S.B. And Me.

In 1961 a man known in medical literature as S.B. received one of the first successful corneal grafts, the clear parts at the front of his eyes were replaced with donor parts and he could see for the first time in over fifty years. The psychological study of his response to this new sensory information changed the way we view our brains.

S.B. was disappointed by vision. He didn't find his wife visually appealing, he noticed dirt. He couldn't adjust to being able to see the dangers of modern life, traffic and the like. Where he used to simply stick out his white cane and expect cars to stop for him he found himself standing terrified on the pavement, unable to trust a pedestrian crossing. S.B. became depressed and physically unwell then died just a couple of years after his miraculous surgery.

What psychologists found fascinating was the relationship between different senses that S.B. displayed. He could read a clock instantly even though he'd never seen one. He owned a watch that allowed him to touch the hands, his brain made an instant translation between the sense of touch and the sense of sight. In other cases he had to touch objects before he could understand what he was seeing.

It was discovered that vision is more than a physical process. Children see differently to adults, over time they develop a library of visual knowledge, experiences that teach them what they are seeing, a balance between context and concrete sensory information. S.B. couldn't comprehend optical illusions, everything looked flat to him until he felt otherwise. He couldn't distinguish objects and people from each other until he had personally experienced them, he had no background information to compare new sights to.

Today when people receive life changing surgery their psychology is treated as a matter of course, in 1961 this wasn't the case. Back in 1991 when I received similar surgery to S.B. it wasn't the case either. The surgery technique and outcome had improved but thirty years later the idea of treating the whole human was still catching up with the physical skills. Now as my eyes are deteriorating again, I'm facing new surgery, I can take on what I've learned about and from S.B. and handle it better this time.

I guess this is the process, building a library of information and experiences, applying them to the physical and emotional encounters in our lives.

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

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

You Gotta' Serve Someone.

The old adage says that if you don't believe in something you'll fall for anything. Dylan said "You're gonna' have to serve somebody". It seems many insist that faith or belief are essential to human nature.

Faith leads to action, and humans crave action to fill their days. If someone has faith in family, country, god, they are spurred to act on that faith, serve that faith. I wonder if faith is the catalyst for action or the label? Do people justify their actions by claiming they are the result of deep belief? Does the man with a warrior heart claim a love for country so he can leave his family and go to war?

I wonder what the result of a faithless life would be? Would we justify our actions with a series of different fleeting beliefs, be seen to be falling for everything? Is it possible we could fulfill our desires because we desire to, free ourselves from the whole notion of justification? Or does faith inspire desire and action?

It's possible the only true faith is in oneself, belief in one's right to be. The actions that stem from such a faith would never require justification.

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

Studio single, Drum, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

Tramps Like Us, reposted because I kinda' like this one.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010Tramps Like Us.


Go, traveller.

Here's to all the dharma bums, the makers of music, the dreamers of dreams, those who live on love and air, the joyously lost, the gloriously adrift, the seekers, the circus joiners, the exiled, the wanderers, the stumblers, the free, a green tea toast to you all.

May you all find a place to heal your lonliness, a person to call home, a vocation that finds you.

May you never lose faith in redemption through travel, may your restlessness lead to peace.

Go, traveller.

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

Solo, improvised flute track, Warm Up, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

Guns And Jokes And Mysterious Ways.

He always sat on the small arm of the L shaped bar, in the corner, quiet and alone. I worked out later that it was the gunfighter's seat, he could see both doors from there.

It was 1985 but he sported a 1975 moustache, possibly still in fashion in whatever eastern European military organization he'd served with. He preferred a 1970's drink, Tequilla Sunrise, ice, vodka, orange juice, splash of grenadine, bendy straw. The first time I saw him less than cool was when we ran out of bendy straws. A straight straw wasn't going to cut it, he became impressively menacing until I ran across the road and stole one from the pub.

The second time I saw him less than cool was soon after I heard the gunshots outside on the street. Bang bang bang then he came through the front door. He turned the handle, opened the door and ran through it without breaking stride. Doesn't sound that impressive, but you try it. He was speaking quietly to himself in a language I didn't know, but remembered to shout, "move!" in English. Everyone moved, he ran through the bar and out the back.

The police cars squealed and stopped, one banged into something, no lights or sirens, this was unofficial business. Two uniforms, three detectives, the uniforms were ballast, remained by the door while the tough guys waved guns around and shouted. They must have been shooting at my regular customer from their car windows. They must have believed they were in a movie. Wankers.

"Where did he go?"

About a dozen old bar cats looked at the ceiling. When the question was repeated, louder, one old fellow piped up, an Irish accent. "The Good Lord Jesus was raised by the Father to heaven and if we all live holy lives and believe he will come back to save us all, so join me in prayer my brothers."

The plain clothes policeman was unamused, interrupted our laughter to point his gun in the face of the impertinent Irishman. The sensible Irishman pointed towards the back of the bar. We knew they'd been held up long enough by now anyway.

The three corrupt coppers ran out past the kitchen, scared the tripe out of the chef, then into the back yard, a huge wall, at least a metre taller then the tallest officer. Tequilla Sunrise guy would have taken that wall like a cat, these coppers were beer drinkers, those bellies weren't scaling anything . I suddenly realized I'd followed them, I was eighteen years old and possessed no self preservation skills. They pushed past me to search the rest of the bar, were in no mood for my request for a warrant, made a dash when they realized their cars were still blocking the street outside, hard to justify when this job hadn't been called in.

I found out later that moustache man ran down the back lane, up to the drunk's hostel, where angels and policemen fear to tread. He thanked a couple of the residents for hiding him with wads of cash, made a huge donation to the hostel.

Mysterious ways indeed.

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

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

An Undreamed Dream Can't Come True.

In The Muppet Movie there is a scene where Gonzo takes hold of a bunch of helium ballons and goes flying across the sky. Flying has always been his dream, accidentally his dream is fulfilled.

