Psychology, Tricks, Desire.

The human brain is too complex for us to understand. Paradoxically, if it were simpler we'd be too dumb to understand it anyway.

Psychology is seen as a science, it really isn't a science at all. The technology to fully analyse the human brain is an infant, learning astonishingly quickly but not even at the walking stage yet. It seems to me that psychology is a school of confidence tricks, old fashioned scams for the brain, ways of getting it to do what we want it to do and training it to remember those tricks. I'm for it. I can't see anything wrong with using tricks and white lies to make my brain behave. The problem I see with most of psychology is desire. The method can only teach the brain to do what we want it to do, what we want is driven by innate desire.

To play the very top notes on a flute is difficult, to make them sing out sweetly and easily takes years of practise. In their minds most students dig in, the image in their mind is of pushing up from the ground, forcing up to those high notes. It doesn't work, the physical tension strangles the sound, makes it split or stop completely. When a good teacher, a good psychologist, offers the image of letting the notes fow out of the top of the head, letting them fly like pretty birds, those notes come out much more easily. It's just a trick for the brain, it affects the physical naturally. The flute teacher has no idea how the student's brain works, he just knows a trick, from experience, possibly passed on from his teacher.

A student who wants to learn will have faith in the teacher, listen and become involved in the trick. A student who has been forced to take flute lessons, who has no desire, won't.  The psychologist's patient who wants to feel good will have faith, listen, become part of the trick.  The psychologist cannot teach desire. A proud psychologist will try to install his own desire into another's brain rather than admit the limitations of his craft. Proud psychologists are dangerous people who cause more damage than they repair.

All the great schools of psychology rely on this trick method. Religions have plenty of tricks, the military thrives on tricks, gang culture is nothing but a series of mind altering tricks. The problem isn't in the trick method but in the use of it. The use of it is dependant on the practioner, the gang leader is a proud psychologist.

Proud psychologists will always try to make us follow their path. The real teacher will teach the student to identify and employ their own tricks, become their own teacher. The real psychologist will free the patient to become his own psychologist, his own leader, his own teacher.

Until we can understand our complex brains the simple trick is the best we've got. Feel your own desire and choose your tricks wisely.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Blues, Not Art by Blute blues flute band, on iTunes, all the other sites.

Love Is In The Doing.

He has removed his jacket, rolled up his shirtsleeves, he's never rowed a small boat like this before, he hopes he has picked it up quickly enough to impress her. He paddles slowly, real lovers never rush. This moment, this moment of floating between the town full of people and their own private island, this moment is perfect.

Straw hat and sundress, her eyes reflect every nuance of the still lake. She has never packed a picnic before, the basket is nestled in her lap, she hopes he will be impressed by what she has created. She is happy to paddle slowly, real lovers never rush. This moment, this moment of floating between the town full of people and their own private island, this moment is perfect.

In a modern couple he would be impressed by her knowledge of where to buy good plastic trays of sushi, she would be impressed by the size of his speedboat, they would take all their friends for the ride so everyone could see their happiness, but let us not think of the modern world, let us remain blissfully in the idyllic and let us pose some pertinent questions. Out of all the women and men in the town full of people how do they know they have chosen correctly? When they arrive on the island will they eat the picnic, make love on a blanket, then tire of each other? Or will they fall asleep in each other's arms, dream of each other, awake to each anew?

Love is in the doing, the rowing, the cooking, the taking time to feel the perfect moment. Action is the only way to seek truth.

In this modern world many things have changed. She may be a better rower than him, he a better cook. These things don't matter. What matters is that when they return to the town full of people they can still feel themselves in that perfect moment, floating between the town full of people and their own private island, between reality and fantasy, the moment created by their own actions.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Boot Straps And Me.

I need to pull myself up by my boot straps, I'm not even certain what that means. I try to imagine I own a pair of boots, perhaps those black snakeskin ones I couldn't fit in my bag last time I returned from America, and try to imagine grasping the small leather tabs at the top with forefinger and thumb. Am I to pull myself up by one at the front of each boot? Or the back?

Even in the metaphorical world I'm indecisive, end up pulling myself off balance and falling on my arse.

I'm at a pick up, dust off, start over stage of my musical career and my life. My band is broken, probably beyond repair. The songs we recorded are stuck at the mixing stage, out of my control. I've just discovered that air fares to America have doubled since last year and can't see the point in going without a product to promote. These things are facts, no number of silly "buck up little soldier" platitudes will change them.

Knowing the difference between an obstacle and a dead end is part of being a grown up. Mistaking one for the other is a common error, seeing clearly when to sidestep, when to turn around and take a new direction isn't easy. Sometimes the only option is to sit and watch, take time to understand what we are really looking at.

Some problems are easily solved. A little angular thinking and I've worked out that my frequent flyer points will take me to Hawaii, I can fly domestic from there, I've found a way. Other problems, like finding the energy to start a new band aren't so easily solved. This is where the boot straps come in. And the pulling up thereby.

