Occasionally I'm reminded just how big Australia is. Right now the northern state of Queensland is suffering floods, an area bigger than France and Germany combined is under water. That's a big flood.
I live in the neighbouring state but the only affect this disaster will have on me is that bananas will be slighlty more expensive than usual for a few months. Can you imagine two vast European nations losing their entire farm production? Here the two hundred thousand inhabitants who have been flooded out will receive government help and be back to normal within a year, the rest of this huge country will take up the slack.
Can you imagine only two hundred thousand people living in an area the size of two countries? Of course this land has just come out of a decade of desperate drought, it simply couldn't support any more people. By the way, all the humans are safe and well, the livestock wasn't so lucky. Cattle can only swim for so long, unless they were on high ground whole herds are gone.
When Australians land in Europe we travel all over the continent, every city seems so close. Here some country town football teams drive for hours to play a match, sleep overnight then drive back the next day. A big city with real education and medical facilities can be ten hours away.
Australia is a beautiful place to get lost, If you want solitude, peace, space, come on down. Once you get out of the big cities you are in real life, wild, free, dangerous. There is stuff out there that can kill you but there is room to move, to truly live.
Sometimes it feels too big.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Friday, 31 December 2010
Flute After Death, from www.parkstreetfluteblog.blogspot.com
Friday, December 31, 2010
Flute After Death.
There is a gorgeous scene in Milan Kundera's masterpiece Immortality, it involves an angel come to ask a couple if they desire to be together after death, together for eternity.
The woman intuitively knows why the angel is there, the man has no idea. She tries to see the angel alone, can't face the idea of saying that she doesn't want to be with her husband forever in front of him, knows she can't say it in front of him and she will say yes if he is listening. Heartbreaking, honesty often is.
If that angel came to me, told me to choose one instrument to play in heaven I would choose the flute. Breaking the news to my guitar and saxophone would be tough, but I'm sure they'd understand.
The flute is the only thing in my life that has held my attention. The only thing. I've dabbled in all sorts, musical and other, but I always come back to the flute. The flute is my shiralee.
There is something about the whole body experience of playing flute, the connection with breath, it feels more complete and at one with me than any other instrument. It doesn't have a bell like a saxophone, doesn't amplify electronically, it relies on the reality of the room I am playing in, it is honest.
There is a tradition of flute playing in every culture on earth, it is ancient and primal. Just after we started singing and banging rocks together we started playing the flute. Wherever I go the flute is recognized and welcome, while I play a flute I am recognized and welcome.
I'm not expecting a visit from an angel, but Kundera's metaphor has given me the answer to a question that has troubled me for years.
Parkstreet.
Improvised, solo flute track, Warm Up, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
Flute After Death.
There is a gorgeous scene in Milan Kundera's masterpiece Immortality, it involves an angel come to ask a couple if they desire to be together after death, together for eternity.
The woman intuitively knows why the angel is there, the man has no idea. She tries to see the angel alone, can't face the idea of saying that she doesn't want to be with her husband forever in front of him, knows she can't say it in front of him and she will say yes if he is listening. Heartbreaking, honesty often is.
If that angel came to me, told me to choose one instrument to play in heaven I would choose the flute. Breaking the news to my guitar and saxophone would be tough, but I'm sure they'd understand.
The flute is the only thing in my life that has held my attention. The only thing. I've dabbled in all sorts, musical and other, but I always come back to the flute. The flute is my shiralee.
There is something about the whole body experience of playing flute, the connection with breath, it feels more complete and at one with me than any other instrument. It doesn't have a bell like a saxophone, doesn't amplify electronically, it relies on the reality of the room I am playing in, it is honest.
There is a tradition of flute playing in every culture on earth, it is ancient and primal. Just after we started singing and banging rocks together we started playing the flute. Wherever I go the flute is recognized and welcome, while I play a flute I am recognized and welcome.
I'm not expecting a visit from an angel, but Kundera's metaphor has given me the answer to a question that has troubled me for years.
Parkstreet.
Improvised, solo flute track, Warm Up, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
Thursday, 30 December 2010
The Jazz Habitat, repost from parkstreetfluteblog
Thursday, March 25, 2010
The Jazz Habitat.
I reckon jazz is the music that celebrates the city. It is played by people who have known nothing but the city, who aren't pining for another, more rustic life, third and fourth generation city dwellers. The pulse and rhythm is of crowds and traffic, underground trains and all night neon. The tone is of car horns, ships horns, shift horns, horns horns horns. The tunes are as raw as strip clubs, sophisticated as concert halls, one can be many things at once in the city. Jazz is late night music, lit by electricity, refrigerated, transported, reliant on the city, of the city.
Jazz is the art chamber music of this age, the age of the city.
Parkstreet.
http://www.parkstreetquotes.blogspot.com/
The Jazz Habitat.
I reckon jazz is the music that celebrates the city. It is played by people who have known nothing but the city, who aren't pining for another, more rustic life, third and fourth generation city dwellers. The pulse and rhythm is of crowds and traffic, underground trains and all night neon. The tone is of car horns, ships horns, shift horns, horns horns horns. The tunes are as raw as strip clubs, sophisticated as concert halls, one can be many things at once in the city. Jazz is late night music, lit by electricity, refrigerated, transported, reliant on the city, of the city.
Jazz is the art chamber music of this age, the age of the city.
Parkstreet.
http://www.parkstreetquotes.blogspot.com/
Acid Test, reposted because it is that time of year again.
Thursday, December 31, 2009Acid Test.
For an ex drinker New Years Eve is the ultimate sobriety test. Everyone thinks it is a great idea to have just one beer, just tonight, and they won't stop telling me that is what they think.
I feel like a mercenary soldier turned pacifist. I've done my share, done enough killing. I've nothing to prove.
It's hard to explain that I'm happy watching everyone else get off their nuts, enjoy the show. It's a pretty funny show, people say woo a lot, wobble about, say stuff that doesn't make sense, sleep with folks they'd not usually look twice at.
People generally accept difference in others much better than we expect. They accept nutty religions, diet choices, out of the ordinary appearance, sexual deviancy, drug use, strange hobbies, just about anything, but tell an Australian you don't want a drink on New Year and they won't hear of it. And they won't shut up about it.
I'm enjoying the South Park marathon.
Parkstreet.
For some reason this post receives many hits, I'm guessing folks are seeking a method to prove their drugs are O.K.
http://www.parkstreetquotes.blogspot.com/
For an ex drinker New Years Eve is the ultimate sobriety test. Everyone thinks it is a great idea to have just one beer, just tonight, and they won't stop telling me that is what they think.
I feel like a mercenary soldier turned pacifist. I've done my share, done enough killing. I've nothing to prove.
It's hard to explain that I'm happy watching everyone else get off their nuts, enjoy the show. It's a pretty funny show, people say woo a lot, wobble about, say stuff that doesn't make sense, sleep with folks they'd not usually look twice at.
People generally accept difference in others much better than we expect. They accept nutty religions, diet choices, out of the ordinary appearance, sexual deviancy, drug use, strange hobbies, just about anything, but tell an Australian you don't want a drink on New Year and they won't hear of it. And they won't shut up about it.
I'm enjoying the South Park marathon.
Parkstreet.
For some reason this post receives many hits, I'm guessing folks are seeking a method to prove their drugs are O.K.
http://www.parkstreetquotes.blogspot.com/
Johnathan Johnathan.
So some terrible remake of the film Rollerball is on my television right now. I remember when the original came out, my Mum wouldn't let me go to see it because it was too violent for a child. I came across it in my early twenties, a late night television addict back then too.
This remake appears to have totally missed the man against the system feel of the real movie. The original was surprisingly tasteful, contrasting dream like scenes with the brutal circus action. The sound track was lush, the acting reserved and deep, the bloody roller action used to great effect, as a symbol not the point of the show.
The story was of a man balancing romantic love, brotherly love with his commitment to himself and what he felt he had to do. His battle against the faceless men who turn everything into dollars was noble. I'm looking at this remake and seeing nothing but faceless men turning what was a beautiful film into dollars.
This is a weird phenomena, a film based on a film, a corruption of everything the original artist made. It's making me sad, I'll turn it off.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
This remake appears to have totally missed the man against the system feel of the real movie. The original was surprisingly tasteful, contrasting dream like scenes with the brutal circus action. The sound track was lush, the acting reserved and deep, the bloody roller action used to great effect, as a symbol not the point of the show.
The story was of a man balancing romantic love, brotherly love with his commitment to himself and what he felt he had to do. His battle against the faceless men who turn everything into dollars was noble. I'm looking at this remake and seeing nothing but faceless men turning what was a beautiful film into dollars.
This is a weird phenomena, a film based on a film, a corruption of everything the original artist made. It's making me sad, I'll turn it off.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Tuesday, 28 December 2010
Conscious Versus Subconscious.
When I can't sleep I get kind of excited, I know something is brewing in the part of my brain that I don't control. As far as I can tell the part of my brain that I don't control is much larger than the part I do.
Last night the story I've been twiddling with started pouring out at a very inconvenient hour. I suddenly had the crucial opening scene, the relationships between characters, all the practical frame to hang the tale on. My conscious brain had very little to do with the process.
I'm told there is a state of mind that allows conscious and subconscious thinking to become one instead of one fighting the other for time and space I'm guessing this state would make the creative process so much easier, and that I'd get more sleep. I waste so much time just setting up the video conference between the two parts of me, I'd get so much more done if they were sitting in the same office.
This unified state is promoted as positive by most schools of mental and spiritual training. It's not an end in itself, rather a method that allows a human to exploit all it's potential. I try to imagine a state of mind where I'm not split between what I think I should feel and what I actually feel, where instinct and process combine to make thought and action pure and honest. Intellectually I get it but it hasn't settled to my gut yet.
For now I'm stuck with sleepless nights and just trying to get out of the way of my own mind, letting it flow when it has the urge. If I had so little control over my physical being I'd be diagnosed as spastic. I do wonder how much of the subconscious the conscious can cope with, whether they are seperated for good reason?
I'll undertake the experiment, if I go mad in the process at least it will be a well slept madness.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Last night the story I've been twiddling with started pouring out at a very inconvenient hour. I suddenly had the crucial opening scene, the relationships between characters, all the practical frame to hang the tale on. My conscious brain had very little to do with the process.
I'm told there is a state of mind that allows conscious and subconscious thinking to become one instead of one fighting the other for time and space I'm guessing this state would make the creative process so much easier, and that I'd get more sleep. I waste so much time just setting up the video conference between the two parts of me, I'd get so much more done if they were sitting in the same office.
This unified state is promoted as positive by most schools of mental and spiritual training. It's not an end in itself, rather a method that allows a human to exploit all it's potential. I try to imagine a state of mind where I'm not split between what I think I should feel and what I actually feel, where instinct and process combine to make thought and action pure and honest. Intellectually I get it but it hasn't settled to my gut yet.
For now I'm stuck with sleepless nights and just trying to get out of the way of my own mind, letting it flow when it has the urge. If I had so little control over my physical being I'd be diagnosed as spastic. I do wonder how much of the subconscious the conscious can cope with, whether they are seperated for good reason?
I'll undertake the experiment, if I go mad in the process at least it will be a well slept madness.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
More Wandering Thoughts.
The gap between Christmas and New Year, not much happens. Lots of sleeping in and television. Some gruelling coffee drinking and hanging around to be done, otherwise my time is my own. Random foolishness abounds.
A documentary about The Badlands in South Dakota, U.S.A. I love that there is a real place with this name. Can't help thinking that if you want genuine soul destroying desolation you could just try the culture in the south western suburbs of Sydney but maybe I'm missing the point?