Later, sitting around a campfire, he tries to explain to his friends how he feels, being a muppet he naturally employs a song. The song says, "I'm going to go back there someday." Gonzo has experienced pure joy, a perfect moment, he has faith he will return to that joy one day. Gonzo has found his natural element, the feeling will sustain him until he can go back there.

This idea of having a dream then truly revelling in it's fulfillment is a simple one, so simple we forget to do it. O.K., so Gonzo was handed a bunch of balloons and his desire was made real, he is a muppet in a movie, but he had the heart to recognize the moment and fly with it. He also knew what his dream was. Most of us haven't even considered this, how can an undreamed dream come true?

Those of us who aren't muppets will have to work harder than Gonzo to make our dream come true. I don't even know what my dream is, how can I start working to fulfill it? Maybe the fact that it took a character like Gonzo to push me into thinking about it gives me a clue as to where I should start looking? Or maybe it was the beauty of the song as well as the content?

I need to locate my element and go there before I can write a song about going back.

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

Dirty Old Pavlovian Dog.

She smiled at me as she boarded the train, probably sympathy for my plight, cornered by the crowd, guitar case and bag pressing into all the incorrect parts of my body. As she took the steps to the upper level I happened to look up, caught a glimpse of little white underpant as her tiny sundress swished.

I'm nothing but a dirty old Pavlovian dog. All it takes is a fragment of social nicety and a very brief tour of the sexy department and I'm howling like a coyote who can't score. Is this as far as I've evolved? So unseemly for a grown man to be so at the mercy of his primal urge.

The difference between the coyote and me is that the coyote understands the social protocol for taking a mate in his culture. The human social system has evolved further than I have. If I were to say, "I like your underpants, do you wanna?", I'd be breaking all the rules of sexual ettiquette. I don't know why.

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

Drinking With Jesus.

An English fellow, he had been working with A.I.D.S. orphans in Africa for six months, had landed in Sydney to prop up a bar, press the alcoholic pause button. He said he didn't want to talk about it.

Turned out he did want to talk about it. When I asked he told me there were only two qualifications required for the work he'd been doing. The first was the ability to hug children and mean it, and not just cute kids, snotty kids, scabby kids, smelly kids, dying kids, they all knew when you hugged them and didn't mean it. The other required skill was the ability to employ a shovel quickly and efficiently. In those conditions a body couldn't remain above ground for long, for so many reasons.

Then we laughed. I remember him laughing loudly when I called The Simpsons The Simmos, he thought it was hilariously Australian. He had plenty of money, from what I could pick up he could have bought the bar with cash, but he allowed me to buy him a couple of drinks. He knew I wanted to.

We stumbled down the stairs together, parted ways.

"There is only love and death", he said as he shambled up the street.

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

A Working Class Hero Is Something To Be.

She loves the working class in the same way a child loves a hamster.

She is on my radio, the government broadcaster, university educated but unemployable anywhere else. She is interviewing three young people from the working class part of town. She uses terms like "bridging the gap", you know, the gap between the working class and normal people like us.

She interviews arty types, you know, people that normal people like us can identify with, says they are "telling the story" of the suburbs they come from. The film maker says the word "like" so many times I need one of those clickers that nightclub bouncers use to count patrons in and out to keep track. She says nothing, nothing I can understand as a sentence that conveys meaning, just arty words. The guy who leaps around what they call the built environment, you know, parkour or something, he says he is expressing himself through his art. He certainly can't express himself with words, saying "you know' and "if you know what I mean" in every sentence. The funny thing is he has to leave his working class suburb to find an interesting environment to leap about on. The commercially successful television guy who makes shows with enough boobs in them to hold a secure teenage audience makes a little more sense, but he is more like us, you know, a normal person.

No one suggests that these kids learn the difference between their youthful slang and the lingua franca, they don't seem to realize they are on grown up radio and that anyone over thirty doesn't understand a word. No one suggests that learning to speak their mother tongue would help them tell the story of their suburbs much more effectively than any artistic pursuit. No one suggests interviewing some real working class people, with real jobs, using words on the radio medium to learn something of working class life.

Most Australians are middle class, two cars in lock up garages, giant televisions, tradesmen earn good dollars. The working class state of mind has nothing to do with income, it is based on reality, on earning a crust to support a family and give them a good life, on the joy of simple things like family, mateship, sex, sport and good times. Whether they view art films or have peculiar hobbies is by the by, some do, some don't, but these things certainly aren't central to their philosophy.

And so in twenty minutes of conversation on the radio service that working class people pay for with their taxes all I've learned is that the university educated folks who look down on us have no idea who they are talking to.

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

Laundry Stories.

My friend Dora ran a laundromat on a busy one way street off the main strip of a red light district back in the 1960's. She has no idea that she tells great stories, always apologises, hopes she wasn't boring. All her tales contain the nut of working class truth.

One of the working girls from the street ran into the shop one day, terrified, "hide me, hide me!" No one knew who was pursuing her but they took the chance and hid her anyway, standing among the dry cleaning. Turns out the girl's mother and aunty had just turned the corner, they didn't know what she did for a living. The laundry ladies thought her pimp or a drunken sailor might have been after her, but they were brave and hid her anyway.

Marlene Dietrich couldn't use the hotel laundry, her underwear always went missing. My friend's hands were in Miss Dietrich's smalls every day for a week.

A gangster who for some reason was afraid for his life stopped his car quickly, threw his laundry bag onto the pavement, the laundry ladies collected it. Sometimes they had to take the loaded revolver from the top of the bag, place it carefully back on top of the washed and folded clothes the next day. Once his life threatening crisis was over the gangster came in to apologise and explain that he had so many guns stashed wherever he went that he lost track of them.

A young man came to claim a dry cleaned suit without the ticket. He'd lent it to a friend so the duty of best man could be performed. The friend fell for the maid of honour, they spent most of the next three days shagging in his apartment. On the third day the maid of honour's husband located them and shot them dead in the bed the adulterous lovers had been sharing. The young man felt callous for wanting his suit back but it was the only one he owned.