Today I'll pull on my old Con's, charmingly devoid of straps, and I'll walk. I'll follow a duck and wait for it to drop a peacock feather, I'll sit beside the pond where the giant goldfish live, wait for one to speak to me, give me some answers. I'll sit outside a cafe and balance my gaze with the horizon, do anything but try to solve problems. When I return to the problems tonight I'll be able to see clearly, obstacle or dead end.

Boot straps are part of the romance of good boots, cowboys always get back on the horse. Black snakeskin boots, grasp the boot straps, pull myself up, work out the details later.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The King's Horses.

The second Charles who took the title of King of England greatly enjoyed the racing of horses. That's how this sport became known as the sport of kings.

In his kingdom there were many draughthorses, some warhorses, very few racehorses, only the wealthy few could import, breed and maintain a stable fit to race for the king. Most events were match races, just two horses, over a long course set out so the king could view all the action from an elevated vantage point. I can imagine horses, jockeys, owners, connestions, all lined up in their finest, hoping to impress, please and entertain the king, the man who in their minds was a direct connection to god.

Being a gambler in this time was a risky business, to punt on one horse was to punt against the other, an insult to that horse's owner and connections, some of the most powerful men around. Standing on the side lines and betting on the result has always been a mug's game.

I think of Cuba in the 1950's, standing in the mounting yard before the race, two strong horses named U.S.A. and U.S.S.R., two capable jockeys, which to back? Cuba failed to look at the powerful connections they were insulting, after a long race they are about to feel the real results of that race.

The king drops his handkerchief, the race begins, only the wealthy few can participate. The rest of us, men and nations, are mug punters on the sidelines.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Denial And Rage.

There is a scene in The Cruel Sea where a German ship's captain is taken prisoner. He attempts a confidence trick, struts up to his captor, tries to create an air of, "we're both officers here, all's fair in love and war, a nod and a wink".

The British captain is a veteran, the sea has taught him to recognize what he can control and what he can't. He was happily retired, returned to the service because of his ideal of duty, he has stoically performed that duty despite being duck shoved into an underpowered and poorly armed ship with an inexperienced crew. He has recently witnessed more bloody death than an old man should have to, he is not in the mood for forgiveness. This archetypal reserved Englishman succumbs to rage, that his prisoner, an agent of an evil war mongering regime should try to deny, to cover up his crimes is too much for even the most patient man. The British captain has his enemy removed from sight before he acts in a way unbecoming, but he can't disguise his rage. The crew love him for it, they all feel exactly the same way.

The German has backed the wrong horse, mistaken the courtesy of his enemy for weakness. It is one thing to wrong a gentle man, he may forgive that, but to deny it later will result in rage, absolute rage, the rage of truth, of a man who doesn't succumb to rage easily.

When I'm feeling rage I often think back to that scene in The Cruel Sea, it's usually the shabby confidence trick of denial that sets me off.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Fancy Threads.

I leave my apartment booted and suited, double breasted bullet proof, feeling the deep groove of the deep blue with a subtle, barely perceptible check. Clothes make the man, my personal piece of excellent Italian design makes me feel excellent.

My corporate gig isn't until the early evening but I feel like playing dress ups for the day. Why the hell not? I don't have to wear a suit every day so wearing a suit is fun. I walk taller, feel broader, raise high the roofbeams carpenters, I'm going to need some space.

For the sake of a couple of pulled threads some stock broker left this suit at a charity shop, he payed roughly eighty times what I paid for it, out of the two of us who knows more about economics? Today the hunt for a bargain is the equivalent of the hunt for big game. I love everything about this suit.

I have rock and roll hair, on me a suit looks just incongruous enough to intrigue the ladies. Those who would usually look at me like something that came in on the bottom of their shoe take a second glance, even offer a smile. I pay no attention, today I'm playing a role, the next time they see me in my jeans and t shirt they won't see me at all. I'm planning an afternoon of playing existentialist expat outside a cafe, perhaps prince in exile, without doubt this is a solitary passtime.

Corporate gig complete I stop in at the Vietnamese restaurant in the ground floor of my building, the waitresses giggle, they aren't used to this look. Vietnamese girls giggling is one of my favourite sounds. Man I love this suit. Before dinner I change back into my jeans and myself. Today I looked a million dollars but I don't have a spare fifteen dollars for dry cleaning if I spill something.

Wearing a suit is fun if you don't have to wear a suit every day.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

She Makes My Day.

An English Victorian gentleman would describe her as a strapping lass, lustrous haired, bright eyed, high breasted, firm thighed. A modern Australian might say she is kinda' hot. They say that opposites attract, in this case it is half true.

Our charming, harmless flirtation is just that, charming and harmless. It's an expression of the masculine and feminine, free of guile, ulterior motive, free of misunderstanding. It's good old fashioned fun, possibly the oldest fashion there is, the endless dance of male and female. There is no destination, no goal, just a man and a woman exchanging affirmation of life.

Ours is just one dance in a long night, she will quit her job at the cafe, I'll move on from Sydney, there'll be other dances with other partners, fast happy ones, slow close ones. We both know what it is, despite her obvious charms I wouldn't change it.

