past, and a fantasy marketing campaign.
The people will see that the emperor has no clothes on eventually. Sadly I can foresee tragic results for Ms. Boyle. This sort of false fame always comes with a price.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
This boring scrunched up fart of a woman is the singer who inspires the most people to go out and buy recordings? Don't these people have fucking ears? Can't they hear the battery of studio effects on every note she warbles?
An English promoter took Ms. Boyle, put her through auditions, make up, wardrobe, had her appear on television looking frumpy and stupid, then edited up a montage of feigned surprise and wonder. Did people seriously fall for this shit? Are they that stupid? Yes people, they are, and they own the cd to prove it.
Susan seems nice, probably good company over a cup of tea. She is not a great singer, nor an interesting or entertaining person. She is a nice singer, could happily hold her own in a good choir. She doesn't write music, has nothing to say when interviewed, records overproduced versions of popular song, her vocals overwhelmed with orchestration and ridiculous amounts of reverb and other studio effects.
People, you made her the top selling singer in the western world. You fell for it. There are female singers world wide, women who can really sing, with passion and technique, and these female singers are shaking their heads, wondering what they have to do to gain an audience. The answer is to be chubby and dull, then write a sob story about your past, and a fantasy marketing campaign.
The people will see that the emperor has no clothes on eventually. Sadly I can foresee tragic results for Ms. Boyle. This sort of false fame always comes with a price.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Sitting By The River.
They say that if you sit by the side of the river long enough you will see the bodies of your enemies float by. I must live a boring life, I can't say I have any enemies. but I have seen some pretty annoying bastards disappear over time.
One of the joys of time and age is the judgement to know when it is time to sit by the river, when to take action. Right now I'm river watching, enough driftwood washes up on my shore to keep my fires burning. Soon action will be required, money earned, paperwork filled out, travel undertaken. I'll paddle out to sea, take on the world again.
People come and go, relationships start and finish, everything must change. It's a tidal river, ebb and flow. As I get older I find that sitting and watching is more often than not the simplest method for solving problems. The most aggressive people lose interest if I don't join the fight. The same people go down easily enough when I take the time to watch for their weakness. A peaceful, easy mind makes better decisions than a mind full of distractions and pointless action.
Taking time to select the correct action, what feels right, always leads me to happier days. Trusting instinct, letting it flow, always carries me in the right direction. Being prepared and relaxed when the moment comes means the action will be my best.
I'm happy here, dangling my line, paddling my feet. Patience is the essence of a man. Soon it will be time for action.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
One of the joys of time and age is the judgement to know when it is time to sit by the river, when to take action. Right now I'm river watching, enough driftwood washes up on my shore to keep my fires burning. Soon action will be required, money earned, paperwork filled out, travel undertaken. I'll paddle out to sea, take on the world again.
People come and go, relationships start and finish, everything must change. It's a tidal river, ebb and flow. As I get older I find that sitting and watching is more often than not the simplest method for solving problems. The most aggressive people lose interest if I don't join the fight. The same people go down easily enough when I take the time to watch for their weakness. A peaceful, easy mind makes better decisions than a mind full of distractions and pointless action.
Taking time to select the correct action, what feels right, always leads me to happier days. Trusting instinct, letting it flow, always carries me in the right direction. Being prepared and relaxed when the moment comes means the action will be my best.
I'm happy here, dangling my line, paddling my feet. Patience is the essence of a man. Soon it will be time for action.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Pope Brand Condoms.
So the leader of the Roman Catholic Church has conditionally endorsed the use of condoms. Catholic male prostitutes can now protect themselves from disease with a clear conscience. African heterosexual Catholics will still have to choose between abstinence and risk.
I was a teenager when H.I.V. hit Australia. It was a very disappointing development, the days of free love were suddenly at an end just when I was old enough to play. Responsible governments promoted condom use, the word condom went from a reason to snicker to a common supermarket shelf product. We have one of the lowest rates of H.I.V. transmission in the world. Education and condoms, a simple enough answer.
The pontiff can pontificate at his own leisure, I wonder who listens to him now? The denial of human sexuality is so ludicrously out of date, medieval, that whatever he says sounds irrelevant to modern ears. Human beings have always used sex as a recreational activity as well as for procreation. Always. For very poor people it is the one activity they can afford. Plenty of popes over the years have been in on the game. The Vatican Bank receives huge profits from it's investment in Ansell shares. What doesn't this church understand?
To stand between another human's health and his god is the immorality here. If you and another human are going to share the joy of each other's bodies just use a condom. Until you are exclusive, tested, safe, use a condom.
Ignore the bloke in the stupid hat.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
I was a teenager when H.I.V. hit Australia. It was a very disappointing development, the days of free love were suddenly at an end just when I was old enough to play. Responsible governments promoted condom use, the word condom went from a reason to snicker to a common supermarket shelf product. We have one of the lowest rates of H.I.V. transmission in the world. Education and condoms, a simple enough answer.
The pontiff can pontificate at his own leisure, I wonder who listens to him now? The denial of human sexuality is so ludicrously out of date, medieval, that whatever he says sounds irrelevant to modern ears. Human beings have always used sex as a recreational activity as well as for procreation. Always. For very poor people it is the one activity they can afford. Plenty of popes over the years have been in on the game. The Vatican Bank receives huge profits from it's investment in Ansell shares. What doesn't this church understand?
To stand between another human's health and his god is the immorality here. If you and another human are going to share the joy of each other's bodies just use a condom. Until you are exclusive, tested, safe, use a condom.
Ignore the bloke in the stupid hat.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Full Body Scan.
Next time I fly to America I'll pass through a full body scan at the airport. I can't wait. Any man who says he doesn't enjoy an opportunity to show off his boy bits is lying. I'll even consider which underpants to wear for the occasion, which ones will show me off to the best advantage.
I wonder if it would be too uncool to ask the security folks to e mail me copies of the pics?
Of course it is tempting to do something weird to freak out the people who spend all day looking at the bodies of strangers. It must get boring after a while. I could ask a friend to leave a lipstick mark around my willy, or go the obvious route of wearing pink, frilly knickers under my jeans. I could get creative with body paint and give it a snake skin look.
Like all men I firmly believe they'll be talking about my cock long after I'm gone, but it can't hurt to aid the memory.
They say in this life one has to put one's best foot forward. The full body scan is finally a chance for me to do so.
And people shouldn't take a stranger seeing them nude so seriously.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
I wonder if it would be too uncool to ask the security folks to e mail me copies of the pics?
Of course it is tempting to do something weird to freak out the people who spend all day looking at the bodies of strangers. It must get boring after a while. I could ask a friend to leave a lipstick mark around my willy, or go the obvious route of wearing pink, frilly knickers under my jeans. I could get creative with body paint and give it a snake skin look.
Like all men I firmly believe they'll be talking about my cock long after I'm gone, but it can't hurt to aid the memory.
They say in this life one has to put one's best foot forward. The full body scan is finally a chance for me to do so.
And people shouldn't take a stranger seeing them nude so seriously.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Love Or Obsession?
Tonight I walked past an old love, a girl I would have married in a heartbeat. I'm legally blind so I didn't see her until she was passing me by, she must have seen me because she had her nose buried in a newspaper, didn't acknowledge me. A heartbreaking moment for me, who knows what she felt?
I know that I was happy before I met her, miserable for most of the time I knew her, happy again once she was gone. Yet seeing her still made my heart pound in my chest. Is this a genuine love for her, or an obsession with what I can't have? I'm not sure I can tell the difference.
I know that her only love is herself. No man can compare to her own self image. I was the surf crashing on her rock, I couldn't wait a thousand years for her to move. Tonight she looked ten years older than when I last saw her, yet still beautiful to me. Am I seeing her inner beauty or am I deluding myself, rationalizing a feeling I don't understand?
I know that I can't have anything to do with her again. I really do know it. The real question is how will I know next time? Next time I fall for someone will I know the difference between love and obsession? What are the chances of meeting another one like her? One I'll be so in love with, one as cold as a rock in the surf.
I know that I have to cleanse my mind of her, allow any new affair to be brand new, be able to walk past this old love without my heart reacting. I can only hope the next one brings love, doubtless, sweet, honest love.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
I know that I was happy before I met her, miserable for most of the time I knew her, happy again once she was gone. Yet seeing her still made my heart pound in my chest. Is this a genuine love for her, or an obsession with what I can't have? I'm not sure I can tell the difference.
I know that her only love is herself. No man can compare to her own self image. I was the surf crashing on her rock, I couldn't wait a thousand years for her to move. Tonight she looked ten years older than when I last saw her, yet still beautiful to me. Am I seeing her inner beauty or am I deluding myself, rationalizing a feeling I don't understand?
I know that I can't have anything to do with her again. I really do know it. The real question is how will I know next time? Next time I fall for someone will I know the difference between love and obsession? What are the chances of meeting another one like her? One I'll be so in love with, one as cold as a rock in the surf.
I know that I have to cleanse my mind of her, allow any new affair to be brand new, be able to walk past this old love without my heart reacting. I can only hope the next one brings love, doubtless, sweet, honest love.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Hard And Soft.
When I was a kid I studied Go Ju Kai karate. Go Ju Kai roughly translates as The Way Of Hard And Soft. Early classes focus on the hard techniques, kicks, punches, physical blocks, over years these develop to soft techniques, using the energy of the opposition against him with gentle, balanced moves. It's a lovely metaphor.
Hard techniques have their place, rather my attacker with a bloody nose than me, but soft techniques are the sign of maturity, in people and cultures. A tyrant demands obedience, a democratic government allows discussion and thought. A person or culture with a confident knowledge of both has little to fear.
A martial artist studies for years, time and experience give him the judgement to choose the correct technique for any situation. We should expect the same from our governments, the wherewithal to use physical violence on our behalf, the diplomatic skill to settle disputes when possible. We rely on individuals for their judgement, presidents, prime ministers, premiers. When we vote we should use our own judgement to decide if our candidates are masters of the hard and soft, not of one or the other.
If you've ever been on the receiving end of a hard technique you'll testify to their effectiveness, I remember one head butt quite vividly. This head butt did nothing to change my mind, it occured over twenty five years ago, if I ever run into the culprit again I will destroy him. If a gentle and smart person has ever persuaded you to be an ally, to coexist you'll know how it feels to be a grown up.
Go Ju Kai isn't the only path to wisdom. It seems a good one to me.
Parkstreet.
Solo, improvised flute track, Warm Up, available for download on iTunes, all the other sites.
Hard techniques have their place, rather my attacker with a bloody nose than me, but soft techniques are the sign of maturity, in people and cultures. A tyrant demands obedience, a democratic government allows discussion and thought. A person or culture with a confident knowledge of both has little to fear.
A martial artist studies for years, time and experience give him the judgement to choose the correct technique for any situation. We should expect the same from our governments, the wherewithal to use physical violence on our behalf, the diplomatic skill to settle disputes when possible. We rely on individuals for their judgement, presidents, prime ministers, premiers. When we vote we should use our own judgement to decide if our candidates are masters of the hard and soft, not of one or the other.
If you've ever been on the receiving end of a hard technique you'll testify to their effectiveness, I remember one head butt quite vividly. This head butt did nothing to change my mind, it occured over twenty five years ago, if I ever run into the culprit again I will destroy him. If a gentle and smart person has ever persuaded you to be an ally, to coexist you'll know how it feels to be a grown up.
Go Ju Kai isn't the only path to wisdom. It seems a good one to me.
Parkstreet.
Solo, improvised flute track, Warm Up, available for download on iTunes, all the other sites.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Parkstreet's Golden Rules Of Rock And Roll #7.
Your girlfriend loves you for you, groupies love you for your image. You have to choose one or the other, but choose carefully, there's a fair chance your image is a better bloke than you.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Halfway Up The Stairs.