Dora tells great stories, tiny vignettes from a unique perspective, complete with universal themes, lust, jealousy, fear, all the good stuff. From the tiny fragments she offers up we can imagine whole novels. Would be writers like me should sit at her feet.

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

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

Was I A Good Man?

On the large oak table sits a small box that once contained a new pair of shoes. The photographs that litter the table must have come out of that box. The old man looks down at the braces attached to his trousers, lifts a picture of a young man wearing braces standing in front of a shiny new car that must have come off the production line in the 1950's. The old man can't remember but guesses the young man must have been him.

He doesn't remember anyone else who appears in the photographs. There is a woman who must have been his wife, young in some shots, older in others, and two young people who must have been his children. There are a couple of photos of a house, maybe he lived there, most seem to have been taken on vacations, various people he can't recall standing in front of scenes he doesn't recognize.

The man somehow knows he is dying. He wonders what sort of life he has lived? The photographs tell him nothing, none of the people in them are present to ask. Are they just in another room in this house he has found himself in or are they far away? He doesn't know.

Has the photographic evidence spread before him been collected by the prosecution or the defence? Is this a collage of time well spent or time passing?

A young woman carrying a tray, tea, efficiently places, pours, is about to leave when she feels she should say something.

"Fond memories Sir?"

The man desperately wants to grab this woman, ask her just one question. 

"Was I a good man?"

He is distracted by the box, his last thought is wondering what sort of shoes came out of that box.

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

Love Is An Allergy.

Those who don't understand allergies say stupid things, like, "so what if the kid is allergic to peanuts, one or two won't hurt him, as long as he doesn't eat a whole jar". These people don't understand how an allergy works, that the chemical one is allergic to is just a trigger, the reaction occurs in the body. It doesn't matter if one is swimming in that chemical or if one absorbs one eye dropper drop that has been diluted in a swimming pool, the chemical will set off the the same physical response.

Love is like that. Love can be triggered by the tiniest thing, a walk, a word, a wink, a wiggle. People say you have to spend time with someone before you know if you love them. Bollocks! You have to spend time with someone to know if you want to live with them, or even if you want to spend more time with them. You know you love someone instantly, the reaction is involuntary, one moment you are healthy and happy, the next you are lovesick.

Today we can prevent allergies by taking shots of chemicals that are almost exactly the same as the chemicals we react to, but not quite the same. Our bodies become accustomed to these chemicals, learn that they are benign, stop reacting. We can prevent love by taking shots of liquor, then having lots of affairs that are similar to love but not the real thing.

Eventually we stop reacting to love.

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

Studio single, Drum, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

Power And Silence.

In Egypt we recently witnessed a magnificent protest. The Arab culture and temperament allow fantastic displays of emotion and excitement, a tonic for a repressed middle class white boy like me. The people had a strong case, they stated it with strength of numbers.

I noticed the army stood by silently, made their presence felt but didn't intervene. Because they held the real power they didn't need to say a word. They were busy deciding whether to act or not act.

The case of the people was heard, judgement was made in their favour, the people went back to work with a feeling of power. Governments try to stop us raising our voices, they don't want us to feel this sense of power even if it is an illusion. We might get used to the feeling, begin to see that all power is simply an illusion that our culture tells us is true.

The truly powerful can sit in silence and decide on what real action will be taken. While we are forced to shout to get what we want we know we don't have any real power.

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

Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polkadot Bikini.

I don't know, he may have written over a thousand sweet, charming, poignant songs  but I do know that the guy who wrote the song Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polkadot Bikini will be remembered for one thing only, writing the song Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polkadot Bikini. There is an adage that we only regret the things we didn't do, not the things we did do. Sometimes not doing something is the wise choice.

The guy who wrote the song Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polkadot Bikini still receives a small fortune in royalties every year, but he will only be remembered as the guy who wrote the song Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polkadot Bikini.

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

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

A Five Year Old Kerouac.

When I was a kid country town motels were on the highway, on the way in or out. When my family drove from Melbourne to Sydney and back I'd spend one night either way lying awake listening to the big rigs rolling by. I was awake and dreaming of a life on the road with country motels for a home.

I loved everything about those motels. The tick box menu for breakfast, the little door the breakfast tray would slide through, the tiny packets of cereal and sugar and real country sausages and eggs. I even loved the cold toast on the little rack. I loved the crisp sheets, the local radio station all crackly, the always too cold air conditioning, the tiny soaps, the plethora of little switches for lamps and lights. Those places were the essence of transcience, everything designed for one night only, tomorrow we may not be here.

For a child who has spent less than a couple of thousand days being alive each day is important, weighty. You'd think that spending an entire day in a car, sleeping overnight in a small room then getting back in a car again would be boring. I loved every minute. I could close my eyes when we passed a milestone, which back then were real stones by the side of the road, then open my eyes exactly when we passed the next. I could close my eyes and open them three miles later, five miles later, always just as we reached the next milestone. The Australian rural landscape isn't so exciting, especially along the Hume highway, but I relished the Zen sameness of it all, the simplicity of just being, flowing with the road.

Today the highway bypasses many towns, country town motels are fading away, barely kept alive by visiting football teams and wedding parties. Today I've spent many thousand more days being alive, yet I'd like to go back to that time when every day felt real and free. Soon I'll be a full time writer, able to work anywhere in the world, think I'll spend some time on the road, living in country town motels.

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

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

The Little Death Of The Actress.

There is an exquisite moment when a woman orgasms, she loses all control of her face, it tries to express every possible emotion at the same time. A photograph of this moment would show a strange chick with a screwed up face, if one showed it to the lady concerned she would never orgasm facing her man again, yet in real life her face at this moment is beautiful, perfect, heartbreaking.

Soon after the face of the actress returns but she can never fool you again. In a few seconds her real self is revealed, and she knows that you know her. The first time a man witnesses this moment with a woman he knows if he loves her or not. A million other distractions may appear, the pasts, presents and futures that haunt us, but from that moment we know the truth even if we don't accept it.