For a few minutes each day she feels feminine, smart, beautiful, I feel twenty years younger and like a man. Kinda' hot, a strapping lass, either way she makes my day.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Small Dramas.

When God was a bored, omnipotent teenager he began creating small dramas, to make him feel that something was happening in his life. Small, contained dramas that he could control, resolve when he tired of them. He created some insignifigant creatures, called them humans, filled them with internal conflicts, God was entertained by the chaos that ensued.

Like a fire in a trash can, the humans were supposed to be manageable, but they ran out of control, God's little manufactured drama took on a life of it's own. The humans took on the traits of their creator, bored teenagers, not mature enough to take on the responsibility of genuine action, creating dramas to make them feel something was happening in their lives.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Autumn Rain Is Falling.

The Autumn rain is falling. Under the cafe awning my hands are being warmed by my coffee cup, the rain is blessing me with an excuse. "Yeah mate, I'll have another coffee, I'd be mad to walk home in this."

The Autumn rain is falling. A gallant gentleman runs to his car, opens the passenger's door so his lady love can dash in without getting too wet. She will always remember Autumn rain fondly.

The Autumn rain is falling, washing away the last of Summer, clearing the way for Winter, this moment, this rain is the turning point. As I go inside to pay I can smell the dust blowing from the heater, it hasn't been used for many months. This season is supposed to be the end of something but it feels like the start of something, I can smell the old being blown away.

The Autumn rain is falling, the young couple drive away, another car takes their place, new customers enter the cafe as I depart.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Studio single, Drum, available on iTunes, all the other sites.

I Got Mine.

"The way I like it,
Is the way it is.
I got mine,
Don't worry 'bout his."

James Brown, Sex Machine.

She knew it was the first recording session gig I'd scored in years. She knew I'd recorded a demo of my playing, placed it online as gig bait, and a paying fish had come along and bitten. She knew all this, so what was she thinking when she called me when I was on my way to the studio? What was on her mind when she dumped me, over the phone, on the way to the job?

One thoughtful friend suggested that my excitement and attention were on something other than her so she created drama to remedy that situation. Another loyal and supportive friend said, "she is a thoughtless bitch who only thinks about what's on her mind right now, your work didn't rate."

Both were correct in their own way. The thing is that I'd asked the wrong question. I should have asked why I let it affect me, why I allowed a phone call to upset me and therefore my work? In this age of perpetual psychobabble we waste a lot of time and energy thinking about what others are thinking about. The facts were simple, I had a job to do, my mind should have been on completing that job, taking care of my own business, not trying to imagine what someone else was thinking.

The only mind under my control is mine. I can only know what I'm thinking. James Brown wouldn't have let that phone call upset him. He would have gone into the studio and nailed that sucker.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Heights And Loves.

The fear of heights and the fear of falling are often confused. One is an irrational fear of the compulsion to throw oneself over the edge, the other is a rational fear of plummeting to one's death.

The fear of plummeting from the dizzying heights of love is quite rational, it can be a long way to fall. Many people seem to have an irrational fear that they aren't good enough, that they will self destruct and screw everything up whenever they fall in love. These people avoid climbing to the highest peaks rather than face their fear.

The difference between physical and emotional heights is that when we fall from love we don't die, it's painful but there is no actual bloody mess on the pavement. Perhaps this is the real fear, that our love isn't important enough to be a matter of life and death?

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Blue Jeans, Black Suit Jacket.

This song is a true story of love at first sight at a pizza joint in St. Kilda, Melbourne. Most of us don't have a photographic memory but sometimes we take a snap shot of one moment, one person, one place, one feeling.

Blue Jeans, Black Suit Jacket.

I remember the clothes,
You were wearing.
On the first night that we met,
You were wearing . . .

And I remember the table,
At Topolino's.
On the first night that we met,
In the window at Topolino's.

How could I forget,
The way you looked at me.
I walked away asking,
Who, who is she?

I remember your style,
We were both nervous.
On the first night that we met,
We were so nervous.

And I remember your eyes,
And your hands.
On the first night that we met,
Oh, your hands.

How could I forget,
The way you looked at me.
I walked away asking,
Who, who is she?

I'll never forget it,
"Cos I disappeared.
I'll never forget you,
I disappeared,
The first time I met you,
I disappeared . . .
And I walked away asking,
Who, who is she?

Whi is she, the girl in the blue jeans and the black suit jacket, who is she?
Who is she, who is she?

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Royal Wedding And Le Guillotine.

Apparently William, Prince of Wales, is marrying some woman this week. Every trivial detail of this event is being covered by every mass media outlet, they only broadcast what they think we want to consume so we can only blame ourselves. Nearly every Australian television station is devoting hours to the actual ceremony and parade.

The only royal event I would watch on television would also involve a guillotine, the French knew how to deal with monarchy, a job well done.