I grew up in two storey houses, yeah, I was a rich kid. Despite all the large rooms full of tall furniture my favourite place to sit quietly was always the landing halfway up the stairs.
Actually the landings weren't halfway up, generally one quarter then three quarters of the way up, where the stairs changed direction, but halfway up sounds so A.A. Milne. I think the important thing was that they weren't here nor there. I don't know why I wanted to sit on these landings, they were just squares of carpet. I'd like to think I was fascinated by all the architectural angles that were in shot from that vantage but I wasn't that cool as a kid.
Perhaps the landing was the place no one else sat? It might have been the place that no one else wanted, open to be claimed by the youngest. I really don't know. I do know that every time I sat quietly on the landing eventually someone would ask, "what are you doing?", and ruin it. I don't know why that question ruined it, but it did.
Landing sitting is an abstract art.
Now I live in an eleventh floor apartment, serviced by a talking elevator. It's my apartment, I can sit wherever I like. If you're looking for me this afternoon try looking in the fire escape, the landing between the eleventh and twelfth floors.
Parkstreet.
Solo, improvised flute, Warm Up, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
Actually the landings weren't halfway up, generally one quarter then three quarters of the way up, where the stairs changed direction, but halfway up sounds so A.A. Milne. I think the important thing was that they weren't here nor there. I don't know why I wanted to sit on these landings, they were just squares of carpet. I'd like to think I was fascinated by all the architectural angles that were in shot from that vantage but I wasn't that cool as a kid.
Perhaps the landing was the place no one else sat? It might have been the place that no one else wanted, open to be claimed by the youngest. I really don't know. I do know that every time I sat quietly on the landing eventually someone would ask, "what are you doing?", and ruin it. I don't know why that question ruined it, but it did.
Landing sitting is an abstract art.
Now I live in an eleventh floor apartment, serviced by a talking elevator. It's my apartment, I can sit wherever I like. If you're looking for me this afternoon try looking in the fire escape, the landing between the eleventh and twelfth floors.
Parkstreet.
Solo, improvised flute, Warm Up, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
Fanatics.
So I meet this guy, he hands me his business card almost immediately, the card reads "Social Activist". I know I shouldn't laugh, he is an earnest looking chap, I try not to laugh, I laugh anyway. What else can I do?
The activist spends the next half hour or so employing every Jedi mind trick he has learned from his self help books to try to embarrass and belittle me. I did laugh at him, it was rude of me, I understand. He plays both good and bad cop, he uses body language, mirroring me and opposing me, his smile is practised and horrifying. He raises every social issue he can think of, trying to prove me shallow. I try to save him the trouble by telling him I'm shallow, but that's no fun unless he proves it through clever arguments. He is Canadian but feels free to discuss Australian Aboriginal land rights with me. He is boring, so very, very boring, even by Canadian standards.
What drives this social activist to being socially malicious is exactly the same force that drives other fanatics to violence, to chasing money, to religious extremism. He is exactly the same as the people he spends his life opposing. He does it because he wants to be loved. I know it's a cliche, but there it is, he needs to be loved and has chosen a method to make himself loveable. The harder he tries the less loveable he becomes, and therefore the more fanatical, more determined to be better at his method, more loveable.
It's not until after I have made my excuses and departed his company that I work all this out. I feel even sorrier for laughing at his business card, but know I wasn't deliberately rude. I hope next time I meet a fanatic I'll recognize it earlier and be more loving.
Parkstreet.
Solo, acoustic, Red Brown Dust, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
The activist spends the next half hour or so employing every Jedi mind trick he has learned from his self help books to try to embarrass and belittle me. I did laugh at him, it was rude of me, I understand. He plays both good and bad cop, he uses body language, mirroring me and opposing me, his smile is practised and horrifying. He raises every social issue he can think of, trying to prove me shallow. I try to save him the trouble by telling him I'm shallow, but that's no fun unless he proves it through clever arguments. He is Canadian but feels free to discuss Australian Aboriginal land rights with me. He is boring, so very, very boring, even by Canadian standards.
What drives this social activist to being socially malicious is exactly the same force that drives other fanatics to violence, to chasing money, to religious extremism. He is exactly the same as the people he spends his life opposing. He does it because he wants to be loved. I know it's a cliche, but there it is, he needs to be loved and has chosen a method to make himself loveable. The harder he tries the less loveable he becomes, and therefore the more fanatical, more determined to be better at his method, more loveable.
It's not until after I have made my excuses and departed his company that I work all this out. I feel even sorrier for laughing at his business card, but know I wasn't deliberately rude. I hope next time I meet a fanatic I'll recognize it earlier and be more loving.
Parkstreet.
Solo, acoustic, Red Brown Dust, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Parkstreet's Golden Rules Of Rock And Roll #6.
For every beer you drink before a gig there is a direct and inverse ratio between how good you think you sound and how good you actually sound.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Some People Like Fighting.
Last night I was caught in the middle of a debate I wanted nothing to do with. Why would I want to take part in the Palestine versus Israel lunacy when so many others are already doing that job? The two parties involved were striving for a victory, pushed and pushed for my opinion.
I related a story of a teacher stopping a bus because two kids up the back wouldn't stop fighting. All of the kids suffered, missed out on a jolly excursion, because two brats couldn't stop fighting. Just two kids held the rest to ransom because of their own dispute. I thought the analogy was relatively simple.
The two protagonists turned on me, pulling apart my analogy, questioning my intellect, even insulting me. Turns out they liked fighting. They didn't want my opinion, they wanted me to join in the fight.
Some people just like fighting.
Parkstreet.
Single, Drum, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
I related a story of a teacher stopping a bus because two kids up the back wouldn't stop fighting. All of the kids suffered, missed out on a jolly excursion, because two brats couldn't stop fighting. Just two kids held the rest to ransom because of their own dispute. I thought the analogy was relatively simple.
The two protagonists turned on me, pulling apart my analogy, questioning my intellect, even insulting me. Turns out they liked fighting. They didn't want my opinion, they wanted me to join in the fight.
Some people just like fighting.
Parkstreet.
Single, Drum, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Hookers.
On Friday evenings I take coffee with a friend. The last couple of months a couple of his friends have joined us. These two friends are employed as sex workers in a brothel down the road, they work the day shift, stop by for coffee, maybe cake, and a normal chat about normal stuff.
I've been given an insight into a world I knew nothing about. I never knew that some men are willing to pay seventy dollars to receive a hand job at ten in the morning. This information freaks me out. What a strange way to start the day. A strange way to start the day for both client and worker.
Most of the conversation is typical after work stuff, who is nice, who isn't, who didn't clean up the shower properly last night, whose boobs are fake. Girl stuff. Sometimes it wanders onto clients and their penises, all the different sizes and shapes, directions, how proud or embarrassed men are of them. A less secure man might become uncomfortable with this topic, start wondering how women discuss the bits between their own legs, but not me, I'm fine with it, really I am.
These girls have boyfriends, homes, other interests, they see sex with strangers as a way to make some bucks while they're young. The men are health checked, showered, each girl has her own limits on what she'll do and what she won't. It's not the image of prostitution most of us have. I'm still not sure I'm cool with it, I certainly couldn't maintain a relationship with a working girl. Maybe this is just old fashioned morality but it's how I am. On the other hand what they do works for them, their partners seem happy, I can't see any reason to judge it. At least they spend their days giving pleasure, not many of us can say that.
There is certainly an ugly side to prostitution. Many drug addicted girls have no choice, spend their lives in the cycle between needing the money for the drugs and needing the drugs to do the job. Any man involved in that side of the business should be castrated, publicly, with a rusty, blunt instrument.
Tomorrow night I'll take coffee with three friends, anyone passing couldn't guess what any of us do for a living. All four of us make our own choices, no one can judge us.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
I've been given an insight into a world I knew nothing about. I never knew that some men are willing to pay seventy dollars to receive a hand job at ten in the morning. This information freaks me out. What a strange way to start the day. A strange way to start the day for both client and worker.
Most of the conversation is typical after work stuff, who is nice, who isn't, who didn't clean up the shower properly last night, whose boobs are fake. Girl stuff. Sometimes it wanders onto clients and their penises, all the different sizes and shapes, directions, how proud or embarrassed men are of them. A less secure man might become uncomfortable with this topic, start wondering how women discuss the bits between their own legs, but not me, I'm fine with it, really I am.
These girls have boyfriends, homes, other interests, they see sex with strangers as a way to make some bucks while they're young. The men are health checked, showered, each girl has her own limits on what she'll do and what she won't. It's not the image of prostitution most of us have. I'm still not sure I'm cool with it, I certainly couldn't maintain a relationship with a working girl. Maybe this is just old fashioned morality but it's how I am. On the other hand what they do works for them, their partners seem happy, I can't see any reason to judge it. At least they spend their days giving pleasure, not many of us can say that.
There is certainly an ugly side to prostitution. Many drug addicted girls have no choice, spend their lives in the cycle between needing the money for the drugs and needing the drugs to do the job. Any man involved in that side of the business should be castrated, publicly, with a rusty, blunt instrument.
Tomorrow night I'll take coffee with three friends, anyone passing couldn't guess what any of us do for a living. All four of us make our own choices, no one can judge us.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
People Get Married.
Due to constitutional anachronism Prince William of Wales is also considered Australian royalty. Some day he will be my king. I reject this completely. I am no man's subject.
His engagement announcement has set off the usual debate about marriage. In his case marriage is essential, the line must continue, a son must be born. I imagine a young William was lectured about birth control from the age of thirteen, when he started shagging the palace maids. An illegitimate heir is a public relations disaster for royalty.
For the rest of us he is being held up as an example of marriage as a "building block of society". What a crock. People are the building blocks of a society, marriage is a relatively new social construct that arrived with middle class wealth, a legal method to hand that wealth to children. Of course the church got in on the lark, just like the florists and wedding dressmakers and caterers and, dare I say, musicians.
Most of the people I hear spouting off about the sanctity of marriage are on their second or third relationship with the institution. Prince William's father, all his siblings, have had confused and confusing marital arrangemnts, yet our society has survived. At my age I barely know anyone who's parents still live together, yet here we all are, quite finctional and stable and socially competent.
I prefer the American ideal, that the people are the stuff of society, that the people are both responsible for and the beneficiaries of a stable society. Handing over the credit to institutions like monarchy or marriage is childish.
People get married, believe in some magic contained in those rings. If that marriage is a commitment to a stable and honest society of two it might work. If it is an institution to absolve both parties of responsibility it means nothing.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
His engagement announcement has set off the usual debate about marriage. In his case marriage is essential, the line must continue, a son must be born. I imagine a young William was lectured about birth control from the age of thirteen, when he started shagging the palace maids. An illegitimate heir is a public relations disaster for royalty.
For the rest of us he is being held up as an example of marriage as a "building block of society". What a crock. People are the building blocks of a society, marriage is a relatively new social construct that arrived with middle class wealth, a legal method to hand that wealth to children. Of course the church got in on the lark, just like the florists and wedding dressmakers and caterers and, dare I say, musicians.
Most of the people I hear spouting off about the sanctity of marriage are on their second or third relationship with the institution. Prince William's father, all his siblings, have had confused and confusing marital arrangemnts, yet our society has survived. At my age I barely know anyone who's parents still live together, yet here we all are, quite finctional and stable and socially competent.
I prefer the American ideal, that the people are the stuff of society, that the people are both responsible for and the beneficiaries of a stable society. Handing over the credit to institutions like monarchy or marriage is childish.
People get married, believe in some magic contained in those rings. If that marriage is a commitment to a stable and honest society of two it might work. If it is an institution to absolve both parties of responsibility it means nothing.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
If I Could Start This Life Again.