The first kiss is the sign of the prophet that guides us to this moment. The moment must be heeded. It is the essence of life in a woman's face, there then gone.

Love is all.

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

Studio single, Drum, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

A Little More Danger.

I often listen to the B.B.C. World Service late at night. I like to think that I'm improving my knowledge of world events but in truth I find the rosey English voices charming and relaxing. I'm pretty certain this makes me a sad and chronically single man.

There is one show I actually listen to, From Our Own Correspondent. Radio journalists who specialize in reporting war and other terrifying events relate personal stories, instead of remaining impartial they are free to express their own feelings and responses to the world as they see it. Some stories are light hearted, strange food eaten accidentally, the sights that help them pass time in developing world traffic jams. Other stories are heartfelt, relating how political corruption hurts the poorest people, or a tribute to a fellow journalist, photographer, translator who has died in pursuit of the news.

This show always reinforces my belief that the more dangerous a life the more exciting. Living with Death as a neighbour makes for intense dinner party conversation. The usually serious reporters obviously enjoy the opportunity to employ comedy and poetry, their tales are entertaining, fascinating. I lie alone in my safe, quiet bed and dream of such adventure, then wonder if I really want danger in my life, if a little boredom is a small price to pay for security?

I often think of a character in the novel Catch 22. On the basis that time flies when one is having fun he tries to live the most boring life he possibly can and therefore live forever. I know I don't want a boring life, but how dangerous am I willing to go? I know I can take at least a couple of steps towards excitement without going beyond the sticky bit near the edge of the envelope. I wouldn't be pushing said envelope, whatever that means.

Danger doesn't have to mean throwing myself into the path of war and famine. It takes guts to be emotionally honest, to risk poverty by playing the music I want to play, to give up old ideas without having any idea what ideas will replace them.

When I look back on my week I can't think of an incident, amusing or tragic, that I could report to the world. This man needs a little more danger.

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

Solo, improvised flute track, Warm Up, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

Hemingway And Men.

There's an hilarious scene in one of Milan Kundera's tales where he visits Hemingway in heaven. Hemingway is dressed like a madman so nobody will talk to him. He bemoans the fact that people on earth write tens of thousands of words about him for every one word he actually published, why can't they just read the work, like it or not like it?

Hemingway's mistake was being masculine in an increasingly feminine world. His writing was esentially male, he could be passionate and dispassionate at the same time. A soldier has to become frenzied to hurl himself into danger, at the same time he can't stop to mourn his fallen brothers until after the action, he has to be emotional and unemotional at the same time. He has to look death in the eye and laugh then fight for his life. Hemingway captured the duality of the man in action, the man who fights for those who can't, the man who takes on the hard jobs, the hard decisions.

He also wrote about macho, machismo. He understood that these things are display, the same display that all male animals put on for their females. In nature it is designed to show which male has the best breeding potential. In humans this breeding potential is more complicated, wealth and status are as important as physical prowess, but the display is the same. Hemingway pointed out the difference between a man who displayed what he really had and the man who was all puff and feathers.

Hemingway didn't gloss over the unpleasant aspects of the male nature, fear, jealousy, cruelty. He showed how some men, real men, rise above such pettiness, even if it costs them. He explained that men who have examined their own nature, who trusted themselves, who had survived action and other rites of passage have no need for self doubt. Boys rarely have the chance to prove themselves today, their mother's won't let them.

The other important aspect of masculinity is femininity. Hemingway wrote women who knew how to make their men feel like men. He wrote women who knew they wanted a man, not a boy. He wrote women who expected their men to treat them right because of their sense of honour. This sense of honour is essential to every part of a man, and women can make a man aware of it, bring out the best in them.

So here I am, doing what I laughed about, writing yet more words about Hemingway. I hope I've written about the work, not the man. Anyone who wants to know what it is to be a man should read the work, read the biographies if you want to gossip.

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

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

Real Estate In My Bag.

"Let us be lovers, we'll marry our fortunes together. I've got some real estate here in my bag." That Paul Simon guy sure knows how to open a song, doesn't he?

I've always loved the scenes in American films where the Greyhound bus pulls out of town, they always use the same sound effect for the doors closing, the hydraulic brakes being released. Sometimes the lone hero stares forlornly out at the night, the next scene shows a glorious sunrise over spectacular American landscape. It's a new day for the hero too, he smiles to himself. Other times the young couple fall asleep in each other's arms, awake to the same sunrise schtick, smile at each other knowing that although all they own is in two small bags in the rack over their heads they have all they need.

This is the On The Road school of self discovery, redemption via far horizon. The romance of the real America, turning the word "freedom" into a reality, a thing one can travel across.

I once quoted Paul Simon's lyric to a woman, hoping she'd understand what I was talking about. She'd told me she hated routine, loved the spontaneous. They were just words. She will never wake up to sunrise through a Greyhound window. There is just one bag in the overhead rack, I smile to myself.

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

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

The Essence Of The Work.

LATE FRAGMENT

And did you get what

you wanted from this life, even so?

I did.

And what did you want?

To call myself beloved, to feel myself

beloved on the earth.

Raymond Carver.

I'd never heard of Raymond Carver until last night. I was up late, half listening to the radio, a documentary about some writer was warbling away. I caught a few moments describing how this writer went to Reno to marry, six weeks before his death. He knew he was dying, had weeks to live, wanted to spend some time in a place where there is no time. There are no clocks in casinos, no daylight, no time, man made or natural. This idea piqued my interest. The idea of a man controlling his own perception of time, that's an interesting man.

The biography of any artist usually bores me to tears. I really don't care about their lives, the work is all that matters. I can never work out why people want to know how much a writer drank, who he had sex with? We don't know these people, why would we pry into their lives? The words they leave behind should be all we need to know. I'm being a complete hypocrite because I'm suddenly interested in reading Carver's  short stories and poetry because I heard a snippet about his life, but I don't want to know any more about him.