I'd happily soften my stance on monarchy if Prince William of Wales would renounce his claim to being a prince and future king of Australia. If he stops seeing me as a subject I'll stop wishing a public and theatrical demise on him and his family. It's a fair deal. He seems like a nice bloke but he is well educated enough to know that no man is another man's subject.

The British monarchy is a marvellous theatrical device to encourage trade and tourism for Britain, let them enjoy their bread and circus wedding. It has nothing to do with me or my country apart from an anachronistic and confused constitution.

We'll know when Australia has grown up when we no longer accept being called subjects and when we view a royal weding as a quaint piece of British nonsense.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Painting The Bridge.

Australian comedy writer and actor Paul Hogan was famously discovered when he talked down a fellow who was planning to suicide from the Sydney Harbour Bridge. He was interviewed on television, proved to be hilarious. Hogan's job at the time was painting the metal structure of the bridge. This job involved starting at one end, spending weeks painting to the other end, then starting over again. This job became a Sydney cliche, an analogy for any job that never seems to finish, like dusting or the dishes.

I wonder if Paul Hogan would have found a way into comedy on his own if a potential suicide hadn't accidentally found him, or if he would have continued being the funny guy on the bridge painting crew who lost his job in the 1980's when they improved the paint and the job only needed to be done once a year? I wonder how other funny men who had worked their punchlines off for years felt about this painter bloke's lucky break? Plenty of comedians spend their entire lives doing a bridge painting job, write the jokes, perform the jokes, start again at writing the jokes, and they never get anywhere. Who knows how luck works?

Am I happy painting the bridge? Am I just waiting for a crisis to shake me out of the ordinary? Can I manufacture the circumstances that will shake me out of the ordinary?

Right now I'm just painting the bridge. It's a living.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Portland Oregon And Predictability.

I exited the elevator and side stepped the man vacuuming the hallway. I opened then closed my mouth just in time, realized he must have heard, "you wanna' do my place next?" at least one million times, one million times this week. I bit my tongue again as I entered my apartment, with his backpack vacuum he must have heard the jetpack gag only half a million times.

Often when people hear that I'm a flute player they refer to a film called The Anchor Man, or some other film that involves a young lady doing obscure things with her flute at something called band camp. I manfully resist the punching urge each time. Occasionally someone refers to Roland Kirk or Debussy's Syrinx and I can accept another million pop culture references with grace.

There was a time when every Italian town had their own opera singer with their own unique style, the entire town would dream of the local boy or girl making it to La Scala and the world stage, feel part of the adventure. Today the entire world has one mass media opera singer at a time, the flow between a small original culture and the greater world has all but ceased.

People ask me why I spend time in Portland Oregon every year. It's impossible to sum up any town in a few words but unique, unpredictable and worldly are a start. In the six months I've spent there I've hardly heard a predictable joke, a boring cultural reference. The local culture is thriving, yet open to all the world has to offer. Portland brings out my own unique qualities, removes me from the predictable patterns of my own culture.

I can't wait to get back there this year. I need to get back there this year.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Drinking Gum Tree Words.

So the average age in our party tonight is around twenty, we've decided to play grown ups and go out for dinner instead of just drinking like usual. On the way to the Greek restaurant my friend Phil and I stop in to buy wine, he talks me out of my customary policy of cheap and lots, we pool our money and buy one excellent bottle. We are like naughty schoolboys peeking over a fence at maturity, excited about sneaking and stealing it's apples.

Both waiters, we are both armed with Waiter's Friend corkscrews, I allow Phil the honour, he graciuosly pours me the first glass. There is an odd aroma, almost peppermint but not quite, then an odd peppermint flavour, present but not overpowering, the classic Shiraz is dominant. I look up at Phil and he has noticed it too, I'm not going mad. In unison we say, "gum trees".

On reading the label we discover that the vineyard is set amongst eucalypts, that some years the oil from these trees settles on the grapes, is absorbed into the fruit, then the wine. When a eucalypt tree senses an insect that has the potential to harm it a protective oil is produced. Some of this oil is carried  through the air to other trees of the same species, they immediately begin producing the same oil, a preemptive defence. If eucalypts communicated via scented puffs of water vapour they wouldn't be so susceptible to fire, but every language has it's drawbacks. Their system has evolved over millions of years. I'm sure that when they aren't passing on essential information they are just hanging out and spreading the good oil of love all around.

Phil and I toast the eucalypt. Our crew are talking, eating, seafood and lamb, there is a happy buzz all around me, but I'm drifting through time and space. I'm hundreds of years of French winemakers improving their vine stock year by year, I'm one of those vines being transported across the world, I'm planting that vine and having the patience to wait a decade for it to mature before I make wine. I'm the first bountiful season, I'm the fruit being blessed by the ancient words of the eucalypts. I'm a wine expertly blended and left in a quiet, cool place to mature and become a complete being.

My friends notice that I'm miles away, ask if I'm o.k. I tell them that I'm drinking gum tree words and everything is beautiful.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Other Side Of The Egg.