Australian singer songwriter Paul Kelly performs a song called If I Could Start This Day Again. He wishes a miracle could occur so he could go back twenty four hours and, "Unsay the things I said, Undo the things I did", but he knows it is impossible.
Sometimes it feels that crucial moments in life have a cause and effect nature, that single words or actions stand alone from the rest of our lives. It only feels this way. Words and actions are glacial, they slide down from all our previous words and actions, the words and actions of others. Every moment of our lives lead to right now, what we say and do right now is just the edge of the glacier that is melting into a river.
Seen this way every moment of our lives takes on weight, every moment pushes towards the future, what sort of person we will be, what we will say and do. To take back any particular word or action we'd have to go back to the start, live our entire lives differently to ensure a different outcome. It is impossible to go back in time, we are who we are right now, but we can think about who we want to be, influence it by what we say and do right now.
We can't live purely analytically, study every moment. We'd never get out of bed. We can get to know ourselves then be true to that person, live honestly with ourselves. If the fundamental direction is true the ship should sail smoothly, adjust to the wind not be blown out of control by it.
I've spent the last few years trying to get to know myself, live more honestly. Before I started thinking about these things there were many, many days I would have liked to take back. There are still a few, but less each year.
Would I like to start over again? I would. But I can't. I can live honestly, make every moment part of a better future.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Sometimes it feels that crucial moments in life have a cause and effect nature, that single words or actions stand alone from the rest of our lives. It only feels this way. Words and actions are glacial, they slide down from all our previous words and actions, the words and actions of others. Every moment of our lives lead to right now, what we say and do right now is just the edge of the glacier that is melting into a river.
Seen this way every moment of our lives takes on weight, every moment pushes towards the future, what sort of person we will be, what we will say and do. To take back any particular word or action we'd have to go back to the start, live our entire lives differently to ensure a different outcome. It is impossible to go back in time, we are who we are right now, but we can think about who we want to be, influence it by what we say and do right now.
We can't live purely analytically, study every moment. We'd never get out of bed. We can get to know ourselves then be true to that person, live honestly with ourselves. If the fundamental direction is true the ship should sail smoothly, adjust to the wind not be blown out of control by it.
I've spent the last few years trying to get to know myself, live more honestly. Before I started thinking about these things there were many, many days I would have liked to take back. There are still a few, but less each year.
Would I like to start over again? I would. But I can't. I can live honestly, make every moment part of a better future.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Parkstreet's Golden Rules Of Rock And Roll #5.
If sitting in a car inhaling the farts of four other musicians who have been living on cheese sandwiches and beer is your idea of fun, go touring.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
I Wanna' See A Bear.
I've never seen a bear. We have plenty of kooky animals here in Australia, but no bears. I wanna' see a bear.
I don't want to hug a bear, or study bears, none of that sort of weirdness, I just want to see one in the wild, see how it moves, see it's eyes. I want to be reassured that bears are as cool as I think they are. Any animal that eats for months then sleeps for months is my kind of guy.
These large, natural, hairy dudes are an inspiration to me, like big big brothers they are everything I'm not. Completely at home in their environment, attuned to their senses, unashamed of their desires, nothing but who they are at all times.
When I look at a domestic dog I can see it's human training, the traits we have taught them, guilt, anxiety. I'm hoping when I look at a bear all I'll see is bear. Of course I'll be afraid, bears are territorial and strong and wild. I'm told that if humans keep their distance, don't appear to be a threat to the bear or it's young, pick a time when the bear is well fed and mellow, it should be safe enough. If I want to see a bear I'll have to see it on the bear's terms. This is exactly what I admire about them.
On my next journey to America I'll make sure I see a bear. Just once will be enough, so I know they are still out there, doing there bear thing.
I wanna' see a bear.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
I don't want to hug a bear, or study bears, none of that sort of weirdness, I just want to see one in the wild, see how it moves, see it's eyes. I want to be reassured that bears are as cool as I think they are. Any animal that eats for months then sleeps for months is my kind of guy.
These large, natural, hairy dudes are an inspiration to me, like big big brothers they are everything I'm not. Completely at home in their environment, attuned to their senses, unashamed of their desires, nothing but who they are at all times.
When I look at a domestic dog I can see it's human training, the traits we have taught them, guilt, anxiety. I'm hoping when I look at a bear all I'll see is bear. Of course I'll be afraid, bears are territorial and strong and wild. I'm told that if humans keep their distance, don't appear to be a threat to the bear or it's young, pick a time when the bear is well fed and mellow, it should be safe enough. If I want to see a bear I'll have to see it on the bear's terms. This is exactly what I admire about them.
On my next journey to America I'll make sure I see a bear. Just once will be enough, so I know they are still out there, doing there bear thing.
I wanna' see a bear.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Breaking Bread.
Tonight me and The New Reggae Allstars staged our second rehearsal. All four of us organized and reorganized, made sacrifices to get it together. Universal enthusiasm is a rare commodity.
We rehearsed at the drummer's home, he met us all with a cold beer and the promise of dinner when we took a break. After playing a few new tunes we sat out on the patio and ate lasgane together. Excellent lasagne. I was expecting my dinner to be a late night cheese sandwich so even bad lasagne would have been welcome, but it was excellent lasagne.
Some bands play together for years and never click. The moment we sat down to break bread together something clicked, we were all on a shared venture. Sitting at a table with others is a civilizing experience, honoured by almost every culture on earth in one way or another. That someone takes the time to prepare food for others, that they share with good grace, the conversation that follows, it makes us all feel grown up and classy. Cooking for us was certainly a classy move for a drummer.
Next rehearsal, in a week and a half, we will all bring something. None of us has any money, but a bag of fresh grapes or a bottle of good but cheap wine is within range. What we bring doesn't matter, it's a courtesy, a token, a contribution to the table. One classy gesture has set the tone for the band, set up a happy environment for us all to work in.
I'm new to the band leading business. Tonight I learned a lot about how it's done.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
We rehearsed at the drummer's home, he met us all with a cold beer and the promise of dinner when we took a break. After playing a few new tunes we sat out on the patio and ate lasgane together. Excellent lasagne. I was expecting my dinner to be a late night cheese sandwich so even bad lasagne would have been welcome, but it was excellent lasagne.
Some bands play together for years and never click. The moment we sat down to break bread together something clicked, we were all on a shared venture. Sitting at a table with others is a civilizing experience, honoured by almost every culture on earth in one way or another. That someone takes the time to prepare food for others, that they share with good grace, the conversation that follows, it makes us all feel grown up and classy. Cooking for us was certainly a classy move for a drummer.
Next rehearsal, in a week and a half, we will all bring something. None of us has any money, but a bag of fresh grapes or a bottle of good but cheap wine is within range. What we bring doesn't matter, it's a courtesy, a token, a contribution to the table. One classy gesture has set the tone for the band, set up a happy environment for us all to work in.
I'm new to the band leading business. Tonight I learned a lot about how it's done.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Monday, November 15, 2010
Broken Wings.
I once knew a girl who was troubled, a bad experience in her youth that was never acknowledged by her family caused her pain. I compared it to breaking a leg and being expected to walk around on it without being given time to heal.
So this unhealed injury stayed with her, instead of affecting how she walked it affected how she thought. She ran through all the usual new age solutions, then anti depressant drugs. Naturally she ran away from me when I suggested she face the original problem, forgive her family, forgive herself, give herself time to feel and grieve.
We all live with physical and mental imperfections, they are an element of individuality, sometimes a positive thing. My lack of vision alters my view of the world, how I interact with it, possibly in a good way. Mental illness is commonly seen as a negative thing in every way. I'm not so sure. The girl I'm talking about had a sweet outlook, a lovely empathy with strangers. It was like she was more sensitive to others than me, than most people.
I wonder if we shouldn't heal emotional problems in the same way we heal physical ones? A badly broken leg might leave a limp and a new respect for risk, maybe we have to accept that not all mental illnesses can be fully cured, just eased enough to be lived with?
Just as it is cruel to ignore a broken leg, so it is cruel for others and ourselves to ignore emotional pain.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
So this unhealed injury stayed with her, instead of affecting how she walked it affected how she thought. She ran through all the usual new age solutions, then anti depressant drugs. Naturally she ran away from me when I suggested she face the original problem, forgive her family, forgive herself, give herself time to feel and grieve.
We all live with physical and mental imperfections, they are an element of individuality, sometimes a positive thing. My lack of vision alters my view of the world, how I interact with it, possibly in a good way. Mental illness is commonly seen as a negative thing in every way. I'm not so sure. The girl I'm talking about had a sweet outlook, a lovely empathy with strangers. It was like she was more sensitive to others than me, than most people.
I wonder if we shouldn't heal emotional problems in the same way we heal physical ones? A badly broken leg might leave a limp and a new respect for risk, maybe we have to accept that not all mental illnesses can be fully cured, just eased enough to be lived with?
Just as it is cruel to ignore a broken leg, so it is cruel for others and ourselves to ignore emotional pain.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
A Man Can Dream.
I dreamed she was in my bed. I dreamed she asked if she could stay. Half way through my dream response about where the clean towels and the new toothbrush were I realized she meant stay, not leave.
I dreamed that I was cool with it. I explained that I'd been a bachelor, lived alone, for a long time, that she could omly stay if she promised to place her feminine mark on my home.
I dreamed that she reached into her bag, recovered her lipstick, started trying to apply it to my lips. It must have been a dream because I was strong enough to wrestle her off, take the lipstick from her. I explained that she could leave her feminine mark on my life without leaving it on me as a man.
I'm a much better bloke when I'm dreaming.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
I dreamed that I was cool with it. I explained that I'd been a bachelor, lived alone, for a long time, that she could omly stay if she promised to place her feminine mark on my home.
I dreamed that she reached into her bag, recovered her lipstick, started trying to apply it to my lips. It must have been a dream because I was strong enough to wrestle her off, take the lipstick from her. I explained that she could leave her feminine mark on my life without leaving it on me as a man.
I'm a much better bloke when I'm dreaming.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
A Learning Experience.
So for a reasonable amount of cash I'm sitting in a market research focus group. Around the table sits the attractive coordinator, myself, smelly over enthusiastic guy, taciturn South American finishing his doctors qualifications in Australia guy, bad toupe jokey guy, dopey victim guy and expensive haircut cheap shirt nail biting guy. Probably a fair cross section of the public.
We are here to discuss the repackaging of a coffee brand. I never make coffee at home so I lied before I even arrived here, told them I do, and that I use their brand. A white lie and I need the money and other rationalizations. I'm pretty sure smelly guy only drinks instant so I'm not the only liar. Cetainly nail biting guy doesn't buy the homely brand we are here to discuss, only the hip brand for him.
I feign interest, although I'm fascinated by the process, how the questions are posed. The one way mirror at the end of the room is just like a police interrogation room, the questioning procedure not much different. I half expect attractive coordinator lady to offer me a cigarette, she is sure laughing at my jokes too hard.
I had to turn my cell phone off, can't keep track of the time, how long have I been in this strange place? The complimentary sandwiches occupy a couple of minutes. Doctor guy excuses himself to use the bathroom. Why didn't you go before we left? Maybe he needed another valium to get through?
"What does the word premium say to you/?"
Dopey guy offers an illiterate thesaurus of ideas, so eager to please. The word premium means nothing, advertisers have soiled it beyond recognition.
"What does the colour gold say to you?"
We all agree that we like shiny things.
Eventually the little envelopes with the cash in them appear. Attractive coordinator girl can't waste a smile on me when I thank her and say goodbye. Smelly guy beats me to the elevator, I wait for another rather than spend another thirty seconds in a small space with him. Finally I'm out the door.