A news report on the Informal Federation of Anarchists. Idiot fools. It seems the less genuine support a political movement has the more extreme it's actions. I'd bet sexual favours for long term prisoners that ninety percent of these alleged anarchists are poor rich kids with family escape hatches or sexually inadequate nerds who can't get their kicks without violence. I'm confident my anal virginity is safe.
I'm told the cartoon Pinky And The Brain is made for people much younger than me. What can I say? My inner child obtains at least two belly laughs from each episode. When Pinky asks The Brain if he plans to push to the edge of the envelope he is informed, No, but our feet may well touch the sticky bits near the edge." The Brain also performs a marvellous Tom Cruise impression, claims he feels a need for expeditious velocity. Both Pinky and The Brain are much better actors than Tom Cruise.
A promary school in England tried to change the name of gingerbread men to gingerbread persons. I can't think of anything to say to make that funnier.
I've learned that stud horses go out for tens of thousands of dollars. The working girls I know who perform a similar service only earn a few hundred dollars a day, and their clients are most often nowhere near as well equipped. This hardly seems fair.
I seriously need to get a hair cut and get a job. The good news is I'm back to work next week and my brain will start working again.
Oh look, Arsenal versus Chelsea on the television. I'll think about getting a job tomorrow.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
A documentary about The Badlands in South Dakota, U.S.A. I love that there is a real place with this name. Can't help thinking that if you want genuine soul destroying desolation you could just try the culture in the south western suburbs of Sydney but maybe I'm missing the point?
A news report on the Informal Federation of Anarchists. Idiot fools. It seems the less genuine support a political movement has the more extreme it's actions. I'd bet sexual favours for long term prisoners that ninety percent of these alleged anarchists are poor rich kids with family escape hatches or sexually inadequate nerds who can't get their kicks without violence. I'm confident my anal virginity is safe.
I'm told the cartoon Pinky And The Brain is made for people much younger than me. What can I say? My inner child obtains at least two belly laughs from each episode. When Pinky asks The Brain if he plans to push to the edge of the envelope he is informed, No, but our feet may well touch the sticky bits near the edge." The Brain also performs a marvellous Tom Cruise impression, claims he feels a need for expeditious velocity. Both Pinky and The Brain are much better actors than Tom Cruise.
A promary school in England tried to change the name of gingerbread men to gingerbread persons. I can't think of anything to say to make that funnier.
I've learned that stud horses go out for tens of thousands of dollars. The working girls I know who perform a similar service only earn a few hundred dollars a day, and their clients are most often nowhere near as well equipped. This hardly seems fair.
I seriously need to get a hair cut and get a job. The good news is I'm back to work next week and my brain will start working again.
Oh look, Arsenal versus Chelsea on the television. I'll think about getting a job tomorrow.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Monday, 27 December 2010
New Blog.
I've started a new blog, a collection of quotes that pop up in front of me on my travels.
http://www.parkstreetquotes.blogspot.com/
I'm hoping folks will send me their favourite quotes too, my e mail address is at the top of the page. Tell me why you like it too. Any subject, profound or silly.
Parkstreet.
http://www.parkstreetquotes.blogspot.com/
I'm hoping folks will send me their favourite quotes too, my e mail address is at the top of the page. Tell me why you like it too. Any subject, profound or silly.
Parkstreet.
Budgie Smugglers.
When I was a kid Speedo swimwear was the norm for most men in Australia. Whilst it was completely normal for both men and women to notice and comment on women's bodies there was an accepted dual reality that no one would admit to noticing men's cocks at the beach.
Feminism has freed women to say out loud what they used to think so the Speedo has become less common. Men who enjoy observing boobs are inclined to conceal their own equipment in baggy shorts now they know that women are observing them. The Speedo is now commonly known as Budgie Smugglers, a reference to the size and shape of a small native Australian bird, the budgerigar. Smuggling wildlife isn't funny in itself, but the image is pretty apt.
Men have taken a while to get used to the idea that women have their own way of looking at sex. A man's cock bouncing around in flimsy swimwear may attract a woman's attention for a moment, may be attractive or amusing depending on their mood, but it isn't an instant trigger for desire like a woman's bits are for a man. It's difficult for a man to understand this difference.
A woman's desire is so much deeper and more intence than a man's, and more complex. Oh, so complex. If men could understand exactly what turns women on we could control them completely, they'd be sexual putty. I'm confident this will never happen.
It's taking a long time for women to get used to sexual freedom too. Some are cool with it, some like the best of both worlds, play coy and Victorian when it suits them. It's often the same girls who happily ogle beach lifesavers who complain when men look at them. Of course there is still much more pressure for physical perfection on women than men.
I'd like to think I still have what it takes to wear budgie smugglers, but it ain't true. The budgie itself is fine, the belly above it doesn't exhibit the bird in the best light. Maybe this should be my resolution for this new year, to get back into Speedo shape?
Maybe I'll just rely on charm and baggy shorts.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Feminism has freed women to say out loud what they used to think so the Speedo has become less common. Men who enjoy observing boobs are inclined to conceal their own equipment in baggy shorts now they know that women are observing them. The Speedo is now commonly known as Budgie Smugglers, a reference to the size and shape of a small native Australian bird, the budgerigar. Smuggling wildlife isn't funny in itself, but the image is pretty apt.
Men have taken a while to get used to the idea that women have their own way of looking at sex. A man's cock bouncing around in flimsy swimwear may attract a woman's attention for a moment, may be attractive or amusing depending on their mood, but it isn't an instant trigger for desire like a woman's bits are for a man. It's difficult for a man to understand this difference.
A woman's desire is so much deeper and more intence than a man's, and more complex. Oh, so complex. If men could understand exactly what turns women on we could control them completely, they'd be sexual putty. I'm confident this will never happen.
It's taking a long time for women to get used to sexual freedom too. Some are cool with it, some like the best of both worlds, play coy and Victorian when it suits them. It's often the same girls who happily ogle beach lifesavers who complain when men look at them. Of course there is still much more pressure for physical perfection on women than men.
I'd like to think I still have what it takes to wear budgie smugglers, but it ain't true. The budgie itself is fine, the belly above it doesn't exhibit the bird in the best light. Maybe this should be my resolution for this new year, to get back into Speedo shape?
Maybe I'll just rely on charm and baggy shorts.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Sunday, 26 December 2010
Physical And Emotional Energy.
Today I played two gigs. The first was in extreme heat, to an unpleasant audience, with unsatisfactory sound quality. The second gig was at a sweet party, to a lovely audience, with a quality sound. I felt physically exhausted after the first, restored by the second. If energy were a purely physical phenomena I should have been more tired after the second gig, but I wasn't.
There is a point where physical resources are exhausted but before that how you feel is affected by mood, atmosphere, satisfaction with the work. It doesn't make sense but it's true.
I find the same applies to romantic relationships. It's never hard to get up and do anything for the right person, the energy is always there. Right now my voice is croaky, my knees hurt, I've worked hard, but if the right person called me right now it would be easy to get up for her.
If anyone else calls me they can fuck off, I'm tired.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
There is a point where physical resources are exhausted but before that how you feel is affected by mood, atmosphere, satisfaction with the work. It doesn't make sense but it's true.
I find the same applies to romantic relationships. It's never hard to get up and do anything for the right person, the energy is always there. Right now my voice is croaky, my knees hurt, I've worked hard, but if the right person called me right now it would be easy to get up for her.
If anyone else calls me they can fuck off, I'm tired.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Saturday, 25 December 2010
Red Light Christmas Day.
Late afternoon, Saturday, Christmas Day, the red light district of Sydney is as quiet as a suburban Sunday. Usually by now on a Saturday the backpackers are filling up at happy hour, the strip is warming up before it peaks at midnight. Today I pass a few happy couples wandering lazily from one lunch to another.
I'm headed to a cafe that has famously never closed it's doors for over thirty years. On the way I see some action stirring, a Thai restaurant is opening up, the kebab shops are business as usual. In a few hours the working girls who didn't lay aside some extra drugs will be on the street. Drunk men will appear, in search of kebabs or sex or both. Right now all is peaceful, I can hear birds and cicadas.
It's people that make places like this seedy and sexy. Looking around today I see genteel inner city gone to pot. Even tattoo parlours look harmless without bikers and dealers hanging around outside. Bikers go home for Christmas like everyone else. I don't miss the noise of their machines. I can actually hear birds. I wonder if they are always here and I can't hear them over all the people and traffic?
By midnight the backpackers shuffle home from Bondi beach, a few half arsed attempts at singing but too much beer and sun has made them too mellow to bother. Some bored kids from the suburbs are driving around seeking stimulation but there isn't much to be found. Without the crowds there isn't much sport, the red light strip is just another suburb. I love the buzz of the inner city, can't live without it, but one day of peace is so very beautiful, a chance to see my home, naked, a Lego town when the people aren't turning it into a circus.
If nothing else Christmas Day gives hookers a night off, biker's mothers a visit, me a new understanding of my home.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
I'm headed to a cafe that has famously never closed it's doors for over thirty years. On the way I see some action stirring, a Thai restaurant is opening up, the kebab shops are business as usual. In a few hours the working girls who didn't lay aside some extra drugs will be on the street. Drunk men will appear, in search of kebabs or sex or both. Right now all is peaceful, I can hear birds and cicadas.
It's people that make places like this seedy and sexy. Looking around today I see genteel inner city gone to pot. Even tattoo parlours look harmless without bikers and dealers hanging around outside. Bikers go home for Christmas like everyone else. I don't miss the noise of their machines. I can actually hear birds. I wonder if they are always here and I can't hear them over all the people and traffic?
By midnight the backpackers shuffle home from Bondi beach, a few half arsed attempts at singing but too much beer and sun has made them too mellow to bother. Some bored kids from the suburbs are driving around seeking stimulation but there isn't much to be found. Without the crowds there isn't much sport, the red light strip is just another suburb. I love the buzz of the inner city, can't live without it, but one day of peace is so very beautiful, a chance to see my home, naked, a Lego town when the people aren't turning it into a circus.
If nothing else Christmas Day gives hookers a night off, biker's mothers a visit, me a new understanding of my home.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Friday, 24 December 2010
Please Pull Your Christmas Off The Music.
It's already Christmas Day here in Sydney, a sunny day of seafood and family for most. For those of you for whom this day is a holy one I hope it's gorgeous for you.
I don't object to Christmas but I do object to what this festival does to music for a month or so. By the time the actual day comes around I'm so sick of bells and carols and choirs and jingle that I celebrate it's passing. Imagine a religious event that has nothing to do with you that causes everyone around you to play nothing but heavy metal for a month, every television commercial, every radio station, every shop, everywhere you turn nothing but heavy metal. Can you imagine that? I can. It would be just as annoying as Christmas music is for me.
The Christian festival is cool, for those of the faith, and the sentiment of goodwill towards all can only be a good thing, but why the music? I'm guessing Jesus himself is going mental by now. He's been through over two thousand birthday gigs, the saccharine schmaltz of the music dedicated to his day must piss him off. He is probably equally pissed off that the music and the day itself is used to sell stuff, not to celebrate God.
I'll spend the day faffing on the internet and cleaning my apartment. If I go out for lunch some bastard will play a carol at me, I just know it.
Is it over yet?