The Pagan's lunar and Spring rites had been practised for millenia before Christians muscled in on their action like religious gangsters. New life, rebirth, it's all the same story, it all makes sense for the other hemisphere, but it's Autumn here in Australia, the time of poetic slowing and dying. Like Summer Christmas, Autumn Easter makes no sense.

Australian trees, like Australian people, don't hold with rules. They drop their leaves as and when they see fit, seasons be damned. Most of the country only has two seasons, wet and dry, the south has something resembling the northern four, but not the same. Settled by Europeans we celebrate European festivals and other traditions. I reckon it is one of the reasons we feel distant from the world. We're like the international exchange student at high school, different no matter how hard we try.

Here bunnies are vermin, we introduce disease to cull them. The Easter Bunny is well advised to avoid rural areas where farmers own and use shot guns. Actors in Santa Claus suits are well paid to put up with the heat inside the padded suit. High summer is no time for boots and beards.

In five hundred years Australia will develop it's own festivals, as the old religions die and new ones take their place. Hopefully they will relate to the indigenous rites, include the nature of this land, not others. It will take five hundred years for us to grow our own culture. Until then we will remain a strange outpost, an antipodean impostor wearing the wrong suit in the wrong season.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Falling.

I recall a dream I had shortly after 9/11. My true love and I were trapped in a top floor, fire was closing in. I kissed her, held her close, closed her eyes to the horror by squeezing her against me, then stepped off the edge. She knew exactly what I was doing, it was silently agreed that we would fall together. It didn't feel so bad, our last feeling on earth being the presence of the other. She had died a few months before, I guess, at the time, I was wishing I'd fallen with her.

I don't know why I'm thinking about that dream tonight. Actually, I do. It's coming up to ten years since she died, she's been on my mind. I can feel her presence, feel that she is holding me through my ups and downs, feel that love does conquer death. It's a glorious feeling but poses a question.

How to love again in this living world?

How to love wholeheartedly, purely, sweetly, to feel someone else's presence?

Is it possible to feel someone else who's presence would make death seem not so bad?

I don't have any answers. I don't expect any from you. My guess is that when I feel someone that way again I'll know the answer.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Pepper And Culture.

When pepper is cracked into hot oil all of it's spice and flavour is released, it adds depth to the dish and enhances the flavours of other ingredients. When pepper is added later, at the table, the flavour is pleasant but blunt, without nuance.

Some genius cook experimented with pepper centuries ago, the knowledge has been handed on from cook to cook ever since. The name of the person who started using pepper this way has been long forgotten, his discovery has spread all over the world, enhanced the lives of every human who takes a moment to learn from tradition.

This is an argument for experimenting with the new and for taking note of tradition. Many humans stick with one or the other. Without both culture doesn't exist.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Warm Up, solo, improvised flute track, on iTunes, all the other sites.

Ex Crimes.

She loved the people who owned the cafe, went there every morning for her coffee, but every morning they burned the milk for her latte, every morning.

She wore it for a while, then tried subtle methods, hints, really tried to find a nice way to get the message through, please don't burn the milk, it tastes terrible. She was astounded when these people, whom she loved, ignored her, kept burning the milk every morning, payed no attention to her kind criticism.

There were other cafes in the street, she could have moved on, instead it became a battle of wills. Every morning she would try to find a way to explain that the coffee would be much better if the milk wasn't burned, every morning the cafe owners ignored her. Her morning coffee became bitter in her mouth but she was determined to win the battle.

One morning the cafe owners refused to serve her, her attitude was annoying them too much. She couldn't believe it, they were kissing her off, after months of rudely ignoring her suggestions, after her putting up with their burned milk for so long just because she loved them. She walked out, hurt and angry, decided to give up coffee forever.

Eventually the smell, the atmosphere of another cafe enticed her in. She sat at a table, smiled sweetly at the waitress, ordered her latte, then screamed, "and don't burn the milk!"

I was the second cafe. I never stood a chance.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Live, solo, acoustic Red Brown Dust, on iTunes, all the other sites.

Twenty Two Minute Mythology.

If stories inform a culture then our culture is informed by three act, twenty two minute and forty four minute television shows.

To tell a story within a two snooze button frame the conflict of the first act must occur immediately, anger must be the first and only response. The hilarity or drama of the second act can only work if the psychology is kept simple, black and white, two rams butting heads. The reconciliation of the third act is the payoff, the climax, the heartstring plucking must be blunt and thrusting.

I look around me, observe the relationships of those I encounter. Our culture is informed by these idiotic stories. If your personal mythology was absorbed from different sources you may not understand what is going on. Why the hasty anger? Why the sham drama? Why the sudden affection, as if nothing ever happened? You may be seen as weird, weak, passive, generally out of step with what is normal. All I can suggest is seeking out others with a deeper mythology source, or acting like you are cast in a television show.

The one power we have in this life is the right to write our own story. Allowing the idiotic to write it for us isn't a culture, isn't a life.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com   

Aimless Drifters Unite, Or Not.