Toupe guy can't help but leave me with one more gag.
I think it is safe to say that we all learned something tonight.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
We are here to discuss the repackaging of a coffee brand. I never make coffee at home so I lied before I even arrived here, told them I do, and that I use their brand. A white lie and I need the money and other rationalizations. I'm pretty sure smelly guy only drinks instant so I'm not the only liar. Cetainly nail biting guy doesn't buy the homely brand we are here to discuss, only the hip brand for him.
I feign interest, although I'm fascinated by the process, how the questions are posed. The one way mirror at the end of the room is just like a police interrogation room, the questioning procedure not much different. I half expect attractive coordinator lady to offer me a cigarette, she is sure laughing at my jokes too hard.
I had to turn my cell phone off, can't keep track of the time, how long have I been in this strange place? The complimentary sandwiches occupy a couple of minutes. Doctor guy excuses himself to use the bathroom. Why didn't you go before we left? Maybe he needed another valium to get through?
"What does the word premium say to you/?"
Dopey guy offers an illiterate thesaurus of ideas, so eager to please. The word premium means nothing, advertisers have soiled it beyond recognition.
"What does the colour gold say to you?"
We all agree that we like shiny things.
Eventually the little envelopes with the cash in them appear. Attractive coordinator girl can't waste a smile on me when I thank her and say goodbye. Smelly guy beats me to the elevator, I wait for another rather than spend another thirty seconds in a small space with him. Finally I'm out the door.
Toupe guy can't help but leave me with one more gag.
I think it is safe to say that we all learned something tonight.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Tension.
It's like we are standing on the pavement, holding hands, watching a grand piano being hoisted up to a top floor apartment. The improbable zeppelin glides slowly. It is secure, it won't come crashing down, not as long as we stay and watch, hold hands, take our time, until the process is complete, everything done carefully and thoughtfully.
Then the tension will be gone, we can walk on, holding hands.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Then the tension will be gone, we can walk on, holding hands.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Parkstreet's Golden Rules Of Rock And Roll #4.
A tragic irony, the sound frequency a rock player hits the most is the sound frequency he will lose, and therefore the same sound frequency he will have to turn up to hear, thereby destroying the last of his ability to hear that sound frequency.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Thanks For Reading.
Last week this blog racked up over one thousand hits for the first time. One thousand, one hundred and twenty six to be both pedantic and a show off. I've no idea how many hits other blogs receive, and don't care, for this blog that number feels like a lot.
Last December I started blogging light heartedly but seriously as a way to practise writing. I'd thought about writing for over twenty years, always struggled with that bit between an idea and actually writing it down. This made me a non writer, a pen owner. As a musician I know that practise is essential to improvement. If I ever want to be a writer the act of actually writing has to feel natural, a daily event.
The difficult thing about writing is not stringing the words together, it's coming up with the ideas. A professional writer is given commissions, subjects to write about, a blogger is alone in the void, grasping any moment of humour or intensity in a bland day. Of course I've stretched some days, tried to beat a fairly shallow idea into a more interesting shape. Other days I forget ideas because I have so many. I'm learning that note taking and organization are part of this job.
Some people blog for income, I'm considering the idea. Maybe another blog under another name, something shameless and commercial. This blog will continue to be written from the heart. Some distant day when I have ten times as many readers I may look for a sponsor, a product I can dig, but until then I'll remain a gentleman pop scholar.
Thank you all so much for reading, I appreciate it more than you can guess, and thank you for wading through this self indulgent mire of a blog today.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Last December I started blogging light heartedly but seriously as a way to practise writing. I'd thought about writing for over twenty years, always struggled with that bit between an idea and actually writing it down. This made me a non writer, a pen owner. As a musician I know that practise is essential to improvement. If I ever want to be a writer the act of actually writing has to feel natural, a daily event.
The difficult thing about writing is not stringing the words together, it's coming up with the ideas. A professional writer is given commissions, subjects to write about, a blogger is alone in the void, grasping any moment of humour or intensity in a bland day. Of course I've stretched some days, tried to beat a fairly shallow idea into a more interesting shape. Other days I forget ideas because I have so many. I'm learning that note taking and organization are part of this job.
Some people blog for income, I'm considering the idea. Maybe another blog under another name, something shameless and commercial. This blog will continue to be written from the heart. Some distant day when I have ten times as many readers I may look for a sponsor, a product I can dig, but until then I'll remain a gentleman pop scholar.
Thank you all so much for reading, I appreciate it more than you can guess, and thank you for wading through this self indulgent mire of a blog today.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Parkstreet's Golden Rules Of Rock And Roll #3.
If the album you are recording sounds current it will sound dated by the time it is released.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
So I'm Sitting Outside A Cafe.
So I'm sitting outside a cafe, a crowd of girls walk past, one is wearing the same perfume the love of my life used to wear. Like Proust's madelaine the aroma fills my mind with memories. I'll spare you the personal, awful detail but I speak honestly when I say that I let this lady down in the last days of her life.
So I'm sitting outside a cafe, everything appears normal, a guy at another table is talking at me, I'm smiling and nodding as if I'm listening, but I'm in a different time and place. Those around me see Parkstreet doing what he does, drinking coffee, chatting, hanging out, they have no idea I'm experiencing a whole section of my life over again. How can they know? They don't know what perfume she used to wear, they don't even know she existed.
So I'm sitting outside a cafe and the guy at the next table is offended because I'm not paying attention to him. From his perspective I've drifted off for no reason. Maybe he is used to people being bored into submission, he leaves me alone soon enough. The cafe owner picks up that I want to be left alone, drops my coffee and runs.
So I'm sitting outside a cafe reliving eight years of a relationship, joy, pain, tenderness, bitterness, and shame. Nearly ten years later I still feel shame. A waft of perfume and I'm punishing myself over again.
Then equally as suddenly as it came on it passes. All the sounds and actions around me come back to the present. I'm alive, I'm here and now, the real world is the same as it ever was.
So I'm sitting outside a cafe and I'm at peace. It's as if my mind has been storing, collating, understanding the past for nearly ten years, that it just needed a trigger to set it free, a moment to set me free.
So I'm sitting outside a cafe. I can't explain how it happened, but I'm at peace.
Parkstreet.
So I'm sitting outside a cafe, everything appears normal, a guy at another table is talking at me, I'm smiling and nodding as if I'm listening, but I'm in a different time and place. Those around me see Parkstreet doing what he does, drinking coffee, chatting, hanging out, they have no idea I'm experiencing a whole section of my life over again. How can they know? They don't know what perfume she used to wear, they don't even know she existed.
So I'm sitting outside a cafe and the guy at the next table is offended because I'm not paying attention to him. From his perspective I've drifted off for no reason. Maybe he is used to people being bored into submission, he leaves me alone soon enough. The cafe owner picks up that I want to be left alone, drops my coffee and runs.
So I'm sitting outside a cafe reliving eight years of a relationship, joy, pain, tenderness, bitterness, and shame. Nearly ten years later I still feel shame. A waft of perfume and I'm punishing myself over again.
Then equally as suddenly as it came on it passes. All the sounds and actions around me come back to the present. I'm alive, I'm here and now, the real world is the same as it ever was.
So I'm sitting outside a cafe and I'm at peace. It's as if my mind has been storing, collating, understanding the past for nearly ten years, that it just needed a trigger to set it free, a moment to set me free.
So I'm sitting outside a cafe. I can't explain how it happened, but I'm at peace.
Parkstreet.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
Some Days Everything Just Works.
Yesterday everything just worked for me.
My new reggae band had it's first rehearsal. The other three guys in the room with me all took on their jobs and nailed them. It was easy and fun. They are quality musicians and quality human beings, my job was just getting these great ingredients into the same pot.
In the evening I cooked ginger chicken. Fresh organic chicken, zingy, juicy ginger, just enough pepper, tingly green onions, crispy snow peas, for once I didn't overdo the sesame oil, all I had to do was put the right ingredients in the same wok. Even the rice came out fluffy and perfect. My cooking isn't always this successful.
Not all days are like this. When I look back on less successful days it's quite clear that I've skimped on the ingredients. I've been impatient, or lazy, not waited for the right stuff before I started work, not made the extra effort to find it. The band leader relies on the musicians around him, the cook relies on so many other producers to do their jobs well. It all looks so simple when everything comes together, the leader is just pointing all the previous good work in one direction.
A bad cook can ruin quality ingredients. The skill is in not messing with them, letting each ingredient do what it does best. The art is in identifying quality ingredients, knowing how to blend them. After that everything just works.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
My new reggae band had it's first rehearsal. The other three guys in the room with me all took on their jobs and nailed them. It was easy and fun. They are quality musicians and quality human beings, my job was just getting these great ingredients into the same pot.
In the evening I cooked ginger chicken. Fresh organic chicken, zingy, juicy ginger, just enough pepper, tingly green onions, crispy snow peas, for once I didn't overdo the sesame oil, all I had to do was put the right ingredients in the same wok. Even the rice came out fluffy and perfect. My cooking isn't always this successful.
Not all days are like this. When I look back on less successful days it's quite clear that I've skimped on the ingredients. I've been impatient, or lazy, not waited for the right stuff before I started work, not made the extra effort to find it. The band leader relies on the musicians around him, the cook relies on so many other producers to do their jobs well. It all looks so simple when everything comes together, the leader is just pointing all the previous good work in one direction.
A bad cook can ruin quality ingredients. The skill is in not messing with them, letting each ingredient do what it does best. The art is in identifying quality ingredients, knowing how to blend them. After that everything just works.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Parkstreet's Golden Rules Of Rock And Roll #2.
All salesmen in guitar shops must be named Steve. They must bore you to tears with their favourite guitar lick and tales of their own band. They must namedrop. They must try to sell you the guitar they make the best commission on, not the guitar that will best suit your needs.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Parkstreet's Golden Rules Of Rock And Roll #1.
When your cover band is playing Hotel California you must hurry through the triplets at the end of the guitar solo, race like a draught horse heading home, downhill, thus destroying the baroque beauty of the three over four feel.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
One Honest Cent.
Today my online empire earned me one cent. Someone I'll never know listened to one of my tracks on Napster, once the music industry gangsters had skimmed their cut I came out with a cent.
If you'd do what you do for nothing you end up with a strange relationship with money. You need some, but selling work you care about feels weird. It doesn't matter if it is one cent or one million dollars in royalties, you are still selling your work to strangers.
As long as I keep the idea of the market out of my mind when I'm making stuff I feel o.k. when it sells. This is easy to say when talking about one cent. Would I remain so pure in the face of the big bucks? I'm not certain myself.
At some stage I'd like to find a sponsor for this blog. Again, I'd write this blog for nothing, I do, I will continue to, but if I could earn enough to travel and write I'd be elated. I like to believe that I'm honest when I write here. I think it is important, can't see the point in writing dishonestly. The risk of becoming dishonest in an effort to gain readers, earn more money, may not be worth the dollars.
I guess I'll cross or burn that bridge when I arrive at it.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
If you'd do what you do for nothing you end up with a strange relationship with money. You need some, but selling work you care about feels weird. It doesn't matter if it is one cent or one million dollars in royalties, you are still selling your work to strangers.
As long as I keep the idea of the market out of my mind when I'm making stuff I feel o.k. when it sells. This is easy to say when talking about one cent. Would I remain so pure in the face of the big bucks? I'm not certain myself.
At some stage I'd like to find a sponsor for this blog. Again, I'd write this blog for nothing, I do, I will continue to, but if I could earn enough to travel and write I'd be elated. I like to believe that I'm honest when I write here. I think it is important, can't see the point in writing dishonestly. The risk of becoming dishonest in an effort to gain readers, earn more money, may not be worth the dollars.