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
I don't object to Christmas but I do object to what this festival does to music for a month or so. By the time the actual day comes around I'm so sick of bells and carols and choirs and jingle that I celebrate it's passing. Imagine a religious event that has nothing to do with you that causes everyone around you to play nothing but heavy metal for a month, every television commercial, every radio station, every shop, everywhere you turn nothing but heavy metal. Can you imagine that? I can. It would be just as annoying as Christmas music is for me.
The Christian festival is cool, for those of the faith, and the sentiment of goodwill towards all can only be a good thing, but why the music? I'm guessing Jesus himself is going mental by now. He's been through over two thousand birthday gigs, the saccharine schmaltz of the music dedicated to his day must piss him off. He is probably equally pissed off that the music and the day itself is used to sell stuff, not to celebrate God.
I'll spend the day faffing on the internet and cleaning my apartment. If I go out for lunch some bastard will play a carol at me, I just know it.
Is it over yet?
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Black Labrador Puppy.
I dreamed of a black labrador puppy, he was walking toward me, that funny squirmy walk when the front and back legs are still learning to get along.
He sneezed, stood still, crazy surprized look on his face. "What the hell was that?" I wondered if he'd ever sneezed before?
I realized the dog was me, venturing into a new world, everything new and uneasy. I quickly forgot the sneeze, bounced off seeking new adventures, internal and external.
Change is fun.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
He sneezed, stood still, crazy surprized look on his face. "What the hell was that?" I wondered if he'd ever sneezed before?
I realized the dog was me, venturing into a new world, everything new and uneasy. I quickly forgot the sneeze, bounced off seeking new adventures, internal and external.
Change is fun.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Thursday, 23 December 2010
The Groove Is The Tao, reposted from www.parkstreetfluteblog.blogspot.com
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
The Groove Is The Tao.
The Groove is the one and the ten thousand things. It can be discerned by all the senses but is not of the senses. It is in nature, in everything.
It is realized rather than felt.
It can't be taught but it can be learned.
It is futile to pursue the Groove, all one can do is be open to it.
The Groove is life, the universe, the Groove is the Tao.
Parkstreet.
Solo, improvised flute track, Warm Up, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
The Groove Is The Tao.
The Groove is the one and the ten thousand things. It can be discerned by all the senses but is not of the senses. It is in nature, in everything.
It is realized rather than felt.
It can't be taught but it can be learned.
It is futile to pursue the Groove, all one can do is be open to it.
The Groove is life, the universe, the Groove is the Tao.
Parkstreet.
Solo, improvised flute track, Warm Up, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
Wednesday, 22 December 2010
Wake Up And Smell The Salt.
If one is selling a house a trick is to bake bread, brew fresh coffee just before prospective buyers inspect. The smells of bread and coffee are welcoming and homely even though many of us never bake bread or make coffee at home. We like to imagine these things are what home smells like.
All my adult homes have been on the coast, within eyeshot of the beach. Whenever I travel and return I notice the smell of salt in the air. I rarely pay attention to it day to day but the moment I land back in my seaside abode the smell hits me. Salt air is home for me.
Inside my home the smell of Italian tomato based pasta sauce is the most common. I can find this smell in every city in the world, there's always an Italian bistro happy to serve this staple. Whenever I feel a little lost I search out such a venue and revel in the homely simplicity.
Strangely I have no memory of a smell in my family home. I guess the 1970's was the first chemical generation for whom everything was so clean no smells survived. My own place has never been known to be that clean.
There is one perfume that reminds me of one girl. I smell it on a passing beauty occasionally. That girl was home for a while, her scent always carries me away.
Ideally my home would smell of coffee, bread, tomato sauce, another person, salt air and love. I wonder what yours smells like?
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
All my adult homes have been on the coast, within eyeshot of the beach. Whenever I travel and return I notice the smell of salt in the air. I rarely pay attention to it day to day but the moment I land back in my seaside abode the smell hits me. Salt air is home for me.
Inside my home the smell of Italian tomato based pasta sauce is the most common. I can find this smell in every city in the world, there's always an Italian bistro happy to serve this staple. Whenever I feel a little lost I search out such a venue and revel in the homely simplicity.
Strangely I have no memory of a smell in my family home. I guess the 1970's was the first chemical generation for whom everything was so clean no smells survived. My own place has never been known to be that clean.
There is one perfume that reminds me of one girl. I smell it on a passing beauty occasionally. That girl was home for a while, her scent always carries me away.
Ideally my home would smell of coffee, bread, tomato sauce, another person, salt air and love. I wonder what yours smells like?
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Beautiful People.
I've been seeing the down side of life a bit recently. A series of dark, noirish characters are forming in my mind for something I'm writing and they've taken over my imagination a little. In my real life there are plenty of beautiful people who make me happy.
There's Lorenzo, pulling ten hour shifts, seven nights a week, trying to save a family business, yet he always has time for a laugh. He even takes time to listen to me prattle on about my dismal music career, the man must be a saint. Strangely Saint Lorenzo is the patron saint of cooks, and Lorenzo is a fine cook. The story goes that Saint Lorenzo was imprisoned, tortured, due to be martyred, but all he complained of was the poor food, but I digress.
There is Jim, his sense of perspective often helps me get through a bad day. He has combined the idea of reincarnation with the fact of population growth to form a theory that there must be people born without souls because there aren't enough to go around. Every time I encounter a soulless bastard I can laugh it off, my friend helps me without knowing it.
I have two wonderful online correspondents. They make me laugh and think, two of my favourite things to do. They encourage me. I've rarely experienced encouragement and I've discovered I like it. They are both also kinda' sexy.
And there is this girl. Wow, what a girl. We are just beginning a slow dance, getting to know each other, neither in a hurry to leap beyond friendship. She is full of life and she warms me. She gives great hug.
There are plenty of beautiful people out there. I like them, they make me happy.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
There's Lorenzo, pulling ten hour shifts, seven nights a week, trying to save a family business, yet he always has time for a laugh. He even takes time to listen to me prattle on about my dismal music career, the man must be a saint. Strangely Saint Lorenzo is the patron saint of cooks, and Lorenzo is a fine cook. The story goes that Saint Lorenzo was imprisoned, tortured, due to be martyred, but all he complained of was the poor food, but I digress.
There is Jim, his sense of perspective often helps me get through a bad day. He has combined the idea of reincarnation with the fact of population growth to form a theory that there must be people born without souls because there aren't enough to go around. Every time I encounter a soulless bastard I can laugh it off, my friend helps me without knowing it.
I have two wonderful online correspondents. They make me laugh and think, two of my favourite things to do. They encourage me. I've rarely experienced encouragement and I've discovered I like it. They are both also kinda' sexy.
And there is this girl. Wow, what a girl. We are just beginning a slow dance, getting to know each other, neither in a hurry to leap beyond friendship. She is full of life and she warms me. She gives great hug.
There are plenty of beautiful people out there. I like them, they make me happy.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Tuesday, 21 December 2010
A Happy War Story.
I've been complaining about my own country a bit recently so here's a cheerful tale about the sort of country I grew up in.
In World War Two a small number of Australians held a garrison town in North Africa named Tobruk for eight months, stalling the German push and allowing allied forces time to regroup. They survived the most extensive air attacks in military history by living underground, enemy propaganda nicknamed them rats, a name The Rats Of Tobruk took on proudly.
Just up the road from where I used to live in Melbourne The Rats Of Tobruk had a small Returned Servicemen's League hall under their own name, I was fortunate enough to meet some of these great men. As their numbers dwindled with time the decision was made to sell the property, donate the money to a perpetual scholarship for medical research. It was a sad day, but these men tried to turn it into a positive thing by using the money in the right way.
The hall itself is in an area that was working class, now gentrified, they hoped to raise close to a million dollars from the sale. Yuppy vultures descended on auction day, seeking a bargain. They were all outbid by a local trucking magnate who pushed the bidding close to two million dollars. He promptly donated the building back to the Rats, theirs until the last man stands the bar. This Australian patriot said that the Rats gave their youth, many their lives, and he just gave money.
When I saw the news report one of the old soldiers I knew was very nearly, but not quite in tears. He'd thought his comrades and him had been forgotten. They nearly were.
Such a beautiful story, a story from the Australia I knew. I can only hope this part of Australia survives when the last Rat Of Tobruk leaves us.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
In World War Two a small number of Australians held a garrison town in North Africa named Tobruk for eight months, stalling the German push and allowing allied forces time to regroup. They survived the most extensive air attacks in military history by living underground, enemy propaganda nicknamed them rats, a name The Rats Of Tobruk took on proudly.
Just up the road from where I used to live in Melbourne The Rats Of Tobruk had a small Returned Servicemen's League hall under their own name, I was fortunate enough to meet some of these great men. As their numbers dwindled with time the decision was made to sell the property, donate the money to a perpetual scholarship for medical research. It was a sad day, but these men tried to turn it into a positive thing by using the money in the right way.
The hall itself is in an area that was working class, now gentrified, they hoped to raise close to a million dollars from the sale. Yuppy vultures descended on auction day, seeking a bargain. They were all outbid by a local trucking magnate who pushed the bidding close to two million dollars. He promptly donated the building back to the Rats, theirs until the last man stands the bar. This Australian patriot said that the Rats gave their youth, many their lives, and he just gave money.
When I saw the news report one of the old soldiers I knew was very nearly, but not quite in tears. He'd thought his comrades and him had been forgotten. They nearly were.
Such a beautiful story, a story from the Australia I knew. I can only hope this part of Australia survives when the last Rat Of Tobruk leaves us.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Monday, 20 December 2010
A Crime Of Fashion.
There are roughly nine million people in the Australian state I live in. Last Friday night, within a few hours, five of those people decided to smash a drinking glass or a glass bottle into the face of one of the other nine million. This style of brutal asault is locally known as "glassing". A couple of famous people did it, the media gave it a name, it became a popular method of expressing discontent with another human.
There is currently a police campaign against drunken violence here so these statistics pop up more often than usual. I can only hope the people who committed these awful crimes were drunk. I struggle to understand what is going on in the country I call home, can only think of getting out, finding a more civilized place to live.
My guess is that the culture is disintergrating, we accept the shallowest and worst of every other culture then wonder why we aren't satisfied. That such a thing as a fashionable crime exists freaks me out, yet it has become normal. Celebrity at any price, even if it is just inflicting horrendous injuries on another person in a way that will make the news.
I'm disgusted, truly disgusted by my own people. This example, one night, a series of assaults, it doesn't stand alone. I feel we've lost what made this country an individual and beautiful place to be, replaced it with an animalistic idiocy that I want nothing to do with. Not just the action of glassing, but the thought behind it appall me to the point that I want to leave, not associate with any population that allows this to happen.
So all I need is a working visa to somewhere else. Anyone need a flute player? Anyone? Anywhere? Preferably in Portland Oregon, but Paris will do at a pinch. I'm trying to sound lighthearted but I'm deeply saddened. I'm losing a home here in Australia.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
There is currently a police campaign against drunken violence here so these statistics pop up more often than usual. I can only hope the people who committed these awful crimes were drunk. I struggle to understand what is going on in the country I call home, can only think of getting out, finding a more civilized place to live.
My guess is that the culture is disintergrating, we accept the shallowest and worst of every other culture then wonder why we aren't satisfied. That such a thing as a fashionable crime exists freaks me out, yet it has become normal. Celebrity at any price, even if it is just inflicting horrendous injuries on another person in a way that will make the news.
I'm disgusted, truly disgusted by my own people. This example, one night, a series of assaults, it doesn't stand alone. I feel we've lost what made this country an individual and beautiful place to be, replaced it with an animalistic idiocy that I want nothing to do with. Not just the action of glassing, but the thought behind it appall me to the point that I want to leave, not associate with any population that allows this to happen.