A quiet suburban cricket ground, the solemn white ordered game players on a pristine green field. A stray plastic supermarket bag drifts on the wind, all wait, smile, let it pass, enjoy the pretty journey. Once the bag crosses the boundary the kids pounce on it. It doesn't do much but they love it anyway, it is one of them, free and aimless.

Eventually a parent will remove the bag, obviously it can't be trusted. The kids will forget how Dad played on the field, they'll talk about the funny drifting plastic bag all the way home.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Fascist Ties.

The Crown Prince of Bahrain has been invited to, and will attend the wedding of a member of the British royal family this week. The family of this prince is currently ordering the imprisonment of doctors who treat the wounds of protesters, wounds inflicted at the orders of the same family. Nurses are being beaten on their way to work for the same crime. His family rules over a fascist state that practises gender apartheid, suppresses freedom on nearly every level. This alleged prince has very dirty hands yet he will be greeted and feted by his fellow monarchs in what we like to think is the free and democratic Untied Kingdom.

At the same time loyal British troops will be risking their lives to assist protesters in another fascist state, Libya doesn't kow tow to a monarch. The British royal family, heads of the armed forces, must know of their own hypocrisy. Hypocrisy is in the nature of monarchy. How else could a head of state also be the head of a religion that says all men are equal then call others their subjects?

All monarchs, give them any ludicrous title you wish, are fascists. These birds of a feather will gather together, in their finest fascist regalia, to celebrate the continuation of their family line this week. Given universal education there is no need for them any more, they should be relegated to fairy tales, they justify their own existence with more ridiculous lies every decade, hang onto their position through any means.

The Americans had the right idea, tell the king to go and be a king elsewhere, without subjects you are nothing here. The French took a more direct approach with a very sharp blade dropped from a height. I like both approaches. My own country is taking too long to decide on a system to replace our ties to British monarchy. Our Prime Minister and Governor General will be part of the arse kissing debacle next week, will associate, talk trade with fascists and tyrants.

This one invitation, the welcoming of a fascist tyrant, displays for all the nature of monarchy. They are all fascists and tyrants, some are just limited in their power by the people, waiting for their time to assume complete power again.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Half Acorn Musings.

Years ago I wrote a song that simply didn't work, it was too wordy.

The story was of a boy playing under an oak tree, carving a tiny sailboat out of a half acorn, dreaming of sailing away one day. In the next verse the boy is a man and he does sail away, spends his days writing half acorn love songs on his wooden guitar. In the chorus he ends up on an uncharted island with a guitar and a pen knife, all he needed for his travels, he pulls his boat up on the sand to rest. The last verse he is an old man asleep under an oak tree, carving half acorn daydreams from his memories.

The idea of the song was to connect all three, boy, man, old man, all three living on dreams. Nothing really changes, we are all every age at the same time, the dreams of the boy are reflected in the dreams of the old man, the dream stays the same, only the perspective changes.

It was a nice idea for a song, just too wordy. Maybe it works as a blog post instead.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

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

Bread Alone.

Last night I was chatting with a mate over coffee, the subject of the Australian culture came up. We agreed that we are both very disappointed by it. We tried to think of one purely Australian cultural phenomena, something that wasn't directly derivative of another culture. We failed.

On my way home the term "perversely literal" popped into my head. This culture has fought and defeated the natural human urge for poetry. Of course there are tiny islands in this sea of passive aaggression but the vast majority measure themselves on the guage of material possessions. When I say I've played a good gig I'm asked how much I got paid, not about the music.

This perversely literal interpretation of life has made us wealthy, safe, on the whole happy, it's not all bad. We live in relative luxury, can buy all the goodies from just about every culture in the world, from the outside it looks like paradise, for most it is. Those of us who interpret life differently feel we are exiled from the real world, given a working visa for Europe or America we'd be on the next plane.

Bread alone wouldn't keep us here.

When the artist sees horse shit he goes searching for unicorns. When this culture sees a unicorn they call it a cow, slaughter it and cook it on the barbecue.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Wonder Of Flying.

Occasionally I have the good fortune to fly from my island continent home to another continent. Something that was unthinkable for nearly every human in history we now do without thinking. When I board a plane I support such a silly, joyous grin that if it weren't for my baby face I'd be suspected of evil doing. My mind is full of the adventures ahead, and the miracle of flight, the wonderful genius of man that allows me to sit in an armchair and fly around the planet.

Whenever I finish writing a song I can't help but perform the little victory dance around my coffee table. Float like a butterfly, flap my wings like a lunatic bird. That song writing is a solitary pursuit is a blessing on these occasions, no one witnesses my appalling dancing. I feel joyous that a song has come from me, that somehow I wrangled words into a melody and supporting chords, that I created something. Humans have been performing this miracle since we lived in caves but it is brand new every time it happens for me. I wonder how it happened.

Every time I play a gig and I feel the audience, when we fly away from the here and now for a few minutes, together, a miraculous flight of imagination, I feel the wonder of humanity. That together we can share an experience despite our seperate, individual realities, that my song and my voice can create this feeling, this is wondrous and beautiful every time.