If any of his work is as simple and honest as the above poem, which appears on his gravestone, I believe I'll be satisfied. The question of what we want from our lives is essential to getting what we want from our lives. I'm searching for essence, the real, not petty details. I want to read words that illuminate essence, not words that list details or explain method. When I play music I want it to be of my essence, not just the correct notes. When I love I want it to be an essential connection, not loneliness prevention.

The trick of altering one's own perception of time is very entertaining, almost poetic. The art of writing a few words that resonate with the essence of another human, that is poetry.

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

Solo, improvised flute track, Warm Up, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

Mess.

There was a time when I used to crap in my own pants then expect someone else to clean it up. I was very young. I don't remember but I'm assured it's true. I'm pretty certain my first words were,"would you be kind enough to direct me to the bathroom? This current arrangement is undignified for both of us."

Today when I discover a baby has created such a mess I hand the little critter back to a parent. Baby poo is their problem.

When I was twelve years old I drank so much champagne at a new years eve party that I threw up all over a bathroom. I intended to use the white pocelain receptacle but the room was spinning like Steve Austen's space craft so the nouveau riche bathroom carpet took a hit.

I was in no state to clean up, it was Mrs. O'dea's champagne and she was silly enough to carpet a bathroom, let her deal with it.

At sixteen I got hammered with my mates for the first time. I snuck home, dashed upstairs for a shower, clean the beer smell off my breath, and sat down to a family dinner. It was a middle class home so no one noticed.

I learned to hide my mess.

As I headed into adult relationships I discovered the joy of stoic silence. A zen condition of nothingness whereby the other person is forced to fix any problems for both.

Belligerence was an interesting phase. "You got a problem? Fuck you!" Very effective. If you don't like my mess you can fuck off, accept me, accept my mess.

I remember chatting with a very cool piano player. I was talking about that moment at a wedding reception when the annoying enthusiastic girl has you by the hand, insisting that you really want to dance, that she is helping you by physically dragging you onto the floor. I was trying to invent a method to diffuse that situation politely, without resortting to breaking her pudgy little fingers. I couldn't imagine a way, I'll never forget his response. "I don't let it get to that stage in the first place."

This idea had never occured to me before. I was familiar with every response to a mess once my pants were full of it, the idea of being a grown up and not making the mess in the first place was brilliant. Don't drink too much, don't let a relationship fall apart before I act, don't crap in my own pants.

I have a friend who keeps on returning to a violent, drug addicted man. I don't know how to explain it to her. There won't always be a parent, a policeman, me, to help her out. Maybe she just needs to crap in her own pants until she grows up.

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

Musician And Musicianship.

In the next couple of weeks I have the good fortune of some free recording time, musician's gold. Now the obvious question is how best to use that time?

There are a number of factors involved with recording, starting with the practicality of who is available to play and ending with artistic merit. It's a classic example of the difference between musical talent and musicianship. Having a clear picture of what you want to achieve, organizing the players, providing the atmosphere and attitude that brings out the best in everyone, these things are musicianship.

Any artistic endeavour involves a balance of administration and performance. The organizing part of the job can suck the fun out of the performance part, good organization makes the performance relaxed and easy. I'm guessing this is true in real life too, maturity can probably be defined by this ability to balance the concrete and the airy.

Financial realities raise their ugly head on these occasions. To record the album I'd like to have in my pocket, the one that I'd play to my grandchildren with pride, or the album that will promote a band, lead it to more and better work? Who knows what works in the music business? I don't. I do believe that taking the right spirit through the studio door will ensure you exit with a real recording, whether it is great or good depends on so many indefineable factors.

On this occasion I'm going to take my blues band into the studio. They are great players with a great spirit, they make me sound good. They've worked hard with me without reward so far, it's time to share the wealth. I'll do my part, organize times and dates, lead with my attitude and my playing, I'm confident the players will do their part, that together we'll find the balance between getting the job done and creating the art we live for.

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

Blute, blues flute band, recording from first rehearsal now up at www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

The Cool Teacher.

A quiet, leafy suburban street. I'm an enthusiastic young flute player taking some lessons in jazz theory from one of the grand masters of the Melbourne scene. He must be doing something right to be living here, in a real house, in a street with trees and posh cars in the driveways.

There is a black shape on the pavement, as I approach I can make out a man dressed in black, sitting on a black drum case, an impish jazz demon visiting the other side. It is one of the greatest jazz drummers I've heard live, and he's saying, "g'day mate", as I draw up to him. We make small talk, his cool seems to rub off, I'm not talking too fast and saying nothing like I usually do. He makes me feel like part of the fraternity that is jazz, one of the guys, the drummer, me, the grand master waiting inside to teach me about whole note scales.

The man looks cool in this green, middle class setting. He looks cool standing outside a club smoking at three in the morning. He is independantly cool, the environment has no effect on him. He possesses the talent and the essence to carry off his style anywhere, anytime. Style is essential to who he is, what he does, how he plays. When he sits on a drum case, neatly folded like a drum stand, one leg over the other, one arm wrapped around himself the other free to smoke a cigarette he isn't banging on a look to impress, he was like this when I arrived. He is staring blankly because his mind is adrift in cool, not because he is pretending to be arty.

I may or may not employ the knowledge of whole tone scales that I'm about to gain inside the charming house we are standing in front of. I will certainly use the sense of cool I'm learning on the pavement.

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

Solo, improvised flute track, Warm Up, available for download at iTunes, all the other sires.

Power And Change Can Never Be Friends.

The leader of the clan is an old man, possibly as old as twenty five years. Not many are old enough to remember a time when he wasn't leader.

He is standing with his arms folded, frowning, almost shaking with rage. For the first time since he became leader no one is paying attention to him. A young male is showing the clan how he moves fire from one piece of wood to another, how he can set fire to many pieces of wood at once, shed light and heat all around.