So all I need is a working visa to somewhere else. Anyone need a flute player? Anyone? Anywhere? Preferably in Portland Oregon, but Paris will do at a pinch. I'm trying to sound lighthearted but I'm deeply saddened. I'm losing a home here in Australia.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
A Coal Dust Bear, reposted because I fixed something.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
A Coal Dust Bear.
"Let's get rid of that old pot belly stove, it's like a coal dust grizzly bear there in the corner, it spits embers and frightens the children, we could sell it to a collector and use the money to get a brand new gas heater, it would be much more efficient."
The stove said nothing. It had boiled the water to assist the births of most of this man's ancestors, it knew about children. Those men would have taken a few hours to maintain it before every winter, if it spat embers they would have blamed themselves.
In the morning the pot belly stove was gone. The police were called but they couldn't find any sign of a break in. They put it down to insurance fraud but couldn't prove it. They couldn't know that the stove had raised it's four stout legs, lifted them from where they'd been standing for nearly two hundred years, and slipped quietly into the night.
It walked away, a coal dust grizzly bear, fuelled with resentment , stoked by indifference, spitting fire, bent on vengeance.
Parkstreet.
Solo, acoustic Red Brown Dust available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
A Coal Dust Bear.
"Let's get rid of that old pot belly stove, it's like a coal dust grizzly bear there in the corner, it spits embers and frightens the children, we could sell it to a collector and use the money to get a brand new gas heater, it would be much more efficient."
The stove said nothing. It had boiled the water to assist the births of most of this man's ancestors, it knew about children. Those men would have taken a few hours to maintain it before every winter, if it spat embers they would have blamed themselves.
In the morning the pot belly stove was gone. The police were called but they couldn't find any sign of a break in. They put it down to insurance fraud but couldn't prove it. They couldn't know that the stove had raised it's four stout legs, lifted them from where they'd been standing for nearly two hundred years, and slipped quietly into the night.
It walked away, a coal dust grizzly bear, fuelled with resentment , stoked by indifference, spitting fire, bent on vengeance.
Parkstreet.
Solo, acoustic Red Brown Dust available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
A Loving Tyrant.
The story goes that when Stalin suffered a stroke his doctor didn't revive him because he was afraid that the tyrant would blame him and have him executed. There is a gorgeous poetry in this.
If Stalin were a man of love and compassion instead of a cold hearted killer he wouldn't have gained power but someone would have revived him when he had a stroke.
Love is all.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
If Stalin were a man of love and compassion instead of a cold hearted killer he wouldn't have gained power but someone would have revived him when he had a stroke.
Love is all.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Sunday, 19 December 2010
Today I Fixed My Own Guitar.
Today I fixed my own guitar. This may not sound newsworthy to you but this is a very exciting day for me. I've never been known to fix anything, that it was my own beloved guitar I fixed, and that the fixing worked, I feel content. I'm telling everybody.
That the fixing worked was a close run thing. My left arm only just fits through the sound hole of a classical guitar, my right arm, slightly more muscular, doesn't quite fit. My left arm only fits to about halfway up my forearm, the problem that needed fixing was at the far end of the guitar, everything had to be done by fingertip. Strangely if I didn't play guitar I probably wouldn't possess the dexterity in my fingers to make this possible. Take note ladies, a guitar playing man has the sensitivity of touch to locate and fix any fiddly little problems in the dark.
Suddenly I feel attached to my guitar. It's one thing to change it's strings and polish it occasionally, but to restore it to mechanical excellence has made it feel like my guitar, that we are bound together. If I'd taken it into the repair shop the guy would have used a mirror, a light and a special tool to reach inside, maybe he would have done it quicker, but it wouldn't feel the same.
I don't care for many objects, most that I own are just useful tools that make my life easier. I like my old trench coat, my old suitcase, they've both travelled many miles with me. Everything else I could sell or give away without a second thought. Until today my guitar was one of those objects but now that i fixed all by myself it is my most prized possession.
A trench coat, a suitcase and a guitar, those objects are enough to paint a portrait of my life.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
That the fixing worked was a close run thing. My left arm only just fits through the sound hole of a classical guitar, my right arm, slightly more muscular, doesn't quite fit. My left arm only fits to about halfway up my forearm, the problem that needed fixing was at the far end of the guitar, everything had to be done by fingertip. Strangely if I didn't play guitar I probably wouldn't possess the dexterity in my fingers to make this possible. Take note ladies, a guitar playing man has the sensitivity of touch to locate and fix any fiddly little problems in the dark.
Suddenly I feel attached to my guitar. It's one thing to change it's strings and polish it occasionally, but to restore it to mechanical excellence has made it feel like my guitar, that we are bound together. If I'd taken it into the repair shop the guy would have used a mirror, a light and a special tool to reach inside, maybe he would have done it quicker, but it wouldn't feel the same.
I don't care for many objects, most that I own are just useful tools that make my life easier. I like my old trench coat, my old suitcase, they've both travelled many miles with me. Everything else I could sell or give away without a second thought. Until today my guitar was one of those objects but now that i fixed all by myself it is my most prized possession.
A trench coat, a suitcase and a guitar, those objects are enough to paint a portrait of my life.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Saturday, 18 December 2010
I Gotta' Be Me.
It has been said that all a man needs to maintain a secret life is one locked room in his castle to which he alone holds the key. In this room he can store his model trains, his super hero costume, his women's underwear, his books of heretic teachings,unknown to the rest of the household.
The castle of a man with a secret life will always be divided. No matter how grand, how many rooms it contains, how many banners adorn the parapets, that one secret room will always divide the castle in two. No matter how many guests are invited to parties and dinners, no matter how full of wives and children the castle will never have a peaceful soul. No matter how much status the castle bestows upon it's owner he will never hold himself in esteem.
If the man allows one other access to his secret room he will eventually suspect, then hate that other person. If he unlocks the door, makes that room just another in his castle, the man will be free of fear, his castle a home, his loved ones dearer because they know and love him fully.
Parkstreet.
Solo, improvised flute track, Warm Up, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
The castle of a man with a secret life will always be divided. No matter how grand, how many rooms it contains, how many banners adorn the parapets, that one secret room will always divide the castle in two. No matter how many guests are invited to parties and dinners, no matter how full of wives and children the castle will never have a peaceful soul. No matter how much status the castle bestows upon it's owner he will never hold himself in esteem.
If the man allows one other access to his secret room he will eventually suspect, then hate that other person. If he unlocks the door, makes that room just another in his castle, the man will be free of fear, his castle a home, his loved ones dearer because they know and love him fully.
Parkstreet.
Solo, improvised flute track, Warm Up, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
Friday, 17 December 2010
McViolence.
A disorganized life like mine will sometimes lead to a late night purchase of appalling food from the family restaurant that is represented by a giant golden M. I know full well that a cigarette has the same nutritional value as a Quarter Pounder and is less likely to give me cancer but last night I lined up for a fast burger and fries.
At midnight on a Friday the franchise near my home is a drunken morass of young people showing off to each other. A drunk young man entered before me, turned in front of me offering a high five. I don't know if he saw me as a musician type and thought I'd be excited by the prospect but when I ignored him and tried to get past him he became upset.
He tried again. "High five mate."
"Get out of my way."
I realized that in his mind I'd made him appear foolish in front of his off their faces peers, he was seriously angry. It wasn't my intention to belittle him but I wasn't unhappy to have been the cause of his discomfort.
A little desperation in his voice he shouted,"just do it", waved his upraised hand in my face.
"Get out of my way."
As he turned to walk away he took a half arsed swing at me, back handed. Time slowed down for me, like a car crash moment I had to time to weigh up my response to this unwarranted attack. I could have caught his hand as it came to me. There are some angles that the human wrist and fingers find very painful, these angles can lead to further pain to the elbow, then the shoulder blades.With surprise on my side I could have easily pushed this cretin head first onto his friend's table, the image of cheeseburgers and thick shakes squashed into his ignorant face filled me with joy. I had time to assess the number and size of his friends. I had time to think about what sort of man I want to be, bad enough enough that I was eating like a fool, why brawl like a fool too?
I side stepped, his fingers just caught my shoulder. He had acted instinctively, without thinking, suddenly realized what he'd done, looked scared. My male ego insisted that I stare him down, let him know that I was up for it if he wanted another crack. He made a big show of stealing his mate's fries and cracked a joke that made the boys laugh. I left him and them to it.
I always leave that particular hamburger restaurant like a man who has just purchased weird pornography, hoping no one I know sees me leaving with the brown paper bag and ask what's in it. At least this time I carried away my own dignity with all the sugar and salt.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
At midnight on a Friday the franchise near my home is a drunken morass of young people showing off to each other. A drunk young man entered before me, turned in front of me offering a high five. I don't know if he saw me as a musician type and thought I'd be excited by the prospect but when I ignored him and tried to get past him he became upset.
He tried again. "High five mate."
"Get out of my way."
I realized that in his mind I'd made him appear foolish in front of his off their faces peers, he was seriously angry. It wasn't my intention to belittle him but I wasn't unhappy to have been the cause of his discomfort.
A little desperation in his voice he shouted,"just do it", waved his upraised hand in my face.
"Get out of my way."
As he turned to walk away he took a half arsed swing at me, back handed. Time slowed down for me, like a car crash moment I had to time to weigh up my response to this unwarranted attack. I could have caught his hand as it came to me. There are some angles that the human wrist and fingers find very painful, these angles can lead to further pain to the elbow, then the shoulder blades.With surprise on my side I could have easily pushed this cretin head first onto his friend's table, the image of cheeseburgers and thick shakes squashed into his ignorant face filled me with joy. I had time to assess the number and size of his friends. I had time to think about what sort of man I want to be, bad enough enough that I was eating like a fool, why brawl like a fool too?
I side stepped, his fingers just caught my shoulder. He had acted instinctively, without thinking, suddenly realized what he'd done, looked scared. My male ego insisted that I stare him down, let him know that I was up for it if he wanted another crack. He made a big show of stealing his mate's fries and cracked a joke that made the boys laugh. I left him and them to it.
I always leave that particular hamburger restaurant like a man who has just purchased weird pornography, hoping no one I know sees me leaving with the brown paper bag and ask what's in it. At least this time I carried away my own dignity with all the sugar and salt.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
A Seven Course Christmas Dinner.
A mate of mine is planning a seven course Christmas dinner, consisting of a meat pie and a six pack of beer. The meat pie is traditional Australian bloke food, we used to enjoy a hot pie whilst standing on the terraces in the rain watching the football. Today the terraces have been replaced by plastic seating and a pie from a stadium concession stand is more expensive by weight than platinum.
This mate of mine knows he stands very little chance spending Christmas Day alone, watching old movies, scratching his balls, sipping a beer. Some do gooding bastard will come along and guilt trip him into attending a lunch with others. He will take wine, he will pretend to enjoy himself, he will spend the day wishing he were at home on the couch.
One day of peace, that's all the man wants. Peace on his own terms. The yuppies have taken away everything else he held dear. His local pub has a dj screaming at him, clever bar food, a dress code. He can't afford to sit in a decent seat at the football any more. The roads are so busy he never gets his beloved automobile out of second gear. His ex wife has his house, he lost the propaganda campaign so his kids don't like him. Every dollar is lost to rent and family maintenance.
All he wants is one day to himself, one day of peace. A meat pie and a six pack, for him that would be Christmas.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
This mate of mine knows he stands very little chance spending Christmas Day alone, watching old movies, scratching his balls, sipping a beer. Some do gooding bastard will come along and guilt trip him into attending a lunch with others. He will take wine, he will pretend to enjoy himself, he will spend the day wishing he were at home on the couch.