I guess I'll cross or burn that bridge when I arrive at it.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Innocence.
In the early 1960's Australians decided to create a building as a work of art, the Sydney Opera House. You've seen it on television, the one that looks like white sails hanging over the harbour. This building was part of the coming of age for a young nation, a sign of self belief.
To help pay for this masterpiece the state government ran a lottery. It was also an effort to make the people feel involved, like they owned a small part of the work. The one hundred thousand pound first prize was enough for a man and his family to never work again, back then one could purchase a house for a few thousand pounds.
Australians have never trusted their governments. It was decided to publish the name and address of the winner to ensure that the money wasn't just funnelled back into general revenue. A kidnapper took the son of one winner, killed the boy before a ransom note was even written.
With coming of age comes loss of innocence.
The Sydney Opera House is a monument in more than one way.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
To help pay for this masterpiece the state government ran a lottery. It was also an effort to make the people feel involved, like they owned a small part of the work. The one hundred thousand pound first prize was enough for a man and his family to never work again, back then one could purchase a house for a few thousand pounds.
Australians have never trusted their governments. It was decided to publish the name and address of the winner to ensure that the money wasn't just funnelled back into general revenue. A kidnapper took the son of one winner, killed the boy before a ransom note was even written.
With coming of age comes loss of innocence.
The Sydney Opera House is a monument in more than one way.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Friday, November 12, 2010
Stepping Out Like I Mean It.
Today I'm rehearsing a new band for the first time. Kent Parkstreet and the New Reggae Allstars is go!
With any new venture I'm trying to start it as I intend to continue it. I want this band to be a happy happy party band, the kind of band promoters turn to when they have a crowd that wants to dance and have fun. It isn't going to be an art project, rather a professional outfit that will nail it every time it turns out. I want to begin the rehearsal process with the same gusto, the same presence.
The process leads to the performance, I want to go into the rehearsal room full of energy and excitement, try to infect my workmates with the same feeling. When all the members of any team share the same buzz great things are possible.
We'll be playing classic songs, all reggae. A band like this relies on performance, on having the material so tight that we can play like big children, have as much, if not more fun than the audience. Performing in the rehearsal room is difficult, there is no audience to show off to, but it's my job to make that happen today, to fire the imagination of my friends.
With any new venture you gotta' step out like you mean it.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
With any new venture I'm trying to start it as I intend to continue it. I want this band to be a happy happy party band, the kind of band promoters turn to when they have a crowd that wants to dance and have fun. It isn't going to be an art project, rather a professional outfit that will nail it every time it turns out. I want to begin the rehearsal process with the same gusto, the same presence.
The process leads to the performance, I want to go into the rehearsal room full of energy and excitement, try to infect my workmates with the same feeling. When all the members of any team share the same buzz great things are possible.
We'll be playing classic songs, all reggae. A band like this relies on performance, on having the material so tight that we can play like big children, have as much, if not more fun than the audience. Performing in the rehearsal room is difficult, there is no audience to show off to, but it's my job to make that happen today, to fire the imagination of my friends.
With any new venture you gotta' step out like you mean it.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
There Is Love In This World.
When I'm on my death bed I will only remember the love in my life. The people I've loved, the work I've loved, the beauty I've loved. All the bitterness and graft will be forgotten.
Whenever I doubt that there is love in this world I just have to look back on my life and it's obvious that there has been so much love to be grateful for. To die happily this is all I need.
Every day I want to surround myself with people I love, who love me, spend my time on work I love, take time to truly see the beauty around me. This will make my death bed an easy, happy place to lie.
There is love in this world.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Whenever I doubt that there is love in this world I just have to look back on my life and it's obvious that there has been so much love to be grateful for. To die happily this is all I need.
Every day I want to surround myself with people I love, who love me, spend my time on work I love, take time to truly see the beauty around me. This will make my death bed an easy, happy place to lie.
There is love in this world.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Story Telling.
One of the new digital television stations in Australia is replaying old shows from the 1980's. I was a teenager in the 80's, didn't have much time for television, so this is my first viewing of a show called The A Team. I love it.
The show is just a rehash of the Robin Hood legend. Hannibal is Robin, Peck is Will Scarlett, B.A. is Little John and the conflicted Friar Tuck has been replaced by the madman Murdoch. There is even a Sheriff character in the form of the army colonel who chases them around.
Evil dooers step on the little guy at their own risk when The A Team are around, their combination of strategy and courage prevails every time. There is always a point when it looks the good guys are in trouble, but they remain cool in a crisis, improvise a way to win.
I'm told their are no new stories, just new ways of telling the old ones. The story teller who made The A Team chose a medium aimed at teenage boys, he included many explosions and pretty girls. Someone aiming at an adult market might explore the psychology of the hero and his foes, maybe use the voice over technique.
Story telling is the one true art. Every artistic pursuit is just story telling in one form or another. The story itself doesn't matter so much, it is the medium the artist uses to express his own personality. Outside the arts, in the real world, every word and action is the way we tell our own story.
Many lose sight of the way they tell their story, become fanatical about the story itself. Others forget to listen respectfully to the stories of others.
The story teller who made The A Team had one purpose, to entertain the masses. I'm off to think about the reason I tell stories. Maybe you'll tell me yours?
Parkstreet.
Solo, acoustic, Red Brown Dust, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
The show is just a rehash of the Robin Hood legend. Hannibal is Robin, Peck is Will Scarlett, B.A. is Little John and the conflicted Friar Tuck has been replaced by the madman Murdoch. There is even a Sheriff character in the form of the army colonel who chases them around.
Evil dooers step on the little guy at their own risk when The A Team are around, their combination of strategy and courage prevails every time. There is always a point when it looks the good guys are in trouble, but they remain cool in a crisis, improvise a way to win.
I'm told their are no new stories, just new ways of telling the old ones. The story teller who made The A Team chose a medium aimed at teenage boys, he included many explosions and pretty girls. Someone aiming at an adult market might explore the psychology of the hero and his foes, maybe use the voice over technique.
Story telling is the one true art. Every artistic pursuit is just story telling in one form or another. The story itself doesn't matter so much, it is the medium the artist uses to express his own personality. Outside the arts, in the real world, every word and action is the way we tell our own story.
Many lose sight of the way they tell their story, become fanatical about the story itself. Others forget to listen respectfully to the stories of others.
The story teller who made The A Team had one purpose, to entertain the masses. I'm off to think about the reason I tell stories. Maybe you'll tell me yours?
Parkstreet.
Solo, acoustic, Red Brown Dust, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
Australia Austria
The Prime Minister of Australia is currently attending an international meeting of heads of government in South Korea. Each delegate at the conference table has a figurine in front of them, attired in the national costume of their country. The Australian figurine is dressed like an Austrian from The Sound Of Music.
Australians aren't easily offended. We all think it's pretty funny. Can you imagine the uproar if this happened to some other nations? What's not funny is that the managers of an international conference that is designed to improve world government don't know the difference between the world's largest island and a small European nation. Funny and scary.
Picking a national costume for Australia is near impossible. The bikini is the closest thing I can come up with. Honest, youthful, unrestrained, sexy, that's us. We don't really have a history or a culture, we are a community of immigrants, not easily defined. For better or worse we are globalization.
The Prime Minister is an attractive woman, I like the image of her in a bikini. At least if she appeared at an international conference in a bikini the organizers would remember Australia isn't Austria.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Australians aren't easily offended. We all think it's pretty funny. Can you imagine the uproar if this happened to some other nations? What's not funny is that the managers of an international conference that is designed to improve world government don't know the difference between the world's largest island and a small European nation. Funny and scary.
Picking a national costume for Australia is near impossible. The bikini is the closest thing I can come up with. Honest, youthful, unrestrained, sexy, that's us. We don't really have a history or a culture, we are a community of immigrants, not easily defined. For better or worse we are globalization.
The Prime Minister is an attractive woman, I like the image of her in a bikini. At least if she appeared at an international conference in a bikini the organizers would remember Australia isn't Austria.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Mrs. MaCready-Bryan's Bottom.
My year nine maths teacher, Mrs. MaCready-Bryan possessed one of the nicest bottoms I've ever seen. Firm, pert, round, perched high up and ripe and ready to squeeze. Her modestly long but tight skirts did nothing to hide the wonder of her buttocks. When she sat behind her desk I learned a lot, when she walked around the class answering questions I learned nothing.
In an exercise on statistics she asked us all to name our favourite song. Many votes for Stairway To Heaven, some for Hotel California, just one for Little Boy Soldiers by The Jam. Everyone laughed at my choice, Mrs. MaCready-Bryan defended me, said it was great to be independant. She ruffled my hair and called me the statistical anomoly she needed to describe her lesson. I wasn't an overly hormonal teenager but all the blood in my body rushed to two parts of my body, one of them my face. Ever since that moment I've been a confirmed tush man. She was also a nice person and a good teacher, I liked and respected her.
I think this was a typical schoolboy crush. Looking back she was probably aware of it. A happy and healthy experience for me, probably a giggle for her and her girlfriends. It's close to thirty years ago now, but I still have a clear image of Mrs. MaCready-Bryan and her bottom.
Tonight I was reminiscing about past girlfriends, and the one thing they've all had in common. I'm sitting here wondering if an experience made me a tush man, or if I was a tush man by nature and that created the experience? There is a lot of talk about nature versus nurture, but I wonder how much the random experience affects who we are? Would I be a tush man if I'd been in Mr. Joyce's class?
Chance encounters can hit us harder than the expected. A parent repeating a lesson one thousand times can have less affect than a stranger making it once but in a different way. I don't remember any high school maths, but I do remember a nice tush from my maths class.
I don't think that a teenage boy's brain is a solid basis for any educational theory, I am sure that none of us can help what we are attracted to, be it innate or taught. I'm beginning to think that being honest with ourselves about what attracts us, and acting on that knowledge, can only make us happier.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
In an exercise on statistics she asked us all to name our favourite song. Many votes for Stairway To Heaven, some for Hotel California, just one for Little Boy Soldiers by The Jam. Everyone laughed at my choice, Mrs. MaCready-Bryan defended me, said it was great to be independant. She ruffled my hair and called me the statistical anomoly she needed to describe her lesson. I wasn't an overly hormonal teenager but all the blood in my body rushed to two parts of my body, one of them my face. Ever since that moment I've been a confirmed tush man. She was also a nice person and a good teacher, I liked and respected her.
I think this was a typical schoolboy crush. Looking back she was probably aware of it. A happy and healthy experience for me, probably a giggle for her and her girlfriends. It's close to thirty years ago now, but I still have a clear image of Mrs. MaCready-Bryan and her bottom.
Tonight I was reminiscing about past girlfriends, and the one thing they've all had in common. I'm sitting here wondering if an experience made me a tush man, or if I was a tush man by nature and that created the experience? There is a lot of talk about nature versus nurture, but I wonder how much the random experience affects who we are? Would I be a tush man if I'd been in Mr. Joyce's class?
Chance encounters can hit us harder than the expected. A parent repeating a lesson one thousand times can have less affect than a stranger making it once but in a different way. I don't remember any high school maths, but I do remember a nice tush from my maths class.
I don't think that a teenage boy's brain is a solid basis for any educational theory, I am sure that none of us can help what we are attracted to, be it innate or taught. I'm beginning to think that being honest with ourselves about what attracts us, and acting on that knowledge, can only make us happier.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
No Problem.
"Is She your last thought before you sleep?"
"Yes."
"Do you dream of Her?"
"Yes."
"Is She your first thought when you awake?"
"Yes."
"Do you love Her?"
"Yes."
"Are you man enough to love Her just as She is?"
"Yes?"
"So what's your problem?"
"No problem."
Parkstreet.
Single, Drum, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
"Yes."