It's not that the old man is against this fire business, he isn't stupid, he can see how it can be used. He has already assessed the military potential of such a tool, and he likes feeling warm. He has rarely felt warm without running. He opposes fire because it has removed his authority. The young man exhibiting his skill with fire is already the real leader of the clan, the old man knows he has to act quickly to hold his position.

The old man strides to the younger man, lifts one of the burning pieces of wood and clubs his rival to death with it. He kicks the fire until it goes out.

Power and change can never be friends.

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

Submarines In The Dust.

Commander Holbrook must have been an unpopular commander. In 1915 he was sent to serve in the Dardenelles in support of the Gallipoli campaign. He was sent to serve in very small, very old submarines, expected to cause some consternation amongst the enemy, then die. Holbrook performed acts of ingenuity and bravery that won him Britain's highest military honour, the Victoria Cross. Commander Holbrook V.C. was suddenly a very popular commander.

On the other side of the world, in the Australian state of New South Wales, there was a town named Germanton. Because Australia was at war with Germany it was a very unpopular town. The other towns would gang up on it, pick on it. The residents decided to change the name of their town, named it after Commander Holbrook V.C., attach themselves to the popularity of the great man.

As an exquisitely polite Englishman Holbrook made three visits to the town that wore his name. Holbrook is hundreds of miles inland, yet his exquisitely polite widow donated funds for a submariner's war memorial in the town. If you are ever driving the Hume highway between Melbourne and Sydney you may stop for lunch in Holbrook, I can recommend the pie shop, and take a moment to enjoy the frighteningly small submarines half submerged in outback dust.

Great men have a long reach, their deeds can inspire from great distances of time and space.

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Solo, acoustic Red Brown Dust available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

Standing As An Independant.

When you first leave home life can be exhausting. Suddenly you have to do everything for yourself. Unless you run around with a damp cloth dust builds up, unless you brush that toilet it goes brown and nasty. How do you keep running out of milk?

When you lose vision your brain has to do everything your eyes used to do for you without you noticing. You have to listen for emotion because you can't see it. Your feet have to check the depth of stairs so you don't jar your knees. It is exhausting for a while, then you get used to it. Over time you become a lazy bachelor, decide which tasks are worth doing and which aren't. When people wave and you aren't certain who they are you either ignore them or wave ignorantly and cheerfully, hope they speak first so you can identify them.

It's an interesting process, not too difficult. We all learn independance in different ways over time. Leaving home is a form of freedom that comes at a price. Losing a sense frees your mind to feel and sense diferently, in some ways better than before.

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

Wandering Thoughts Yet Again, And Sleepless.

Following a bushfire in Western Australia two volunteer fiefighters are injured, taken to hospital. The radio reporter states that one was released after treatment the other is being held overnight but she is in good spirits. Nobody blinks an eye at a female fiefighter being injured on the front line. When women take chances they get hurt just like men, a gritty and real equality.

I recall a funeral, a late middle aged man relating the story of his wife finding a small box at the back of the wardrobe and asking what was in it. "All your love letters, didn't you keep mine?" She didn't, but now he realizes that he needs hers but she doesn't need his.

If you want the bones of your loved ones disturbed, bury them with their most valuable possessions.

If you want your heart broken hand it to a careless person.

I recall a late night jaunt to a petrol station, driving back to my friend's car with a watering can full of flammable liquid clutched tightly between his legs so it wouldn't spill. He pulls out a cigarette. It's very late and our thinking isn't clear. I push in the cigarette lighter, it pops out, ready to ignite my friend's cigarette which is poised just inches above the aforementioned watering can and the flammable liquid therein. At the last second we look at each other, he puts the cigarette back in his pocket, we smile, we've cheated death yet again.

Over twenty years ago I'm trying to write a thank you note to the family of the dead person who donated my shiny new cornea. I'm too young for the job, have no idea what to tell them. I know nothing of death, or families for that matter. I attempt to be positive, tell them the great things I will do with my second chance. Only now am I old enough to write that letter and to honestly say I desire to do something great with my life, but there is no way to find them now. Synchronicity is rare and should be treasured when it occurs.

Sleepless nights lead to thoughts of life, love and death. Sleep deprived or not, with the new day I will rehearse with a great band, sing and play flute like I mean to create something great.

Parhaps I will write that letter anyway, place it in a bottle and send it out to sea.

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

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

Smarter Than The Average Bare Naked Lady.

The staff here at kentparkstreetblog recently commissioned extensive research into you, the beloved reader. Using a range of survey techniques, some of them legal, they discovered that ninety percent of you are well above average intelligence. Of course I'm not surprised, look at yourselves, you gorgeous, smart people.

The other ten percent? The other ten percent appeared to be employing internet connectrions from institutions dedicated to mental health. Maintain the rage my brothers and sisters, we're all just as mad as we feel.

So I'm thinking you are exactly the people to pose this question to. What do intelligent people owe to their society and to themselves? Many whom inherit wealth feel a sense of noblesse oblige, that their good fortune compels them to assist those less lucky in their birth. Is there any inherent duty or responsibility intelligent people should feel?

I once knew a stripper. She was one of the smartest women I've known, she wasn't stripping because she was heroin addicted or to pay her way through tertiary education, she was stripping because she liked it. She revelled in her youthful beauty, in the excitement of dancing and showing off her body to strangers, she experienced joy in her physical reality. People would harrass her, tell her she should be employing her smarts in a more worthy pursuit. She would tell them that she was smart enough to know what made her happy.

People with physical power aren't castigated if they decide to take up intellectual work. Those with emotional abilities and understanding aren't pushed into careers that involve caring for others. For some reason people feel free to judge the smart. I don't know why. Smart people are people too, they are free to choose their own path, to wander ainlessly or to work in dull jobs.

Of course many smart people are unaware of their own potential. Many are bored, change paths every day because they never feel challenged. Some are lucky enough to fall into a career that exploits their brain. Some only start really using their brain once they realize what it can do.

Being born smart is a blessing, but a mixed blessing. Many of the smartest people I know have ended up pretty messy, mainly through a lack of understanding of why they feel different to other people. Who'd have thought that smart people sometimes need the help of other smart people? Perhaps the sole duty of intelligent people is to communicate with other smart people, to help them understand their own abilities and power?