One day of peace, that's all the man wants. Peace on his own terms. The yuppies have taken away everything else he held dear. His local pub has a dj screaming at him, clever bar food, a dress code. He can't afford to sit in a decent seat at the football any more. The roads are so busy he never gets his beloved automobile out of second gear. His ex wife has his house, he lost the propaganda campaign so his kids don't like him. Every dollar is lost to rent and family maintenance.
All he wants is one day to himself, one day of peace. A meat pie and a six pack, for him that would be Christmas.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Thursday, 16 December 2010
An Innocent Age.
On this day in 1967 Australian Prime Minister Harold Holt disappeared, presumed drowned. He went surf swimming alone and never returned.
He was at his family beach home in a town called Portsea, perched on the end of the peninsula that hems in the bay that Melbourne sits on. He had the option of swimming on the bay side, a safe protected beach, or braving the surf on the ocean side of the thin peninsula. He'd been swimming at the ocean beach all his fifty nine years, he probably didn't even think twice about it. He simply didn't come back, his towel was found on the beach.
Can you imagine any political leader in any country wandering out for a swim by himself, even in 1967? Those were the days, eh? What an innocent place this nation was back then. Of course Mr. Holt had political enemies but no reason to be concerned for his physical safety. Even his staunchest opponents respected the position he held.
Back then the leader of Australia was free to enjoy the beach on his own like any other citizen. Today our leaders live in a bubble, surrounded by minders and media all day every day. No wonder they go barking mad and lose touch with the people they are supposed to represent. If democracy is by the people and for the people removing our leaders from real life has to be a mistake.
I doubt I'll ever live in a country where the people themselves take responsibility for their own democracy, we prefer to ridicule and sacrifice any who dare to serve as leaders. It makes us feel big but makes our democracy and our lives smaller.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
He was at his family beach home in a town called Portsea, perched on the end of the peninsula that hems in the bay that Melbourne sits on. He had the option of swimming on the bay side, a safe protected beach, or braving the surf on the ocean side of the thin peninsula. He'd been swimming at the ocean beach all his fifty nine years, he probably didn't even think twice about it. He simply didn't come back, his towel was found on the beach.
Can you imagine any political leader in any country wandering out for a swim by himself, even in 1967? Those were the days, eh? What an innocent place this nation was back then. Of course Mr. Holt had political enemies but no reason to be concerned for his physical safety. Even his staunchest opponents respected the position he held.
Back then the leader of Australia was free to enjoy the beach on his own like any other citizen. Today our leaders live in a bubble, surrounded by minders and media all day every day. No wonder they go barking mad and lose touch with the people they are supposed to represent. If democracy is by the people and for the people removing our leaders from real life has to be a mistake.
I doubt I'll ever live in a country where the people themselves take responsibility for their own democracy, we prefer to ridicule and sacrifice any who dare to serve as leaders. It makes us feel big but makes our democracy and our lives smaller.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Problems And Real Friends.
A friend has a couple of problems at the moment. The problems are personal so I won't record them here, they are serious enough.
Today she was surrounded by people. Angry male relative displaying his masculinity and willingness to hit someone, girlfriends clucking, the usual fiasco. Two very cool older ladies stepped in to calm the angry, silence the useless chatterers, they took on the practical things that needed doing. They couldn't fix the problems but they gave my friend every opportunity to fix them for herself.
People enjoy drama, want to be part of it, if possible make it larger so it is more exciting. These people only enjoy the drama that has consequences for others, it isn't fun when the drama affects them. The genuinely empathetic see the real pain of others, go straight to the heart of helping as they can. In this case my friend is a lucky girl, two such empathetic women are caring for her. If she listens to them all will be well, if she listens to the drama queens the problems will get worse.
What am I doing to help? Sometimes doing nothing is the best thing to do. I'm too personally involved to be anything but another problem. Doing nothing is the hardest thing for me to do, us men folk are fond of doing things, with or without a good reason or an aim in mind. I hope I have the instinct to know when to step in.
So my friend's problems will get better, or they won't. I hope she has the wisdom to know who is a real friend, who is just taking their thrills from riding the roller coaster that her beauty and whole heartedness creates.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Today she was surrounded by people. Angry male relative displaying his masculinity and willingness to hit someone, girlfriends clucking, the usual fiasco. Two very cool older ladies stepped in to calm the angry, silence the useless chatterers, they took on the practical things that needed doing. They couldn't fix the problems but they gave my friend every opportunity to fix them for herself.
People enjoy drama, want to be part of it, if possible make it larger so it is more exciting. These people only enjoy the drama that has consequences for others, it isn't fun when the drama affects them. The genuinely empathetic see the real pain of others, go straight to the heart of helping as they can. In this case my friend is a lucky girl, two such empathetic women are caring for her. If she listens to them all will be well, if she listens to the drama queens the problems will get worse.
What am I doing to help? Sometimes doing nothing is the best thing to do. I'm too personally involved to be anything but another problem. Doing nothing is the hardest thing for me to do, us men folk are fond of doing things, with or without a good reason or an aim in mind. I hope I have the instinct to know when to step in.
So my friend's problems will get better, or they won't. I hope she has the wisdom to know who is a real friend, who is just taking their thrills from riding the roller coaster that her beauty and whole heartedness creates.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Wednesday, 15 December 2010
Writing A Band Publicity Blurb.
If you fumble through this blog you'll find that I'm happy to write on any subject, from fart jokes to politics. For some reason I find writing publicity material for any band I'm playing in very difficult. How to sound positive without sounding egomaniac or like a complete wanker?
Writing this sort of stuff for someone else's work is easy, distance makes it simple to sell a product, turning my own work into a product feels weird. I had to do it today, the following is what I came up with.
Kent Parkstreet and the New Reggae Allstars.
A covers band with a reggae bent Kent Parkstreet and the New Reggae Allstars spread peace, love and good times wherever they perform. If you can resist dancing when they are playing you'd better check your pulse.
Individually the band members have played with Australian rock and jazz royalty including Keith Urban, Jimmy Little, Broderick Smith, Renee Gayer, Anne McCue, Ross Hannaford, Jackie Orszascky, Tina Harrod, Louis Burdett, Jonathan Swartz, Louis Tillet, Bernie McGann and many more. Their shared love of reggae brought them together in 2010, Brett Rose drums, Scott Leishman lead guitar, Jim Downey bass, Kent Parkstreet rhythm guitar and vocals. Together they are a tight, professional and exuberant band who can fill any night with good vibes and reggae joy.
Kent Parkstreet and the New Reggae Allstars will set up the perfect groove for a Sunday afternoon beer garden, or get your party dancing. Ideal for festivals and outdoor events, intimate or large venues.
And so it goes, this nonsense will do the rounds of agents and venue bookers, who knows what attracts their attention and what doesn't? If anyone out there does know please feel free to tell me!
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Writing this sort of stuff for someone else's work is easy, distance makes it simple to sell a product, turning my own work into a product feels weird. I had to do it today, the following is what I came up with.
Kent Parkstreet and the New Reggae Allstars.
A covers band with a reggae bent Kent Parkstreet and the New Reggae Allstars spread peace, love and good times wherever they perform. If you can resist dancing when they are playing you'd better check your pulse.
Individually the band members have played with Australian rock and jazz royalty including Keith Urban, Jimmy Little, Broderick Smith, Renee Gayer, Anne McCue, Ross Hannaford, Jackie Orszascky, Tina Harrod, Louis Burdett, Jonathan Swartz, Louis Tillet, Bernie McGann and many more. Their shared love of reggae brought them together in 2010, Brett Rose drums, Scott Leishman lead guitar, Jim Downey bass, Kent Parkstreet rhythm guitar and vocals. Together they are a tight, professional and exuberant band who can fill any night with good vibes and reggae joy.
Kent Parkstreet and the New Reggae Allstars will set up the perfect groove for a Sunday afternoon beer garden, or get your party dancing. Ideal for festivals and outdoor events, intimate or large venues.
And so it goes, this nonsense will do the rounds of agents and venue bookers, who knows what attracts their attention and what doesn't? If anyone out there does know please feel free to tell me!
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Tuesday, 14 December 2010
Pride And Money.
So I have a cunning plan, by being booked for a gig abroad I can obtain a U.S. artist's visa under the "international artist" tag. So I find a gig for a saxophone player, required urgently, I can fly to China in three days. Exciting, huh?
So I just knocked back the gig. All I really want is to live and work in Portland Oregon, this three month gig is my ticket, yet I knocked the gig back. Why? The short answer is money. The agent offered me roughly one third of the money I believe I'm due for playing four sets a night, six nights a week. My pride wouldn't allow me to accept so little money.
The money wasn't the point of the job, the gig itself was just a stepping stone to what I want, but I still couldn't swallow my pride and agree to the deal. I don't even care so much for money. I often play for no money at all because I love what I do. So how cold I attach my pride to a pay cheque?
It's partly knowing that if I undercut the price for such work I'm part of the problem, partly seeing the amount I'm paid for professional work as a measure of respect. Not everyone could land in a strange city and rehearse four sets of music, forty five minutes long each, in two days and be ready to gig the next night. That has to be worth some cold hard cash, doesn't it?
We play music for love, but also for a living. When an employer asks me to play a list of songs he has chosen with a band I don't know, in a commercial venue that is making huge profits I'm sure as hell going to charge him. Playing my own music under my own terms money doesn't matter in any way, I'll find a way to get by with or without money.
I'm taking this as a lesson. How I get to Portland Oregon is as important as when. If I arrive proud of myself and my work the entire experience will feel right. If it takes an extra six months so be it. If I arrive feeling like a schmuck for letting myself be ripped off I'll arrive sour, not sweet.
I reckon my pride made the correct decision for me.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
So I just knocked back the gig. All I really want is to live and work in Portland Oregon, this three month gig is my ticket, yet I knocked the gig back. Why? The short answer is money. The agent offered me roughly one third of the money I believe I'm due for playing four sets a night, six nights a week. My pride wouldn't allow me to accept so little money.
The money wasn't the point of the job, the gig itself was just a stepping stone to what I want, but I still couldn't swallow my pride and agree to the deal. I don't even care so much for money. I often play for no money at all because I love what I do. So how cold I attach my pride to a pay cheque?
It's partly knowing that if I undercut the price for such work I'm part of the problem, partly seeing the amount I'm paid for professional work as a measure of respect. Not everyone could land in a strange city and rehearse four sets of music, forty five minutes long each, in two days and be ready to gig the next night. That has to be worth some cold hard cash, doesn't it?
We play music for love, but also for a living. When an employer asks me to play a list of songs he has chosen with a band I don't know, in a commercial venue that is making huge profits I'm sure as hell going to charge him. Playing my own music under my own terms money doesn't matter in any way, I'll find a way to get by with or without money.
I'm taking this as a lesson. How I get to Portland Oregon is as important as when. If I arrive proud of myself and my work the entire experience will feel right. If it takes an extra six months so be it. If I arrive feeling like a schmuck for letting myself be ripped off I'll arrive sour, not sweet.
I reckon my pride made the correct decision for me.
Parkstreet.
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Monday, 13 December 2010
Kylie Minogue's Bottom And God, reposted because bottoms are on my mind.
Kylie Minogue's Bottom And God.
Pop star Kylie Minogue possesses a bottom so close to perfect that it leads a man to ponder the spiritual. Ideal in size, shape, height, pertness, context, Kylie's arse must be the work of some power greater than just Mr. and Mrs. Minogue.