"Do you dream of Her?"
"Yes."
"Is She your first thought when you awake?"
"Yes."
"Do you love Her?"
"Yes."
"Are you man enough to love Her just as She is?"
"Yes?"
"So what's your problem?"
"No problem."
Parkstreet.
Single, Drum, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
I Love Being A Grown Up.
Last night I ate biscuits for dinner. It was a shortbread affair. I played games on my iPod, watched bad cop shows and stayed up too late, arose late this morning. What's the point of being a grown up if we can't make bad decisions occasionally?
We all spend years waiting until we are old enough to drive, have sex, eat what we want, sleep when we want. Suddenly we see ourselves as too old to fulfill such childish fantasies. We owe it to our childhood selves to at least once drive a ludicrous car, have sex with someone our folks would disapprove of on the basis of colour, creed, age, size, shape, gender, we can at the very least stay up late eating nonsense food and watching teev in the dark.
How do we ever know if we've grown up unless we prove it? Go on, I dare you. If you are married involve your partner. I'm guessing your husband always wanted to sneak into the girls locker room, you might have to go for his second or third fantasy, or brush up your role playing skills. I have no idea what women dreamed about as they were growing up, apart from a glorious wedding. I'd be interested to hear.
So I feel terrible this morning. I'll be eating nothing but fruit and vegetables and green tea all day, but it was worth it.I feel like a grown up.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
We all spend years waiting until we are old enough to drive, have sex, eat what we want, sleep when we want. Suddenly we see ourselves as too old to fulfill such childish fantasies. We owe it to our childhood selves to at least once drive a ludicrous car, have sex with someone our folks would disapprove of on the basis of colour, creed, age, size, shape, gender, we can at the very least stay up late eating nonsense food and watching teev in the dark.
How do we ever know if we've grown up unless we prove it? Go on, I dare you. If you are married involve your partner. I'm guessing your husband always wanted to sneak into the girls locker room, you might have to go for his second or third fantasy, or brush up your role playing skills. I have no idea what women dreamed about as they were growing up, apart from a glorious wedding. I'd be interested to hear.
So I feel terrible this morning. I'll be eating nothing but fruit and vegetables and green tea all day, but it was worth it.I feel like a grown up.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Remembrance Day.
At some stage November Eleventh changed from Armistice Day to Remembrance Day. Either way it commemorates the day in 1918 when muddy soldiers rose from their muddy trenches, smoked a muddy cigarette with their muddy enemy, turned and trudged home in their muddy boots, their muddy minds all wondering, "what the fuck just happened?"
My grandfather, Wilfred Parkstreet, was one of the muddy soldiers. He spent three years coaxing unwilling pack animals to carry ammunition forward and injured men back. Then he returned to a country town to work in the post office.
I never knew him.
I wonder what he made of this crazy trade war? I wonder how he went back to a normal life, how he dealt with the everyday nonsense that people go on with? When he looked up at the giant portrait of the monarch on the post office wall did he curse them? Them and their dynastic rivalries, their egomaniac empires, their complete disregard for the people they were supposed to care for?
Or was he a product of his time who accepted that his leaders knew best? I guess any man has to rationalize three years of blood and mud and shit and death somehow.
I'm told Wilfred Parkstreet, like most of his mates, never talked about it.
I'll remember him today.
Lest we forget.
Parkstreet.
My grandfather, Wilfred Parkstreet, was one of the muddy soldiers. He spent three years coaxing unwilling pack animals to carry ammunition forward and injured men back. Then he returned to a country town to work in the post office.
I never knew him.
I wonder what he made of this crazy trade war? I wonder how he went back to a normal life, how he dealt with the everyday nonsense that people go on with? When he looked up at the giant portrait of the monarch on the post office wall did he curse them? Them and their dynastic rivalries, their egomaniac empires, their complete disregard for the people they were supposed to care for?
Or was he a product of his time who accepted that his leaders knew best? I guess any man has to rationalize three years of blood and mud and shit and death somehow.
I'm told Wilfred Parkstreet, like most of his mates, never talked about it.
I'll remember him today.
Lest we forget.
Parkstreet.
The Miserable Men's Club.
In the evening the club of miserable men convenes at a local cafe. The divorced, the widowed, the world weary men. They meet for some male company and a few laughs.
These men have had their glory days, wandered their travels, they can tell a tale or two. They know they'll rise agin, they are confident in their own abilities, they've proven them. They've nothing to prove.
They don't gather because misery loves company, but because company cures misery. Hip folk might call it a support group, but there is no psychologist here. These sort of men don't need that sort of help because they can talk to each other. Their experiences weren't shared, but similar enough to be understood. They get each other.
Some join the club, others leave, no one stays too long. The club is like the small stool at the edge of the ring, rest, drink, receive a pep talk from a man you trust then get back out there and fight. Most don't return once they've left. The time here is all they need to repair before they start again.
Some go back to work, others home to photographs of the children they rarely see, all eventually to an empty bed. Empty beds by choice, these are all men who know how to score. Right now they are divorced, widowed, world weary, plenty of time for all that tomorrow.
The Miserable Men's Club will have a chair to fill soon. Mine.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
These men have had their glory days, wandered their travels, they can tell a tale or two. They know they'll rise agin, they are confident in their own abilities, they've proven them. They've nothing to prove.
They don't gather because misery loves company, but because company cures misery. Hip folk might call it a support group, but there is no psychologist here. These sort of men don't need that sort of help because they can talk to each other. Their experiences weren't shared, but similar enough to be understood. They get each other.
Some join the club, others leave, no one stays too long. The club is like the small stool at the edge of the ring, rest, drink, receive a pep talk from a man you trust then get back out there and fight. Most don't return once they've left. The time here is all they need to repair before they start again.
Some go back to work, others home to photographs of the children they rarely see, all eventually to an empty bed. Empty beds by choice, these are all men who know how to score. Right now they are divorced, widowed, world weary, plenty of time for all that tomorrow.
The Miserable Men's Club will have a chair to fill soon. Mine.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Mozart And Me.
I sometimes introduce one of my songs by saying that I wrote it while I sat on the couch and watched television, that I believe Mozart often used the same method. It's a self depreciating joke about my own laziness, in a way it places Mozart above all us earthly songwriters who do the best we can with what we've got.
There is an advertisement on my television right now, it's for some sort of smart phone called a Mozart. It features bad actors in wigs and make up fopping about like idiots. It's not just a shoddy, banal, infantile way of selling what is probably a perfectly good product, it's more than that. When we cheapen greatness we cheapen ourselves.
Mozart created music that appeals to our ears no matter where or when we were born. It is music without time or place. Can you imagine creating something like that? Most of us live with the hope that we'll make up something that lasts one hundred years, maybe our grandchildren will hear it and feel something.
The popular culture whores who made this advertising campaign will never create anything real, they will spend their lives dealing in derivation, icons, trying to connect real work with their own. They'll cheapen everything they touch.
I take solace in the idea that Mozart's music will be alive when they are long dead, that the rest of us will keep being inspired by Mozart no matter what they do.
Parkstreet.
Solo, acoustic, Red Brown Dust, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
There is an advertisement on my television right now, it's for some sort of smart phone called a Mozart. It features bad actors in wigs and make up fopping about like idiots. It's not just a shoddy, banal, infantile way of selling what is probably a perfectly good product, it's more than that. When we cheapen greatness we cheapen ourselves.
Mozart created music that appeals to our ears no matter where or when we were born. It is music without time or place. Can you imagine creating something like that? Most of us live with the hope that we'll make up something that lasts one hundred years, maybe our grandchildren will hear it and feel something.
The popular culture whores who made this advertising campaign will never create anything real, they will spend their lives dealing in derivation, icons, trying to connect real work with their own. They'll cheapen everything they touch.
I take solace in the idea that Mozart's music will be alive when they are long dead, that the rest of us will keep being inspired by Mozart no matter what they do.
Parkstreet.
Solo, acoustic, Red Brown Dust, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
Play The Ball, Not The Man.
When my American friends see Australian Rules Football for the first time they ask, "what rules?" It's a tough, full body contact sport played without padding or helmets, by real Australian men.
A common saying in Aussie Rules is "play the ball, not the man". Among the testosterone, adrenalin, general pumpedupedness it is easy to get sucked into the physical competition and forget the objective of the game, to get the ball and kick it through the big posts at the end of the field. Physical intimidation is part of the game, those players who can maintain focus on the aim of the game despite distraction are the most successful.
In the old swashbuckler movies the good guy's aim was the bed chamber of the maiden, he could thrust and parry with the bad guy, keep him distracted with fancy swordplay while he went about his real quest. The great Aussie Rules footballers do the same thing, distract the opposition, trick them into playing a different game.
I often get sucked into the politics and other games. Playing the ball doesn't mean being weak, it's permissible to destroy anyone who stands between me and the ball, getting the ball and kicking between the big posts is the whole point.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
A common saying in Aussie Rules is "play the ball, not the man". Among the testosterone, adrenalin, general pumpedupedness it is easy to get sucked into the physical competition and forget the objective of the game, to get the ball and kick it through the big posts at the end of the field. Physical intimidation is part of the game, those players who can maintain focus on the aim of the game despite distraction are the most successful.
In the old swashbuckler movies the good guy's aim was the bed chamber of the maiden, he could thrust and parry with the bad guy, keep him distracted with fancy swordplay while he went about his real quest. The great Aussie Rules footballers do the same thing, distract the opposition, trick them into playing a different game.
I often get sucked into the politics and other games. Playing the ball doesn't mean being weak, it's permissible to destroy anyone who stands between me and the ball, getting the ball and kicking between the big posts is the whole point.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
I Hope I Die Before I Get Old.
I know an old actor, he is more than thirty years older than me, semi retired, yet it seems he works more often than I do. When we take coffee together I ensure that he doesn't suspect how much this annoys me.
He had a gig today. A Candid Camera rip off, his job was to walk down a crowded street shouting a foul mouthed rap while hidden cameras and microphones captured the responses of the people he passed. The way he told it made it hilarious.
Whenever he finishes a well paid day of work he celebrates with a great big spliff. It takes him back to the 1960's when he started out in the acting game, makes him feel as young as he feels inside. I love his spirit.
I hope I die before I get old, that I keep doing what I do until that day.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
He had a gig today. A Candid Camera rip off, his job was to walk down a crowded street shouting a foul mouthed rap while hidden cameras and microphones captured the responses of the people he passed. The way he told it made it hilarious.
Whenever he finishes a well paid day of work he celebrates with a great big spliff. It takes him back to the 1960's when he started out in the acting game, makes him feel as young as he feels inside. I love his spirit.
I hope I die before I get old, that I keep doing what I do until that day.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Monday, November 8, 2010
The Blind Man.
Today one of those men who knows how to do things and make them work came to my apartment to install new blinds. It reminded me of one of my favourite childhood jokes.
The joke involves a woman getting out of the shower to answer the front door. The person knocking announces that he is the blind man so she opens the door without bothering to wrap a towel around herself, figuring he won't be able to see her anyway. Upon entering the man reveals that he is there to install the new blinds. At that age I liked any joke that involved a bare naked lady. Of course at my age I have grown out of any obsession with nude women.
Of course if the man were blind he still would have known the woman was naked. He would have immediately noticed that he couldn't hear shoes, heard the excitement at her own daring in her voice, listened for the swish of clothes, he would have worked it out. And he would have imagined her to be beautiful.
Vision is a combination of the sensory organ and interpretation of the information it provides. I'm legaslly blind, have enough vision to get around but not enough to really see accurately. My other senses haven't improved, I just pay more attention to them. I probably imagine more than I actually see, my other senses pick up information and my brain converts it to a vision of sorts.