I like the response of my friend the stripper. Her desire to be happy was simple and honest, she felt no need to show off her intellect, she enjoyed showing off her body. It's possible she was wrong, that she was wasting a god given talent. If she'd applied her brain to science or the arts she could have achieved anything, done much for her fellow humans.

So I pose the question to you, you gorgeous, smart people.

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

Solo, improvised flute track, Warm Up, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

 

Television And Real Life.

Because of my low vision I watch television differently to most people. I can't see emotion on actor's faces, often can't tell one actor from another, I'm much more interested in dialogue, soundtrack, atmosphere. It's an interesting way to enjoy what is mainly a visual medium, if the writing's no good I'm hitting the off button.

Last night The Deer Hunter was on my television. If you enjoy atmosphere this is the film for you. The Vietnam scenes are so diabollically claustrophobic, every word is essential. Back home in America there are wide open spaces, everything moves slowly, words are wasted on ego.

Really good films involve universal themes, ideas that can be translated to our own lives. The characters in Deer Hunter are forced to play Russian Roullette, what everyday event can compare to this moment of life or death depending on chance? I won't ever find myself in that situation, it is a movie after all, but in my own way I struggle with these highs and lows. After playing a string of gigs, receiving applause, conversations about what a great guy I am, coming back to weather and the price of groceries drives me mad. Everything off stage seems shallow and pointless, the minutes on stage seem real, essential.

The Deer Hunter makes the difference between the two lives extreme, as I said, it's a movie. One character is almost addicted to the intensity of fear. I've seen musicians addicted to the bright lights and the touring, they are useless in real life, they can't go home when the war is over. I've seen it in boxers, stuntmen, racers of various sorts, any job that raises adrenalin, lifts the heart rate. They crave that atmosphere as much as the job.

As I grow old and soft I find films like The Deer Hunter difficult to watch, too harsh and unpleasant. I guess I'm learning to find peace in my own world and don't need it upset by what is, in the end, just a movie. I'm writing my own life now, creating my own atmosphere. When I come home from a gig, good or bad, I know nobody lives or dies by it. If going to the intense place and coming home is the nature of my job I have to find a way to enjoy both.

In real life I can't see emotion on the actor's faces either, but I can't turn off real life when the writing's no good.

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

Solo, improvised flute track, Warm Up, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

You Can't Play Another Man's Soul.

The blues guitarist leans back, beat smile on his face, bends the string he is playing. He has learned technique, every note on the fretboard is his friend, he has played by ear, the notes he chooses are his lovers, now he is trying to find the note his body craves, he hammers it again and again, bending that string until it plays the note that resonates with his soul, vibrates with his essence at that particular time and place.

There are guitarists in the audience. When they next play the technicians amongst them will emulate the physical distance he bent the string, the ear players will search for the same sound. Their audiences won't know the difference, they will be pleased with the effect, the emulation of the great blues man.

These other guitarists will know, deep down, that something is missing.  Their smiles will be showbiz, their bodies striking poses. They will be well paid, feted, but their souls will be crying out for more. The guitarists will placate their souls with more money, more fame.

The blues guitarist knows no other way, he will continue to play his soul and to seek out other musicians who feel the same way. Whether he achieves fame and wealth or not is immaterial to him. He knows you can't play another man's soul.

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

Grief.

So a young man, thirty three years old, loses the love of his life suddenly, she is just thirty one. He has no faith in an afterlife but his first thought is that if he dies too he will be in the same place she is, or at least the pain will cease. For the next year and a half he lives in a way that can only hasten his death. During that time a friend invites him to a neighbouring island where he works ten hours a day, drinks for eight. Anything but think. Another friend offers him a job in another city, less work, more money, he has more time to drink but can't help thinking. He knows she would want him to be happy, one new year's eve he gives up drinking forever, she never liked him drunk anyway. Suddenly he has even more hours to think each day. He has decided to live but has no idea what to live for. He writes and performs his own shows, the audience applauds, he can't take that applause home to her so it means nothing. The now not so young man has no idea what to do with himself. He can't fall in love, he's still in love and what girl wants to compete with the ultimate ex? He strives to become virtuous, honest, spends years working out who he is without her, who he will become without her. He falls desperately in love with troubled girls, girls he can save. He is hurt again and again because the girls are troubled. The last one does his head in so badly that he realizes what he has been doing and retires from the game, decides to live a life without women, alive or dead. The now even less young man writes songs, travels, lives the life. He rediscovers why he started playing music, He finds himself, alone, a solo act. He still doesn't believe in an afterlife but somehow every performance is a tribute to the girl. He can imagine another girl. He can imagine happiness. It only took ten years.

Today I witnessed the grief of a recent widow. I had no idea what to say to her. There is nothing another person can say.

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

Sharing The Life.

There was a time before cell phones and the interweb when musicians lived in the inner city, stayed in touch with each other by drinking in the same bars, taking coffee in the same cafes. Networking was a way of life, not a button to click. Like minds would meet through friends of friends, through reputation, by taking the time to talk to each other.

When I was starting out the Galleon Cafe in the Melbourne bayside suburb of St. Kilda was the musician's cafe. The waitresses were sexy and cool, the food cheap and good, the cork board on the wall covered with hand written ads for flatmates wanted and band members needed. Over the conversation hum you'd often hear an over excited young rocker talking a little too loudly about recording a new DEMO in the STUDIO, desperate to be overheard. These guys never lasted long.

One of the golden moments of my early career was entering the Galleon and feeling the hush, recognition, the whispers about the flute player. The flute player was me, I'd made it, on the St. Kilda scene I was someone. In the overall scheme it didn't mean much, but my heart sang, these were my peers, my musical family, I'd graduated to relatively well known status.