Some would say that god created the functional anatomy but the devil made it alluring. Others would say it is all the work of god but that the devil has distorted our minds, turned a thing of beauty into an object of lust. Worshippers of the feminine source of everything would see it as evidence for their faith, some men might suggest that god is a bloke, he created a tush from heaven so we could watch Kylie on television with our girlfriends and not mind how crud the music is.
I like the way sex and desire and religion have become so confused over the centuries, I find it hilarious. Does any god care what we find attractive, how we act upon that attraction? Some religious laws were cultural, designed to prevent inbreeding and to maintain social strength through monoculture. Those rules are now connected with god. In some cultures Kylie could be stoned to death for parading about in her underwear. Can you believe that? Any god that wants to hide Kylie's arse from view is a no fun god with no taste. Other gods appear to be enamoured of images of bottoms, breasts and penises.
The spirit and sexual ecstacy are sonehow connected. Desire is life. Physical beauty is a great joy and of the divine. I don't think any god minds so much if I fancy Kylie and her fine butt. I know I wouldn't mind if she fancied mine.
Parkstreet.
Pop star Kylie Minogue possesses a bottom so close to perfect that it leads a man to ponder the spiritual. Ideal in size, shape, height, pertness, context, Kylie's arse must be the work of some power greater than just Mr. and Mrs. Minogue.
Some would say that god created the functional anatomy but the devil made it alluring. Others would say it is all the work of god but that the devil has distorted our minds, turned a thing of beauty into an object of lust. Worshippers of the feminine source of everything would see it as evidence for their faith, some men might suggest that god is a bloke, he created a tush from heaven so we could watch Kylie on television with our girlfriends and not mind how crud the music is.
I like the way sex and desire and religion have become so confused over the centuries, I find it hilarious. Does any god care what we find attractive, how we act upon that attraction? Some religious laws were cultural, designed to prevent inbreeding and to maintain social strength through monoculture. Those rules are now connected with god. In some cultures Kylie could be stoned to death for parading about in her underwear. Can you believe that? Any god that wants to hide Kylie's arse from view is a no fun god with no taste. Other gods appear to be enamoured of images of bottoms, breasts and penises.
The spirit and sexual ecstacy are sonehow connected. Desire is life. Physical beauty is a great joy and of the divine. I don't think any god minds so much if I fancy Kylie and her fine butt. I know I wouldn't mind if she fancied mine.
Parkstreet.
The Primitive Man And The Really Big Moth.
I walked into my bedroom, a vast black moth on the white wall, like someone had landed a World War One biplane above my bed. Big, really big, just waiting for me to turn out my bedside lamp so it could fly around like a lunatic, bump into everything in the room, freak me out completely.
I opened the floor to ceiling sliding door as far as it would open, tried to shoo the dragon sized beast out into the night where it could hunt dogs and small children. My rolled up newspaper was met with disinterested contempt. Calling it names had no discernible effect. The giant black moth sat still on my bedroom wall, determined to carry out it's plan to wait until I turned out the lamp then freak me out.
Was I right to kill it? This thing must have been at least one hundred years old to have grown so large, and I ended it's life in a second. Is the sentence for potentially freaking me out death? Me and my opposable thumb and my ability to employ tools found the easiest solution for my problem without engaging my highly evolved brain.
Just because this moth was the size of a terradactyl didn't mean I had to behave like a primitive, uncivilized man. Being on top of the food chain comes with the responsibility of stewardship. Most of our problems are the result of men squishing their problems against a wall without seeking better options.
Somewhere there is a Mummy moth and a baby moth wondering when Daddy is coming home.
You have to understand though, this moth was really, really big.
And it would have flown around my room and bumped into everything and freaked me out.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
I opened the floor to ceiling sliding door as far as it would open, tried to shoo the dragon sized beast out into the night where it could hunt dogs and small children. My rolled up newspaper was met with disinterested contempt. Calling it names had no discernible effect. The giant black moth sat still on my bedroom wall, determined to carry out it's plan to wait until I turned out the lamp then freak me out.
Was I right to kill it? This thing must have been at least one hundred years old to have grown so large, and I ended it's life in a second. Is the sentence for potentially freaking me out death? Me and my opposable thumb and my ability to employ tools found the easiest solution for my problem without engaging my highly evolved brain.
Just because this moth was the size of a terradactyl didn't mean I had to behave like a primitive, uncivilized man. Being on top of the food chain comes with the responsibility of stewardship. Most of our problems are the result of men squishing their problems against a wall without seeking better options.
Somewhere there is a Mummy moth and a baby moth wondering when Daddy is coming home.
You have to understand though, this moth was really, really big.
And it would have flown around my room and bumped into everything and freaked me out.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Saturday, 11 December 2010
The Prime Minister And The Television Celebrity.
If the Prime Minister of a sovereign nation and a television celebrity were to appear on the same stage which one do you think would introduce the other?
Recently Ms. Julia Gillard, Prime Minister of Australia, appeared before a crowd of five thousand morons to introduce Ms. Oprah Winfrey. It was a shameless and shameful performance, an attempt by a politician to attach herself to the popularity of another. Fawning and shrill, all she managed was to disgrace and cheapen her position and therefore her nation. For a left wing politician who craps on about the excesses of capitalists it was even more pathetic considering that Ms. Winfrey represents all that is shallow and consumerist.
Media whoredom is nothing new but I hate it being undertaken by my Prime Minister in my name, in the name of my country.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Recently Ms. Julia Gillard, Prime Minister of Australia, appeared before a crowd of five thousand morons to introduce Ms. Oprah Winfrey. It was a shameless and shameful performance, an attempt by a politician to attach herself to the popularity of another. Fawning and shrill, all she managed was to disgrace and cheapen her position and therefore her nation. For a left wing politician who craps on about the excesses of capitalists it was even more pathetic considering that Ms. Winfrey represents all that is shallow and consumerist.
Media whoredom is nothing new but I hate it being undertaken by my Prime Minister in my name, in the name of my country.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Four Walls, Wash Basin, Prison Bed.
He'd never seen the outside of the prison. His head was in his hands as the bus drove him and seven other numbered men through the giant gates, swallowed whole as if they were nothing. The guard opened a small, just less than man sized door that was disguised in one of the gates, a loose tooth, he had to stoop to step through, was spat out like a watermelon seed.
He took a moment to look up at the bluestone edifice, the government set designer had produced an image of dread, an architectural threat. He knew what was behind that facade and the face fitted the menace within. His illusion of dignity had died behind those walls but he laughed as he walked away, he no longer feared pain or death.
He knew the outside and inside of people as he knew the outside and inside of prison. He knew the truth of four walls, wash basin, prison bed, he knew that freedom from illusion was the only freedom.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
He took a moment to look up at the bluestone edifice, the government set designer had produced an image of dread, an architectural threat. He knew what was behind that facade and the face fitted the menace within. His illusion of dignity had died behind those walls but he laughed as he walked away, he no longer feared pain or death.
He knew the outside and inside of people as he knew the outside and inside of prison. He knew the truth of four walls, wash basin, prison bed, he knew that freedom from illusion was the only freedom.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Don't Fear The Gods.
Don't fear the gods.
Don't fear death.
What is good is easy to get.
What is dreadful is easy to endure.
This four point synopsis of the philosophy of Epicurus has been doing the rounds for a few millenia. I haven't read enough Epicurus to agree or disagree with it's accuracy, but I like it as an independant idea anyway.
We live in the age of fear. We have more names for fear than we have names for love. Most of the decisions we define as difficult revolve around security, financial and physical. Fear of crime, illness, loneliness and poverty fill our news and entertainment media. We can't even look our fear of the gods and of death in the eye, we reflect them onto mirrors of our own fearful faces.
We pursue all we don't have, not what we know is truly good. While we grasp for status and wealth we let love slide by. It's only when we encounter the dreadful that we realize what is good, what we need more of.
Love is all.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Don't fear death.
What is good is easy to get.
What is dreadful is easy to endure.
This four point synopsis of the philosophy of Epicurus has been doing the rounds for a few millenia. I haven't read enough Epicurus to agree or disagree with it's accuracy, but I like it as an independant idea anyway.
We live in the age of fear. We have more names for fear than we have names for love. Most of the decisions we define as difficult revolve around security, financial and physical. Fear of crime, illness, loneliness and poverty fill our news and entertainment media. We can't even look our fear of the gods and of death in the eye, we reflect them onto mirrors of our own fearful faces.
We pursue all we don't have, not what we know is truly good. While we grasp for status and wealth we let love slide by. It's only when we encounter the dreadful that we realize what is good, what we need more of.
Love is all.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Friday, 10 December 2010
The Tea Lady.
She was the tea lady, she'd always been the tea lady. She was the tea lady when the men left in 1939, she was the tea lady when they returned in 1945, a symbol of all that was home and eternal.
When he left she'd been at the docks, waving his ship away. She couldn't see him, he never knew she was there. A few polite letters were exchanged, he stopped writing, she assumed the worst but only knew him from work, didn't know his family to ask. He married hastily whilst on leave in England, brought his rose home. The two women never met, one saw him at work, the other when he returned home every night.
She'd always been the tea lady so no one noticed her. Every door was open to her, every conversation continued just as they did in front of the desks and chairs. She knew more about the office than anyone, but no one ever asked. She always knew when someone was about to be fired. Soon enough everyone else knew, she couldn't help but feel sorry for them, offer them the largest slice of cake, the hottest tea. It became office folklore that a large slice of cake was the last supper.
His wife died a decade after the war. She died of disappointment, her dashing soldier had settled into a contented clerk who wanted a quiet life. She never understood that just getting out of bed and going to work was all he could manage, his youth had died on the fields of Flanders.
The tea lady waited one year and one day from his widowerhood, a respectable time, before she tried to make her feelings for him known. She spoiled him, offered him the largest slice of cake, the hottest tea. Thinking he was to be fired he punched his smart young boss. She never saw him again.
She was the tea lady, she'd always been the tea lady. When she was replaced by a vending machine and a staff cafeteria she was noticed for the first time. Her absence was noticed, for a while.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
When he left she'd been at the docks, waving his ship away. She couldn't see him, he never knew she was there. A few polite letters were exchanged, he stopped writing, she assumed the worst but only knew him from work, didn't know his family to ask. He married hastily whilst on leave in England, brought his rose home. The two women never met, one saw him at work, the other when he returned home every night.
She'd always been the tea lady so no one noticed her. Every door was open to her, every conversation continued just as they did in front of the desks and chairs. She knew more about the office than anyone, but no one ever asked. She always knew when someone was about to be fired. Soon enough everyone else knew, she couldn't help but feel sorry for them, offer them the largest slice of cake, the hottest tea. It became office folklore that a large slice of cake was the last supper.
His wife died a decade after the war. She died of disappointment, her dashing soldier had settled into a contented clerk who wanted a quiet life. She never understood that just getting out of bed and going to work was all he could manage, his youth had died on the fields of Flanders.
The tea lady waited one year and one day from his widowerhood, a respectable time, before she tried to make her feelings for him known. She spoiled him, offered him the largest slice of cake, the hottest tea. Thinking he was to be fired he punched his smart young boss. She never saw him again.
She was the tea lady, she'd always been the tea lady. When she was replaced by a vending machine and a staff cafeteria she was noticed for the first time. Her absence was noticed, for a while.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Thursday, 9 December 2010
The Culture Of Good And Evil.