When I meet a woman who makes my spirit soar, who inflates my balloons, her breeze drifts me away to another place, I feel the same joy and wonder, that life can be so damned wonderful and I can fly away on that wonder.

When we lose the wonder of flying we lose everything.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

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

Frodo's Eyes, from www.parkstreetfluteblog.blogspot.com

There is a wondrous moment near the end of the third Lord Of The Rings film. The Hobbits bow to the newly crowned king, he lifts them up, tells them that they bow to no one. The finest from all the lands bow to the diminuitive heroes but a close up on Frodo's eyes shows he feels nothing, he has seen to much pain and horror.

On a lesser scale this can happen to musicians. When you've played too many horrific, painful gigs it eventually stops hurting but when they stop hurting the joy disappears from the good gigs.

The worst gig I ever played was on flute with the tortilogically named Romantic Warrior. I was compelled to wear a pirate shirt. The singer's girlfriend did my hair. We were the support act for the support act who were supporting the band who were supporting The Whitlams. There was a big crowd in to witness this debacle. The whole set fell apart, I raced off the stage as soon as decorum would allow and went to hide in the band room. The band room was a cleaner's closet with an old couch that was held together by semen stains and a plastic butcher's tub full of ice and beer cans. I sat on the floor and steadily drank the rider for Romantic Warrior, the support act supporting the band supporting The Whitlams, the band supporting The Whitlams, and half of The Whitlams share too. I'm sure The Whitlams didn't mind, by then they were in the manager's ofice drinking sparkling wine and snorting cocaine from the arse cracks of lingerie models. I hid until I could change back into my own shirt, fix my hair and sneak out without being recognized.

A learning experience? Damn right it was. I learned to trust my gut instinct, to run away from any act that has a truly stupid name, to stick true to my decision to starve rather than surrendder my honour to such a farce again.

Musicians are the Hobbits of the arts world. We love food, beer, merriment and live in holes in the sides of hills. Maybe we fuck around a little more, but otherwise we are the same. We do well to trust our suspicions of outsiders, to maintain our naivete in the face of a harsh world. If we want to feel the absolute joy of the great gigs we have to keep that innocent part of our hearts and souls whole, unsullied by real life.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Warm Up, solo, improvised flute track, on iTunes and all the other sites.

The Cafe Society.

So tonight I will be joined for evening coffee by a male burlesque singer and writer, a dominatrix and a poet.

It sounds like one of those crap, three diverse people walk into a bar and in their response to a normal question we receive an amusing glimpse into the philosophy of all three. In this case the punch line would probably be at the expense of the poet, I'm thinking the bartender would ask them all for a poem before they received a drink, something like that. I could write the gag now, but as the fourth stereotype of this party I play the role of the bum musician, in keeping with that role I'd rather starve than start writing crap bar jokes.

The good news is that all four of us do what we say we do, are what we say we are. If this meeting was taking place in a conference room, if the protagonists were an accountant, a lawyer and an executive, then the whole affair could be written off on our tax returns. This is the way we work. We sit and chat and laugh and learn. We all write and produce our own work so we have a lot in common.

The other good news is that none of us have any idea where the conversation will take us. In most situations it's easy enough to guess where a conversation will start and finish, and the middle is rarely a mystery. With these guys all the options are open. Something about having a professional dominatrix at the table does unlock the doors of honesty. All writers value honesty above all else. Given that common understanding we all feel free of judgement, a beautiful place to be.

One thing I can predict, I will walk away from the cafe tonight feeling good about myself and the world. My friends will reassure me that what I do is worth all the time and effort, the poverty, the frustration. I hope I do the same for them.

Maybe the bartender could ask them all for a Roses are red, Violets are blue poem, I'll set it on St. Valentines Day, give the gag a love theme, the poet's natural domain. The first two will rhyme it with, Give me a drink, And I'll sing for you, then, Give me a drink, Or I'll whip you, then the poet can . . . no, I won't do it.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Perception And Romance.

At some stage every teenager will question the nature of perception and reality. We both agree this rose is red, but how do we know that the colour I perceive as red is the same as the colour you perceive as red? Teenagers age, real life assures them that these things don't matter, as long as there is a commonly agreed perception they can get on with that real life.

Then adults become involved in their first real relationship. Suddenly a shared perception of reality is important. Some days it feels like spoken words go through some sort of inexplicable Star Trek warp, they leave a mouth meaning one thing then enter an ear meaning something completely different. Only aliens know how the process works. The best intentioned act is interpreted by the same guy who rewrites the Chinese construction directions on flat pack furniture. A gesture of goodwill can become an insult without either party seeing it happening.

I'm beginning to believe that this might be what true love is, a shared perception of reality, or the mutual ability to comprehend another's perception. It's an immediate feeling. It's like the words you say, the actions you take, are inconsequential, the other person perceives your spirit in those words and actions. It doesn't mean the absence of conflict, just that both sides understand what the conflict is about when it does occur. It certainly precludes the constant stream of petty disputes that people who don't comprehend the other's perception are doomed to.