Looking back that moment means a lot to me. The inner city scene is a thing of the past, in Australia anyway, but for a couple of years there I was living the dream, a working musician with a name, a place, a community. Who better to be recognized by? Some crave approval from family and friends, but they have to love you no matter how crap you are. Others court the general public. The general public has taste up it's arse, just look at the records they buy. They buy shit. They buy what the television tells them to buy, and now what the internet tells them to buy. Brittney Spears? Really? So fellow musicians who share one's way of life, live next door, frequent the same venues, play in the same bands, recognition from them means everything.

Today young musicians strive for web presence, site hits, media recognition. I know why they do it, I'm in the same game, but it ain't the same. They'll never feel the warmth of the Galleon in winter, chicken and leek pie, a table full of fellow players coming and going, sharing the life.

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

Solo, improvised flute track, Warm Up, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

Advice.

An old mate informed me that his teenage son reads my blog occasionally. I suddenly felt guilty about all the sex and violence I write, then realized that the young dude probably plays video games that make me look positively vanilla. My mate suggested I include some advice about doing homework. He was joking of course, but it made me think about what advice I would give to a teenager. Fuck I'm old!

Most people giving advice are just feeding their own ego, and most of their advice would be best taken by themselves. I never listen to advice unless I've sought it from a respected source. One piece of advice I would give a teenager is to be suspicious of advice.

There is one real piece of advice I'd pass on, if I were held at gunpoint and forced into it. This advice involves doing dumb things. Doing dumb things is really fun. The sheer randomness of behaving like an idiot is hilarious and the stuff memories are made of. I'd never advise against doing dumb things. However on some occasions a little voice from your gut, your heart, your brain says, "this is beyond dumb, this is really dumb." And so we come to the advice bit. On these occasions listen to your gut, your heart, your brain. Telling your mates that you don't want to join in doing a dumb thing because it is really dumb isn't at all easy. It never is. Your real mates will respect you, after they hang shit on you. They will probably be looking for a way out too, you won't just be saving yourself from doing something really dumb, you'll be giving your mates a way out too.

You'll see adults doing things they know are wrong. You've already noticed politicians doing things they know are wrong. You'll notice your boss doing things he knows are wrong, he will probably tell you to do things you know are wrong. Getting used to the idea that doing what your gut, heart and brain tell you is hard, unpopular, getting used to that now will make it easier to do as the stakes get higher. Most adults never learn to stand their ground, most despise themselves for it.

That's me done. I've used my advice quota for the next decade.

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

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

A Smart Sailor Obeys The Sea.

Movies are an integral part of our culture, the plot of so many of them involves one man standing against conditions that seem impossible to defeat. Cultures are built on stories but I'm not certain this myth serves us well all the time. Most of the genuinely difficult decisions we make involve persisting, changing paths, giving up. All three options can be valid.

Movies are fantasy, that's what makes them fun. In real life fighting the odds can be destructive and painful. When a chosen method isn't working sometimes doing it harder and faster isn't the most productive response. A smart sailor reads the weather, knows when to alter his course, when to turn back and start again another day.

I look at great composers who deny convention, insist on writing the music they hear despite poverty and social disapproval. This kind of self belief is essential to great success. If you believe in what you are doing enough poverty doesn't matter, loneliness doesn't matter. The hard bit is knowing the difference between confidence and delusion. If you keep pushing against the tide will you leave great works for future generations? Are you that good? Or are all the people telling you to change course correct? Sometimes they are, sometimes we just aren't that good.

If a sailor disobeys the ocean he will perish. For most of us these decisions don't result in life or death, more often they result in happiness or unhappiness. Let's face it, being poor and alone sucks, and it's a fair chance that is where you'll end up if you resist the social norm, fight the overwhelming opposition of the general public. Lifting your head to view other options is just the smart thing to do.

Most of us will never have films made about us. Most lives aren't a fantasy, most are a day to day slog. Living a life worthy of a big screen hero is what our culture tells us to strive for. Write your own script, choose your own role, the dominant culture isn't always right.

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

Solo, improvised flute track, Warm Up, available for download at i Tunes, all the other sites.

Dip It In Batter And Deep Fry It.

Today I received the results of some medical tests. I'm disturbingly healthy which hardly seems fair to those who actually take care of themselves. The funniest news was that my cholesterol level is below average, that I can consume even more deep fried joy before I even reach average. This is possibly the best news a man can receive.

A guy I know has an annual tradition he calls Deep Fried Thanksgiving. He places a forty four gallon drum full of oil on a fire and deep fries everything he can get his hands on, including a whole turkey. Some find this practise excessive, I think it is magnificent. What better way to express joy in his life? He is a man who loves his food fried in hot oil and he shares this passion with his friends and family.

Australia inherited the English tradition of the fish and chip shop. In my hometown of Melbourne a Greek immigrant population who knew everything about seafood took over the fish and chip business, some of my fondest childhood memories involve watching a fat Greek man tipping a massive basket of fried potato and battered shark fillet onto a paper wrapping, then shaking artery hardening amounts of salt all over the pile of oily beauty. I'd tear a hole in the paper, slide out scolding hot chip after chip, break off a chunk of fish and toss it from hand to hand until it was cool enough to put in my mouth. I can taste it now. I want it now.

And I can have it now because I have below average cholesterol levels. Life is sweet.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not some phillistine, I enjoy fried food from all around the world. Japanese tempura, European crumbed and fried cheese, the world famous schnitzel, southern style fried chicken from the U.S., Indian samosas fried in ghee, Asian spring rolls fried in a wok, Vietnamese salt and pepper squid. I'm a worldly glutton if nothing else. I've even tasted the Scottish delicacy of battered, deep fried chocolate bar. If it is cooked in hot oil I've eaten it.

And now I can eat it every day because I have below average cholesterol levels. I gotta' tell you, I'm a very happy man today.

Of course I won't be joining Elvis on a diet of deep fried sandwiches. I'll eat other stuff too.

But from this glorious day I have a license to eat deep fried and happy whenever I want to, because I have below average cholesterol levels.

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

Studio single, Drum, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.