It's fascinating receiving information this way. I do miss a lot but I see other things. I'm not susceptible to acting, which can be annoying for others. Real mood, feeling, is expressed in voice, posture, gait, so many other ways.
The most exciting thing I've learned from this is that everyone else is interpreting their own vision of the world around them. They aren't aware of it, but people with perfect eyes still create their own imagined version of everything they see. Look back on a fond memory, how you remember it, then take a moment to think how it would have looked to a disinterested stranger. Different, huh?
I've only realized recently that when I'm on stage I have to appeal to this imagination part of perception. How I really look and sound is very different from what the audience perceives, my mood and action can alter their perception.
My new blinds are marvellous, I can successfully block out the world, give my photophobic eyes some rest. No vision can be a gift too.
I still like stories of bare naked ladies.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
The joke involves a woman getting out of the shower to answer the front door. The person knocking announces that he is the blind man so she opens the door without bothering to wrap a towel around herself, figuring he won't be able to see her anyway. Upon entering the man reveals that he is there to install the new blinds. At that age I liked any joke that involved a bare naked lady. Of course at my age I have grown out of any obsession with nude women.
Of course if the man were blind he still would have known the woman was naked. He would have immediately noticed that he couldn't hear shoes, heard the excitement at her own daring in her voice, listened for the swish of clothes, he would have worked it out. And he would have imagined her to be beautiful.
Vision is a combination of the sensory organ and interpretation of the information it provides. I'm legaslly blind, have enough vision to get around but not enough to really see accurately. My other senses haven't improved, I just pay more attention to them. I probably imagine more than I actually see, my other senses pick up information and my brain converts it to a vision of sorts.
It's fascinating receiving information this way. I do miss a lot but I see other things. I'm not susceptible to acting, which can be annoying for others. Real mood, feeling, is expressed in voice, posture, gait, so many other ways.
The most exciting thing I've learned from this is that everyone else is interpreting their own vision of the world around them. They aren't aware of it, but people with perfect eyes still create their own imagined version of everything they see. Look back on a fond memory, how you remember it, then take a moment to think how it would have looked to a disinterested stranger. Different, huh?
I've only realized recently that when I'm on stage I have to appeal to this imagination part of perception. How I really look and sound is very different from what the audience perceives, my mood and action can alter their perception.
My new blinds are marvellous, I can successfully block out the world, give my photophobic eyes some rest. No vision can be a gift too.
I still like stories of bare naked ladies.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Novel.
To take a phrase, place it on the lathe, turn and work it into a thing of Roccoco beauty. To take this finely detailed piece and use it, along with all the others, to support the bannister of world weariness that guides the reader up the stairway built of self knowledge, in the hope they will rise to truly see the view.
This is why I'm a blogger, not a novelist.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
This is why I'm a blogger, not a novelist.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Regret.
When people tell me they live with no regrets I don't believe them. They are either lying or haven't lived. Of course dwelling on regret is a bad idea. Denying regret exists is equally destructive.
My greatest regret is not giving my one true love the attention, the security, the home she craved. I was a drunken fool for the years I knew her, barely able to care for my own life. What are you going to do? Do I regret being a drunk? I know that if hadn't invested so much in beer I'd probably own three houses right now, and another two or three thousand other reasons.
Regret has to be looked in the eye. I've heard of people writing down all their regrets and burning them, others releasing helium filled balloons on the beach at the equinox. Anyone who has read this blog before will know how I feel about such nonsense.
The only method I can think of is to look deep into your own heart, recognize the real reasons you did what you did, and what you didn't do. Is this a fun thing to do? I didn't find it fun. It was painful and distressing.
Promising yourself you will learn from this knowledge and never repeat those actions is one thing. Actually learning from this knowledge and never repeating those actions is another thing. The cliche that old habits die hard is a cliche because it is true. Learning and growing is one sure way to accept regret and leave it behind.
Forgiving yourself is the other thing. I'm still working on this one. It is more than just saying the words to yourself. I think forgiveness, real forgiveness, is a slow process, it requires proof of change. If someone else hurts you it is natural to be wary of that person until they prove themselves, the same seems to be true of yourself.
Regrets are like the physical scars we all carry. There is no point pretending they aren't there. If I'd lived too carefully I wouldn't have any scars. They are part of me now and I can live with them.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
My greatest regret is not giving my one true love the attention, the security, the home she craved. I was a drunken fool for the years I knew her, barely able to care for my own life. What are you going to do? Do I regret being a drunk? I know that if hadn't invested so much in beer I'd probably own three houses right now, and another two or three thousand other reasons.
Regret has to be looked in the eye. I've heard of people writing down all their regrets and burning them, others releasing helium filled balloons on the beach at the equinox. Anyone who has read this blog before will know how I feel about such nonsense.
The only method I can think of is to look deep into your own heart, recognize the real reasons you did what you did, and what you didn't do. Is this a fun thing to do? I didn't find it fun. It was painful and distressing.
Promising yourself you will learn from this knowledge and never repeat those actions is one thing. Actually learning from this knowledge and never repeating those actions is another thing. The cliche that old habits die hard is a cliche because it is true. Learning and growing is one sure way to accept regret and leave it behind.
Forgiving yourself is the other thing. I'm still working on this one. It is more than just saying the words to yourself. I think forgiveness, real forgiveness, is a slow process, it requires proof of change. If someone else hurts you it is natural to be wary of that person until they prove themselves, the same seems to be true of yourself.
Regrets are like the physical scars we all carry. There is no point pretending they aren't there. If I'd lived too carefully I wouldn't have any scars. They are part of me now and I can live with them.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Sunday, November 7, 2010
The Leader Of The Pack.
When people go on vacation they sometimes leave their dogs at boarding kennels. The kennel manager will pick one dog from the pack, a well behaved, easily managed one, and make it the leader by giving it extra affection and food. The other dogs will follow this unelected leader, but only because the human is the real leader, the dog his proxy.
Humans are pack animals. Some humans are given advantages by their society and birth, better nutrition, education, upbringing, physical appearance, wealth. These advantages make these humans the pack leaders, but only because the society defines the rules. Once a human sees the rules as the bunkum they are that human is free of the pack mentality.
In the wild the fiercest, wiliest dog will become leader. The same in uncivilized human societies. Civilization has set up a status based system to decide who gets the best of the food, the best of the mates, it is a step forward, but just a step.
As much as I love my dog friends I don't want to live like one.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Humans are pack animals. Some humans are given advantages by their society and birth, better nutrition, education, upbringing, physical appearance, wealth. These advantages make these humans the pack leaders, but only because the society defines the rules. Once a human sees the rules as the bunkum they are that human is free of the pack mentality.
In the wild the fiercest, wiliest dog will become leader. The same in uncivilized human societies. Civilization has set up a status based system to decide who gets the best of the food, the best of the mates, it is a step forward, but just a step.
As much as I love my dog friends I don't want to live like one.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Bald Patch.
So sometimes I'd sit on the floor, my back against the couch. She'd lie above me, playing with my hair. I liked that.
Sometimes she'd place a finger on one part of my scalp.
"Oh look, a bald patch!"
I'd fall for it every time. I'd freak out. She'd laugh and laugh and laugh.
The reason I'd believe her every time is it never occurred to me to question what she said. When someone is honest every time they open their mouth one just believes what they say.
Somehow her honesty made the two occasions she lied to me more hurtful than they should have been. My theory is that someone who lies ninety nine times will be congratulated for telling the truth once, someone who tells the trurh ninety nine times will be punished mercilessly for lying once.
Two lies in eight years is as good as it gets. I was blessed.
Parkstreet.
Single, Drum, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
Sometimes she'd place a finger on one part of my scalp.
"Oh look, a bald patch!"
I'd fall for it every time. I'd freak out. She'd laugh and laugh and laugh.
The reason I'd believe her every time is it never occurred to me to question what she said. When someone is honest every time they open their mouth one just believes what they say.
Somehow her honesty made the two occasions she lied to me more hurtful than they should have been. My theory is that someone who lies ninety nine times will be congratulated for telling the truth once, someone who tells the trurh ninety nine times will be punished mercilessly for lying once.
Two lies in eight years is as good as it gets. I was blessed.
Parkstreet.
Single, Drum, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
Places That Start With The Word "The".
I dig places that start with The. The Ukraine, The Crimea, The Lebanon, The Palestine, The Hague, The Haight Ashbury. They sound so solid and defined and old world, like places one might visit after leaving The Explorers Club in one's lighter than air balloon.
Here in Sydney Australia The Near East is New Zealand, The Middle East Hawaii, The Far East is California, yet we still use these terms the same way our British ancestors did. Once something is called The it is set in stone, no matter how geographically outdated it is.
A friend plays with The Australian Chamber Orchestra. They aren't sanctioned by the government or anything, they just called themselves that. It sounds more certain than An Australian Chamber Orchestra, or A Chamber Orchestra Named Bernard. By using The they sound real.
I often play with a guitarist named Scott. When he isn't in earshot I refer to him as The Scott because on stage he is a rock, a defined musical presence. He'll probably read this so I guess this is a public confession.
The Rolling Stones, The Police, it just works.
Maybe I'll change my name, by deed poll, to The Kent Parkstreet?
Maybe not.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Here in Sydney Australia The Near East is New Zealand, The Middle East Hawaii, The Far East is California, yet we still use these terms the same way our British ancestors did. Once something is called The it is set in stone, no matter how geographically outdated it is.
A friend plays with The Australian Chamber Orchestra. They aren't sanctioned by the government or anything, they just called themselves that. It sounds more certain than An Australian Chamber Orchestra, or A Chamber Orchestra Named Bernard. By using The they sound real.
I often play with a guitarist named Scott. When he isn't in earshot I refer to him as The Scott because on stage he is a rock, a defined musical presence. He'll probably read this so I guess this is a public confession.
The Rolling Stones, The Police, it just works.
Maybe I'll change my name, by deed poll, to The Kent Parkstreet?
Maybe not.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Rehearsal And Politics.
Soon I'll leave home to go to rehearsal with the weird and wonderful Machiniso band. We'll assemble at a studio, set up our instruments, run through the tunes we all co wrote.
Many talk about the process being as important as the performance. I disagree. The process is something I endure to get the performance right but I never enjoy it. Five very different humans in a small, loud room, all trying to be cooperative and adult despite their natures.
With a common purpose human beings can get along surprisingly well. For slightly evolved primates we manage better than we should. Musicians by nature have seriously large egos but even they can put them aside for an hour or two.
I look at politicians and realize that they have forgotten their purpose. If jazz musicians can serve the purpose of creating music surely politicians, with all their education and intellect, can serve the purpose of creating a better society for the people.
Politicians become obsessed with the process, the gaining of power, and forget why they are meeting. Maybe we should elect some musicians to run the joint?
Maybe not.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Many talk about the process being as important as the performance. I disagree. The process is something I endure to get the performance right but I never enjoy it. Five very different humans in a small, loud room, all trying to be cooperative and adult despite their natures.
With a common purpose human beings can get along surprisingly well. For slightly evolved primates we manage better than we should. Musicians by nature have seriously large egos but even they can put them aside for an hour or two.
I look at politicians and realize that they have forgotten their purpose. If jazz musicians can serve the purpose of creating music surely politicians, with all their education and intellect, can serve the purpose of creating a better society for the people.
Politicians become obsessed with the process, the gaining of power, and forget why they are meeting. Maybe we should elect some musicians to run the joint?
Maybe not.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Gulp.
In the mid 1980's I worked in a flash cocktail bar. The bar was seriously plush, grand piano, art deco decor, the imported one off carpet cost over four hundred thousand dollars, back when four hundred thousand dollars was a lot of money for a carpet.