The definitions of what is good and what is evil are cultural, not divine. What is seen as a good action in one time and place is seen as evil in another. The belief that a god supports one's own definition of good is just human ego.
New Zealand is the home of one half of my family. This country is seen as one of the most democratic and free places on earth, a small nation that fights well above it's weight in terms of charity in it's region, an upstanding international citizen. And so it is, I'm proud of my New Zealand heritage. About a century and a half ago the inhabitants of New Zealand thought they honoured their enemy and their gods by eating warriors they had slain. At the same time the British thought it their right to steal other people's countries, for God, King and Country. Both cultures now live happily together.
When a terrorist straps on a bomb he believes he is serving his god. When a senior church official protects a criminal priest he believes he is serving the church that serves god. When a military leader takes civilian lives he believes he is sacrificing a few to save many. Our beliefs inform us what is good and most of us try to be good. The more extreme our culture the more extreme the actions we can believe are good.
While we remain bound by culture, and the ludicrous belief that our culture is the correct one we will always be stuck with this ignorant duality. While we believe that our god is the correct god, and associate our actions with divinity we will be stuck with conflict.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
New Zealand is the home of one half of my family. This country is seen as one of the most democratic and free places on earth, a small nation that fights well above it's weight in terms of charity in it's region, an upstanding international citizen. And so it is, I'm proud of my New Zealand heritage. About a century and a half ago the inhabitants of New Zealand thought they honoured their enemy and their gods by eating warriors they had slain. At the same time the British thought it their right to steal other people's countries, for God, King and Country. Both cultures now live happily together.
When a terrorist straps on a bomb he believes he is serving his god. When a senior church official protects a criminal priest he believes he is serving the church that serves god. When a military leader takes civilian lives he believes he is sacrificing a few to save many. Our beliefs inform us what is good and most of us try to be good. The more extreme our culture the more extreme the actions we can believe are good.
While we remain bound by culture, and the ludicrous belief that our culture is the correct one we will always be stuck with this ignorant duality. While we believe that our god is the correct god, and associate our actions with divinity we will be stuck with conflict.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Wednesday, 8 December 2010
Real San Francisco Rain.
The fine, misty rain that falls on San Francisco makes my long curly hair look cool. It really does. There are hair products that can emulate this effect, but I don't like the way they smell and feel. San Francisco rain feels right.
The San Francisco based Levi's company make the jeans I wear. After two and a half years the pair I'm wearing right now have faded from dark blue to the classic denim colour. I could buy them pre faded but it wouldn't be the same, they wouldn't be worn in to fit perfectly, they wouldn't be faded as if I'd worn them.
The sun bleaches my hair, over the last two years I've been lucky enough to travel, live four summers in a row without a winter, heading into my fifth, so my hair is more blonde than it's ever been. I could get a hairdresser to fake this blonde effect, but it wouldn't be the result of the California, Oregon and Sydney summer sun.
My home life has suffered for the travel, relationships come and go without my actual physical presence. Every experience comes with a price. The price makes those experiences feel real. Today we can fake any appearance we want, we can look as if we've been tanning on the Mediterranean without leaving home.
I prefer the real San Francisco rain, the summer sun, the time to fade and bleach. It feels real.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
The San Francisco based Levi's company make the jeans I wear. After two and a half years the pair I'm wearing right now have faded from dark blue to the classic denim colour. I could buy them pre faded but it wouldn't be the same, they wouldn't be worn in to fit perfectly, they wouldn't be faded as if I'd worn them.
The sun bleaches my hair, over the last two years I've been lucky enough to travel, live four summers in a row without a winter, heading into my fifth, so my hair is more blonde than it's ever been. I could get a hairdresser to fake this blonde effect, but it wouldn't be the result of the California, Oregon and Sydney summer sun.
My home life has suffered for the travel, relationships come and go without my actual physical presence. Every experience comes with a price. The price makes those experiences feel real. Today we can fake any appearance we want, we can look as if we've been tanning on the Mediterranean without leaving home.
I prefer the real San Francisco rain, the summer sun, the time to fade and bleach. It feels real.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Parkstreet's Golden Rules Of Rock And Roll #11.
He who pays the piper calls the tune.
Some golden rules were written well before rock and roll began. The great composers of old battled their patrons for the right to write and play what they wanted. They could please their patrons and live in comfort or choose to be true to themselves.
Being poor sucks big elephant dicks. Finding your own tipping point between comfort and authenticity is every musicians most difficult task.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Some golden rules were written well before rock and roll began. The great composers of old battled their patrons for the right to write and play what they wanted. They could please their patrons and live in comfort or choose to be true to themselves.
Being poor sucks big elephant dicks. Finding your own tipping point between comfort and authenticity is every musicians most difficult task.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Parkstreet's Golden Rules Of Rock And Roll #10.
It's been said that the two methods to rock and roll success are having a fuck load of money or a fuck you attitude. Most of us have only one choice, a fuck you attitude. Taking a fuck you attitude to the music business is easy, the difficult part is insulating such an attitude from the rest of your life.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Tuesday, 7 December 2010
The First Shorts Of Summer.
Today I wore shorts for the first time this southern hemisphere summer.
Are you familiar with the children's game of Hangman? One participant has to guess the letters in a word, for every one they get wrong their opponent draws a line in the stick figure image of a man being hanged. Pretty grim, huh? First they draw a stick figure gallows, then the rope, then a dead stick figure man. Kids appear to love grim.
I always imagine this game originating when the hanging of a criminal was a public spectacle. I imagine poor kids who couldn't afford good seats drawing the figure of the condemned in the dust, laughing at his demise. A couple of kids left one of these images on my coffee table recently, black texta on white paper.
This morning when I entered my lounge room wearing shorts for the first time this summer even a stick figure man. executed for his failure. even this man laughed at my legs.
I have to get out into the sun, for so many reasons.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Are you familiar with the children's game of Hangman? One participant has to guess the letters in a word, for every one they get wrong their opponent draws a line in the stick figure image of a man being hanged. Pretty grim, huh? First they draw a stick figure gallows, then the rope, then a dead stick figure man. Kids appear to love grim.
I always imagine this game originating when the hanging of a criminal was a public spectacle. I imagine poor kids who couldn't afford good seats drawing the figure of the condemned in the dust, laughing at his demise. A couple of kids left one of these images on my coffee table recently, black texta on white paper.
This morning when I entered my lounge room wearing shorts for the first time this summer even a stick figure man. executed for his failure. even this man laughed at my legs.
I have to get out into the sun, for so many reasons.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
I've Never Seen The Sound Of Music.
I've never seen the moving picture called The Sound Of Music. I know, like everyone else, you can't believe it, everyone has seen that film, right? No, I haven't. I do, however, have my reasons.
Firstly I'm male. For me that is a perfectly good reason to avoid such a movie. Dancing, singing children is hardly a bloke flick.
Obviously there is a deeper reason. It goes back to my childhood. Bet you didn't see that coming, eh? So on my fifth birthday my folks took me to see Heidi. There it is, I've said it out loud. You can understand why I'm emotionally scarred. The awful children of my parent's awful friends were there, my folks couldn't be bothered driving beyond the closest cinema, and Heidi was all that was showing. I even stated that I'd be happy to make more room in the cars by staying home, but somehow ended up sitting through fucking Heidi.
It sucked.
Five year old Kent rated it half a star.
Five year old Kent vowed to never sit through a crap film again. He vowed to judge all films by their promotional material, to risk missing a classic rather than suffer through another Heidi experience. He also knew that others would try to convince him to see a film for their own crap reasons, and vowed to never fall for that again.
So I've never seen The Sound Of Music. I've exercised my democratic right to avoid the sacharine and inane. I'm standing by five year old Kent. That poor little dude had a truly crap fifth birthday, he needs my solidarity. I love that little guy, I'll honour his promises.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Firstly I'm male. For me that is a perfectly good reason to avoid such a movie. Dancing, singing children is hardly a bloke flick.
Obviously there is a deeper reason. It goes back to my childhood. Bet you didn't see that coming, eh? So on my fifth birthday my folks took me to see Heidi. There it is, I've said it out loud. You can understand why I'm emotionally scarred. The awful children of my parent's awful friends were there, my folks couldn't be bothered driving beyond the closest cinema, and Heidi was all that was showing. I even stated that I'd be happy to make more room in the cars by staying home, but somehow ended up sitting through fucking Heidi.
It sucked.
Five year old Kent rated it half a star.
Five year old Kent vowed to never sit through a crap film again. He vowed to judge all films by their promotional material, to risk missing a classic rather than suffer through another Heidi experience. He also knew that others would try to convince him to see a film for their own crap reasons, and vowed to never fall for that again.
So I've never seen The Sound Of Music. I've exercised my democratic right to avoid the sacharine and inane. I'm standing by five year old Kent. That poor little dude had a truly crap fifth birthday, he needs my solidarity. I love that little guy, I'll honour his promises.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Monday, 6 December 2010
Feeling The Groove.
So I'm playing with a reggae band, my job as rhythm guitarist is to play what they call the skank, hitting the second and fourth beat of every bar. It's usually a pretty easy gig, but today at rehearsal it just wasn't coming out right.
Just strumming the second and fourth beat, what can go wrong, right? Sometimes playing a simple part is deceptively difficult. The skank only grooves if it is played ever so slightly off the beat, before or after, but it has to sound natural, not deliberate. Most days I just relax into the music, the groove occurs of it's own accord. Today it sounded like I was trying, concentrating. I can't tell you how annoying it was.
I have a list of reasons, excuses. I can reel them off for you if you want? No? Fair enough. I don't want to hear them either. This sort of thing goes straight to the heart of a musician. We all have limitations, technical, physical, but not grooving goes directly to the essence of playing music. I know it isn't a permanent problem, next time I'll be back to normal.
I'm cranky with myself right now, but I'm glad I've been reminded of a simple lesson. As a musician my primary task is to have my brain in the right state to feel the music, every time I play, on stage or at rehearsal. A dairy farmer has to milk the cows every day, a musician has to groove every day. Excuses are no use. The distractions of management, personalities, these must be put aside for before or after the playing.
I'll go to bed soon, wake up to a new day, my current annoyance will have abated. Tomorrow I'll groove, no excuses.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Just strumming the second and fourth beat, what can go wrong, right? Sometimes playing a simple part is deceptively difficult. The skank only grooves if it is played ever so slightly off the beat, before or after, but it has to sound natural, not deliberate. Most days I just relax into the music, the groove occurs of it's own accord. Today it sounded like I was trying, concentrating. I can't tell you how annoying it was.
I have a list of reasons, excuses. I can reel them off for you if you want? No? Fair enough. I don't want to hear them either. This sort of thing goes straight to the heart of a musician. We all have limitations, technical, physical, but not grooving goes directly to the essence of playing music. I know it isn't a permanent problem, next time I'll be back to normal.
I'm cranky with myself right now, but I'm glad I've been reminded of a simple lesson. As a musician my primary task is to have my brain in the right state to feel the music, every time I play, on stage or at rehearsal. A dairy farmer has to milk the cows every day, a musician has to groove every day. Excuses are no use. The distractions of management, personalities, these must be put aside for before or after the playing.
I'll go to bed soon, wake up to a new day, my current annoyance will have abated. Tomorrow I'll groove, no excuses.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Sunday, 5 December 2010
She Should Know She Is Loved.
She should leave home knowing she is loved, knowing she can face her day, her own day, without fear of success or failure, because when she gets home she will feel loved either way. She should know her man will toast her success, not begrudge it, that he will empathise with her failure, not judge her for it.