We stocked a cognac that sold at fifty five dollars per nip. Don't forget that tweny five years ago fifty five dollars was a lot of money for a dribble of liquor. One night a customer ordered one of these cognacs. He was a little drunk so we warned him about the price twice. He was determined so I carefully poured one shot of fine fortified wine.
Brandy like this is aged in timber barrels for decades, in this case more than one hundred and fifty years. Great craftsmen blend the best that their ancestors laid down to create a product of great beauty. The drunk fool at my bar ordered it for a joke, refused to pay for it. We were left looking at a brandy balloon with a value by weight greater than gold, wondering what to do with it.
I was certain that once it had been exposed to oxygen it shouldn't be returned to the bottle, no point risking tarnishing such a wonderful bottle. A workmate was concerned about the accounting, how were we to explain the waste to our boss? A third bartender stepped up, raised the glass, tipped his head back and swallowed all fifty five dollars worth in one gulp.
"Hmmm, quite nice."
He immediately removed the awe and mystery, reminded us that it was just a shot of brandy, no matter how old, how expensive. We all laughed and went back to work.
Respect for the artistry of the wine maker, responsibilty to an employer, both worthy sentiments, but in the end it was just a shot of liquor. Drinking it was the wisest solution.
Parkstreet.
Solo, acoustic, Red Brown Dust available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
We stocked a cognac that sold at fifty five dollars per nip. Don't forget that tweny five years ago fifty five dollars was a lot of money for a dribble of liquor. One night a customer ordered one of these cognacs. He was a little drunk so we warned him about the price twice. He was determined so I carefully poured one shot of fine fortified wine.
Brandy like this is aged in timber barrels for decades, in this case more than one hundred and fifty years. Great craftsmen blend the best that their ancestors laid down to create a product of great beauty. The drunk fool at my bar ordered it for a joke, refused to pay for it. We were left looking at a brandy balloon with a value by weight greater than gold, wondering what to do with it.
I was certain that once it had been exposed to oxygen it shouldn't be returned to the bottle, no point risking tarnishing such a wonderful bottle. A workmate was concerned about the accounting, how were we to explain the waste to our boss? A third bartender stepped up, raised the glass, tipped his head back and swallowed all fifty five dollars worth in one gulp.
"Hmmm, quite nice."
He immediately removed the awe and mystery, reminded us that it was just a shot of brandy, no matter how old, how expensive. We all laughed and went back to work.
Respect for the artistry of the wine maker, responsibilty to an employer, both worthy sentiments, but in the end it was just a shot of liquor. Drinking it was the wisest solution.
Parkstreet.
Solo, acoustic, Red Brown Dust available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
Cantabile.
The musical direction "cantabile" means to play in a singing manner. The term is derived from the Latin verb canto, to sing. Singers phrase and breathe differently from instrumentalists, so imitating that style is harder than it sounds.
Singers lead strange lives. Getting on stage is like being naked for the first time in front of a new lover, and singers go through that horror and delight night after night. They know they are being judged, that everyone in the audience who has sung a note in the shower is assessing if they could do a better job. The singer's voice, style, their whole personality is up for comment.
After getting naked the singer then tries to express love. Like anyone else the singer has good and bad nights, some nights their performance moves the earth, other nights it's "quite nice". Like all lovers most singers would prefer to be called appalling than quite nice.
When it comes off, when the room is filled with singer created joy, their is no better feeling. It isn't like a drug, it is so much better. Real life becomes the bits in between getting one's social gear off for a room of new lovers. Every step is a beat, every eavesdropped word a phrasing lesson, a new sound to add to the soul. Singing is soul deep, it's a life, a vocation, a choice that can only be changed by starting a new life.
Some people are given the direction to live cantabile, by the composer or whomever gives such directions. Others are instrumentalists. Like any direction it can be followed or ignored. Why not follow it, be a naked lover, live cantabile?
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Singers lead strange lives. Getting on stage is like being naked for the first time in front of a new lover, and singers go through that horror and delight night after night. They know they are being judged, that everyone in the audience who has sung a note in the shower is assessing if they could do a better job. The singer's voice, style, their whole personality is up for comment.
After getting naked the singer then tries to express love. Like anyone else the singer has good and bad nights, some nights their performance moves the earth, other nights it's "quite nice". Like all lovers most singers would prefer to be called appalling than quite nice.
When it comes off, when the room is filled with singer created joy, their is no better feeling. It isn't like a drug, it is so much better. Real life becomes the bits in between getting one's social gear off for a room of new lovers. Every step is a beat, every eavesdropped word a phrasing lesson, a new sound to add to the soul. Singing is soul deep, it's a life, a vocation, a choice that can only be changed by starting a new life.
Some people are given the direction to live cantabile, by the composer or whomever gives such directions. Others are instrumentalists. Like any direction it can be followed or ignored. Why not follow it, be a naked lover, live cantabile?
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Friday, November 5, 2010
Butterfly Farts.
Butterfly farts and ladybug spew. Penguin piss and dolphin poo.
Some creatures are so cute it doesn't matter what they do.
I have a friend like this. He can be scratching his arse whilst picking his nose and women will say, "he's like a big gorgeous schoolboy, isn't he?" I've been at his girlfriend's house and he's been asleep on the couch, snoring so loudly that we couldn't even talk. She just smiled benignly at him, guided me to the next room, shut the door gently so as not to wake him. Whatever this guy does is somehow sweet and cute to the opposite gender.
I think it's because he is all instinct. He does exactly what he feels like doing at exactly the moment he feels like doing it. Women seem to adore this honesty. I'm guessing this instinctive action isn't a bad thing in the bedroom either.
Or maybe he's just a loveable guy?
I think I hate him.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Some creatures are so cute it doesn't matter what they do.
I have a friend like this. He can be scratching his arse whilst picking his nose and women will say, "he's like a big gorgeous schoolboy, isn't he?" I've been at his girlfriend's house and he's been asleep on the couch, snoring so loudly that we couldn't even talk. She just smiled benignly at him, guided me to the next room, shut the door gently so as not to wake him. Whatever this guy does is somehow sweet and cute to the opposite gender.
I think it's because he is all instinct. He does exactly what he feels like doing at exactly the moment he feels like doing it. Women seem to adore this honesty. I'm guessing this instinctive action isn't a bad thing in the bedroom either.
Or maybe he's just a loveable guy?
I think I hate him.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Cultural Reference.
Some cultural references are universal to anyone with a small amount of education. The names Stalin, Hitler and Mao are generally known everywhere. If I call you Einstein you know I'm saying you are smart, or dumb if I'm being sarcastic.
I recently met an eighteen year old Brazilian girl. Lucky me, huh? Anyways, she didn't really know who Elvis Presley was. Why should she? Her young parents were only five years old when Elvis died, and Brazil has it's own legendary pop stars.
As we age we notice occasions like this more and more. People who were big names when we were kids disappear from popular culture, new names we don't understand replace them. A biographical film can bring an old name back to public attention, but not for long.
As the internet becomes the most common medium for communication we have to remember that a global audience won't comprehend references that are taken for granted within one's own culture. There is a risk we'll lose local flavour in literature and music. Footnoting is so uncool, without it we risk the audience switching off because we are speaking what appears to be a different language.
Most cultures have stories, myths, legends that are common to all. In the internet age the only stories that will be universal will be international, or created by Hollywood. I'm not certain many of these references will last long. We've all heard of Bach, I can't imagine any modern composer representing the internet age in the way that Bach represents the Baroque.
Just as every Italian village and town used to have it's own opera star until Pavarotti became the universal, worldwide opera star, every culture may lose diversity as one icon is all we need.
I'm not sure how I feel about all this. Everything must change. Communication has always changed, after all the internet is just an up to date combination of the changes that the printing press and telegraph wire gave us.
I'd like to think that people in the future will know who Bach was, remember the lesson of Hitler.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
I recently met an eighteen year old Brazilian girl. Lucky me, huh? Anyways, she didn't really know who Elvis Presley was. Why should she? Her young parents were only five years old when Elvis died, and Brazil has it's own legendary pop stars.
As we age we notice occasions like this more and more. People who were big names when we were kids disappear from popular culture, new names we don't understand replace them. A biographical film can bring an old name back to public attention, but not for long.
As the internet becomes the most common medium for communication we have to remember that a global audience won't comprehend references that are taken for granted within one's own culture. There is a risk we'll lose local flavour in literature and music. Footnoting is so uncool, without it we risk the audience switching off because we are speaking what appears to be a different language.
Most cultures have stories, myths, legends that are common to all. In the internet age the only stories that will be universal will be international, or created by Hollywood. I'm not certain many of these references will last long. We've all heard of Bach, I can't imagine any modern composer representing the internet age in the way that Bach represents the Baroque.
Just as every Italian village and town used to have it's own opera star until Pavarotti became the universal, worldwide opera star, every culture may lose diversity as one icon is all we need.
I'm not sure how I feel about all this. Everything must change. Communication has always changed, after all the internet is just an up to date combination of the changes that the printing press and telegraph wire gave us.
I'd like to think that people in the future will know who Bach was, remember the lesson of Hitler.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
It's Just Business.
Yesterday an engine on a Qantas plane suffered what the airline called a "critical incident". What actually happened is the engine blew up.
From the moment this story hit the news to the moment the plane landed safely the Qantas share price dropped by five percent as those shareholders who were tuned in sold out. Once it was made clear that all aboard the plane were safe and well the share price went back up to normal.
Of course this is just business, it can't be seen as betting on the lives of hundreds of innocent airline passengers.
It's just business.
Parkstreet.
From the moment this story hit the news to the moment the plane landed safely the Qantas share price dropped by five percent as those shareholders who were tuned in sold out. Once it was made clear that all aboard the plane were safe and well the share price went back up to normal.
Of course this is just business, it can't be seen as betting on the lives of hundreds of innocent airline passengers.
It's just business.
Parkstreet.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Women Notice Socks.
This is important information for my male readers. Women notice the socks you are wearing. It's true, they do.
If you're like me you choose your socks in the morning based on weight, thick socks for cold days, light cotton ones for hot. Apparently I'm incorrect, I should be paying attention to how my socks finish my ensemble.
I don't know why women notice our socks. Maybe they check if they are dishevelled, that might point to certain character flaws, or maybe they think it is a pointer towards your choice in underwear? What I do know is that when women get to the point of checking out your hosiery they are interested. I also know that when they are critical of your socks you are at a turning point in your relationship. I can only suggest telling them that you'd like them to take you shopping, that your sock selection is negotiable. If arrogance is your chosen stance you might choose this moment to go all alpha maley and demand your right to sock independance.
If in doubt go basic black, if the rest of your wardrobe has some flair you might have an eye for the sort of socks the ladies will approve of, but most of us should take on advice from a close female friend.
If yes or no are in the balance why not add every tiny weight to the yes side? Gentlemen, choose your socks wisely, women notice them.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
If you're like me you choose your socks in the morning based on weight, thick socks for cold days, light cotton ones for hot. Apparently I'm incorrect, I should be paying attention to how my socks finish my ensemble.
I don't know why women notice our socks. Maybe they check if they are dishevelled, that might point to certain character flaws, or maybe they think it is a pointer towards your choice in underwear? What I do know is that when women get to the point of checking out your hosiery they are interested. I also know that when they are critical of your socks you are at a turning point in your relationship. I can only suggest telling them that you'd like them to take you shopping, that your sock selection is negotiable. If arrogance is your chosen stance you might choose this moment to go all alpha maley and demand your right to sock independance.
If in doubt go basic black, if the rest of your wardrobe has some flair you might have an eye for the sort of socks the ladies will approve of, but most of us should take on advice from a close female friend.
If yes or no are in the balance why not add every tiny weight to the yes side? Gentlemen, choose your socks wisely, women notice them.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
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