She should know she is loved.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
She should know she is loved.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Denny Crane And Lisa Simpson And Kent Parkstreet.
Those who watch the television program Boston Legal will be familiar with the character Denny Crane. If you don't know the show all you need to know is that Denny is a master of self belief, in fact his catchphrase is his own name. When in doubt he says, "Denny Crane".
For those of us who sometimes lack self belief Denny Crane is something of a hero. He believes completely in every word, every action, and this belief makes others believe. I'm trying his method. When I'm not sure of myself I say Kent Parkstreet, like a small fanfare, as if my name alone should make it clear to all that I'm the man. When this method doesn't make me laugh it is surprisingly effective.
In a Simpson's episode Lisa falls for a teacher, a man who recognizes her individuality and intelligence. When he leaves he hands her a slip of paper that reads, "I am Lisa Simpson", as if that is all she needs to know. He is right.
Most of us are given our names, some of us choose our own. A name is just a few letters bunched together in a familiar pattern, it doesn't mean anything in it's own right. Over time it becomes a symbol of how we perceive ourselves, our personality defines the label rather than the other way around. Speaking our own name, silently or out loud, announces our pride in ourselves, our self belief.
I am Kent Parkstreet.
Try it, it works.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
For those of us who sometimes lack self belief Denny Crane is something of a hero. He believes completely in every word, every action, and this belief makes others believe. I'm trying his method. When I'm not sure of myself I say Kent Parkstreet, like a small fanfare, as if my name alone should make it clear to all that I'm the man. When this method doesn't make me laugh it is surprisingly effective.
In a Simpson's episode Lisa falls for a teacher, a man who recognizes her individuality and intelligence. When he leaves he hands her a slip of paper that reads, "I am Lisa Simpson", as if that is all she needs to know. He is right.
Most of us are given our names, some of us choose our own. A name is just a few letters bunched together in a familiar pattern, it doesn't mean anything in it's own right. Over time it becomes a symbol of how we perceive ourselves, our personality defines the label rather than the other way around. Speaking our own name, silently or out loud, announces our pride in ourselves, our self belief.
I am Kent Parkstreet.
Try it, it works.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Saturday, 4 December 2010
What Is Refinement?
I'm a snob, a born snob. It has nothing to do with how I was raised, or any attempts at social climbing, I'm just naturally attracted to the refined, repelled by the coarse.
Refinement doesn't have to be prissy or glossy, false refinement is as crass as deliberate coarseness. For me refinement is the absence of pretence, presenting the real thing in a real way, with the respect and care it is due. A ditch can be dug in a refined manner, skillfully, efficiently. Ask someone who performs manual labour for a living and they'll tell you there is a right way of doing things and that doing them that way is a source of pride.
I know an old actor who can speak the word "fuck" in such a way that it has great emphasis. He uses it sparingly, effectively, knows that the word itself isn't coarse, just the way it is used. Using the word "fuck" as if it were a comma robs it of meaning, turns it into a harsh and pointless ugliness. The same word is often used during the act it denotes. In that context it sounds natural and whole, it fits. Refinement means using words in the context they are suited to.
Today a rude person pushed in front of me in a shop. He was quite proud of himself for gaining an extra thirty seconds on the rest of the world. Taking that thirty seconds to say, "after you" pays respect to those around, leaves everyone feeling happy and cared for instead of irritated. Care and respect in action is genuine refinement.
Taking a moment to present food at it's best, to set the volume of the music sweetly, to listen when someone else needs to talk, to say thank you, these things come free of charge. Refinement doesn't mean serving caviar, it means giving a friend a cheese sandwich in a way that makes them feel like a welcome guest.
Taking pride in work, courtesy, presentation, these things are refinement. If living in a world where we all feel proud, welcome, respected, cared for means I'm a snob, a snob I'll be.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Refinement doesn't have to be prissy or glossy, false refinement is as crass as deliberate coarseness. For me refinement is the absence of pretence, presenting the real thing in a real way, with the respect and care it is due. A ditch can be dug in a refined manner, skillfully, efficiently. Ask someone who performs manual labour for a living and they'll tell you there is a right way of doing things and that doing them that way is a source of pride.
I know an old actor who can speak the word "fuck" in such a way that it has great emphasis. He uses it sparingly, effectively, knows that the word itself isn't coarse, just the way it is used. Using the word "fuck" as if it were a comma robs it of meaning, turns it into a harsh and pointless ugliness. The same word is often used during the act it denotes. In that context it sounds natural and whole, it fits. Refinement means using words in the context they are suited to.
Today a rude person pushed in front of me in a shop. He was quite proud of himself for gaining an extra thirty seconds on the rest of the world. Taking that thirty seconds to say, "after you" pays respect to those around, leaves everyone feeling happy and cared for instead of irritated. Care and respect in action is genuine refinement.
Taking a moment to present food at it's best, to set the volume of the music sweetly, to listen when someone else needs to talk, to say thank you, these things come free of charge. Refinement doesn't mean serving caviar, it means giving a friend a cheese sandwich in a way that makes them feel like a welcome guest.
Taking pride in work, courtesy, presentation, these things are refinement. If living in a world where we all feel proud, welcome, respected, cared for means I'm a snob, a snob I'll be.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Parkstreet's Golden Rules Of Rock And Roll #9.
All rock musicians should read J.D. Salinger's Franny And Zooey so that when that grubby bloke with the skin condition and halitosis corners you after a gig, wants to talk guitars and glory days, you'll know why it's important to give him five minutes of your time.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Friday, 3 December 2010
Wikileaks And Hard Decisions And Soft People.
Most of us really don't want to know about the hard decisions our governments make every day. We say we do but we really don't. Decisions are hard, people are soft, most of us know we'd struggle to decide who lives and who dies and prefer someone else do it for us.
The spoiled rich kid who runs Wikileaks should stop and ask himself, "what would I have done diferently?" Given all the facts and all the responsibility what choices would he make? Of course he will never have to make decisions that affect anyone's welfare except his own. As long as he is having fun he won't think about the results of his actions.
I'm all for open government, if the public are up to the job. Right now we aren't, we really don't want to know. Good parents don't trouble their children with the ugliness of the real world until they are mature enough to deal with it.
We will all hear the news reports of what is appearing on Wikileaks, we'll form our opinions, most of us won't actually look up and read the leaked documents. Have you read any? I haven't. The site will become a buzz word for comedians soon enough, pass into folklore.
We really don't want to know.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
The spoiled rich kid who runs Wikileaks should stop and ask himself, "what would I have done diferently?" Given all the facts and all the responsibility what choices would he make? Of course he will never have to make decisions that affect anyone's welfare except his own. As long as he is having fun he won't think about the results of his actions.
I'm all for open government, if the public are up to the job. Right now we aren't, we really don't want to know. Good parents don't trouble their children with the ugliness of the real world until they are mature enough to deal with it.
We will all hear the news reports of what is appearing on Wikileaks, we'll form our opinions, most of us won't actually look up and read the leaked documents. Have you read any? I haven't. The site will become a buzz word for comedians soon enough, pass into folklore.
We really don't want to know.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Thursday, 2 December 2010
Oprah And Television And America And Australia.
So television celebrity and diet faddist Oprah Winfrey is visiting Australia. As far as I can tell Ms. Winfrey's job involves doing big eyes acting with other celebrities and saying that stuff is great.
Here in Australia we have an odd view of America and Americans. We see an entire nation through the tunnel vision of television. Someone recently told me that all Americans were lining up to spend money they didn't have at Black Friday sales. The evidence he presented was that everyone who was interviewed outside a mall said the same thing, they were planning to spend money they didn't have. He didn't stop to think that the other ninety nine percent of Americans who weren't out shopping might have said something different. He also didn't think that out of all the people interviewed only the more idiotic were presented to us, the sane and normal were edited.
I'm hoping Oprah comes here and interviews the biggest dickheads and lunatics she can find, sends the world an image of Australia similar to the one we receive of America. A series of blokes in khaki shorts saying "crikey" a lot, some punch drunk actors, maybe an egomaniac chef or two, that should do the trick. Australians might realize that no one can understand another nation through television.
The television view is the new bigotry. All Arabs spend their lives waving guns in the air, screaming death to America, all English people are obsessed with manners, the Japanese are constantly watching or appearing on torturous game shows, all Germans wear designer glasses and talk about design a lot. I must admit that every young German I've met has talked about design a lot, but the rest is nonsense.
The Oprah circus will pass through town, much colour and oomph. Our tourist trade might improve briefly, those who come here on the basis of what they've seen on their televisions should be prepared for a different reality.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Here in Australia we have an odd view of America and Americans. We see an entire nation through the tunnel vision of television. Someone recently told me that all Americans were lining up to spend money they didn't have at Black Friday sales. The evidence he presented was that everyone who was interviewed outside a mall said the same thing, they were planning to spend money they didn't have. He didn't stop to think that the other ninety nine percent of Americans who weren't out shopping might have said something different. He also didn't think that out of all the people interviewed only the more idiotic were presented to us, the sane and normal were edited.
I'm hoping Oprah comes here and interviews the biggest dickheads and lunatics she can find, sends the world an image of Australia similar to the one we receive of America. A series of blokes in khaki shorts saying "crikey" a lot, some punch drunk actors, maybe an egomaniac chef or two, that should do the trick. Australians might realize that no one can understand another nation through television.
The television view is the new bigotry. All Arabs spend their lives waving guns in the air, screaming death to America, all English people are obsessed with manners, the Japanese are constantly watching or appearing on torturous game shows, all Germans wear designer glasses and talk about design a lot. I must admit that every young German I've met has talked about design a lot, but the rest is nonsense.
The Oprah circus will pass through town, much colour and oomph. Our tourist trade might improve briefly, those who come here on the basis of what they've seen on their televisions should be prepared for a different reality.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Wednesday, 1 December 2010
Vision, Evidence, Faith.
Some believe only what they can see, others believe what they can see and what they can see evidence for. The lucky few have faith, real faith.
As one with pretty kinky corneas I can tell you that what we see isn't always accurate. Even perfect human eyes are easily fooled, ask any stage magician.
Evidence is limited by human knowledge and understanding. As grand as the mass of our knowledge is, and it is truly grand, we know only a fraction of everything. Evidence based belief has to change as our collective knowledge grows. There is no certainty there.
Many who claim faith use evidence based arguments. That ain't faith. I'm not certain I know what faith is. As far as I can tell it is a way of perceiving life, all that was, is will be. a spiritual knowing, not reliant on physical or intellectual perception. We can be taught to see more clearly, to think more clearly, but how do we learn faith?
I think we learn faith the same way we learn love, through fearless experience. Leaping fearlessly can result in pain, love is nothing without that leap. Once we seek evidence for love it is already dying.
Faith is a leap I can't see or understand.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
As one with pretty kinky corneas I can tell you that what we see isn't always accurate. Even perfect human eyes are easily fooled, ask any stage magician.
Evidence is limited by human knowledge and understanding. As grand as the mass of our knowledge is, and it is truly grand, we know only a fraction of everything. Evidence based belief has to change as our collective knowledge grows. There is no certainty there.
Many who claim faith use evidence based arguments. That ain't faith. I'm not certain I know what faith is. As far as I can tell it is a way of perceiving life, all that was, is will be. a spiritual knowing, not reliant on physical or intellectual perception. We can be taught to see more clearly, to think more clearly, but how do we learn faith?
I think we learn faith the same way we learn love, through fearless experience. Leaping fearlessly can result in pain, love is nothing without that leap. Once we seek evidence for love it is already dying.
Faith is a leap I can't see or understand.
Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
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