Teenagers are full of wisdom. Before real life tells them to shut up they ask good questions. How do I know what she is thinking when I hand her a red rose?

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Solo, acoustic, Red Brown Dust, now on iTunes, all the other sites.

I Google Effectively, Therefore I Am.

As if I'd ever google my own name.

If I were to google my own name I'd find that it pops up as an option when the letters kent par were entered. I am an online identity. I cyberexist.

After years of being a "relatively well known" dancing bear on the live music scene it's taken a little over a year for the online world to find me for writing. People pay online marketers a small fortune to scam the internet and help them gain online prominence. I feel my process has been honest, I've written, published, let stuff happen. Because the process has been honest I feel good about it, good enough to brag here. In a way I feel Google is showing me the way, that writing is my future, my way of finding recognition and income. I will always play music. Playing music informs my life, it is a spiritual path for me, but I feel writing will be my place in this real, three dimensional world I inhabit.

I'm glad a friend told me that Google has approved my existence, I would never have found out by googling my own name, as if I'd ever do that.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Men Will Be Boys.

The five year old fighter pilot took his position at the controls of the jet plane man, the man's strong arms the canopy holding the boy securely, one thumb the joy stick, the other the trigger for the imaginary machine guns. Together they took off from an imaginary aircraft carrier, after the idea of an aircraft carrier had been explained, the pilot was a rookie but he learned quickly.

A rollicking ride, the tiny ace flung his jet about with abandon, rolling and banking, roaring sound effects shouted into his excited ears. Coincidentally, just when the flight was becoming boring, the man plane spotted some bad guys in great big planes full of bombs that needed shooting down. Each bad guy exploded uproariously, the pilot and his plane trying to outdo each other booming and banging.

By my count the junior Biggles  took out one hundred and thirty five bad guys before he landed, tyres squealing, on the aircraft carrier he was now familiar with. All the kids were sent off to gobble up as much sugar rich food as they could manage before they returned, over excited and boisterous, to their slightly peeved mothers.

The two men upped and left the family party, they'd served their tour of duty, excited and boisterous they headed out in search of young women who would sit in their laps and pretend to believe their lies about being pilots.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Blind Faith.

Due to an eye condition I can't perceive detail at certain distances under certain conditions. One pertinent distance is that between my eyes and my feet, it's just a little too far. My knees are shot from miscalculating how deep or shallow steps and curbs are.

At night, in the rain, with the added complication of car headlights I often have to stop and feel each step. If I want to get anywhere I simply have to have faith, faith in the civic authorities responsible for pavements, have faith and walk. I don't choose to have faith, I don't desire it, I have no other choice if I want to get anywhere.

I know it is a matter of odds. In every so many steps I will sink into a puddle deeper than expected, in every so many steps I will roll an ankle on a crack larger than expected, in every so many steps I will step in a dog turd. It is in the nature of odds that all three of these things won't occur for a long time, then one night all three will occur within a few steps. At these times you may hear me wail,"oh civic authorities responsible for pavements, why have you forsaken me?", or you might just hear me shouting, "fuck fuck fuck", they amount to the same thing.

When everything is going well I congratulate myself on my faith, I know it is keeping me safe. When it all goes horribly wrong I see faith as a fool's paradise. Us humans are prone to duality. The mystical and the empirical are strange bedfellows, forced to bunk in the confined space of my brain.

What I feel and think aren't real faith, they are a trick to ensure I continue my journey. Real faith would be accepting the puddles and cracks and turds as part of the journey. We are all stepping out blind into the world, never knowing what is coming next. Whether we know it or not every journey is a quest for faith, every puddle, crack and turd a lesson, any step might be the one that teaches us true faith.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Solo, acoustic, Red Brown Dust, now on iTunes, all the other sites.

Knock Knock Reality.

The first protagonist opens the scene by miming the action of knocking on an imaginary door, twice, and speaking the words, "knock knock."

The second protagonist immediately poses the question, "who's there?", in accordance with the social convention.

The first protagonist responds with the statement, "Reality."

The second protagonist, a good sport and stickler for tradition, queries, "Reality who?"

When the punch line isn't delivered the second protagonist realizes he has been conversing with an illusory man behind an imaginary door, that all his interaction with reality has been a mutually agreed human construct, a knock knock joke reality.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Sitting On The Dock Of The Bay.

So you've walked most of the way down Market Street, right up from where the strippers and hookers and junkies hang out, past the giant franchise junk food installations, past the hole in the wall diners that still serve grits all day. You've found yourself combining two phrases of two words you never thought you would, "really good" and "banjo player" as you pass that guy who sits at the cable car terminus, stomping on his stomp box and laying it down with gusto. You've felt the change as you hit the business district, noticed the pretty secretaries and their tight suits, glanced up at the pointy pyramid and kept walking, it's always just a little further than you remember. Then the salt smell was in the air, you've hardly looked around at the street markets that sell all the same shit as every other street market in the world, do people really buy leather hats? You've waited in the tourist crowd to cross the six lanes of traffic, the asphalt outline that denotes the high water mark of America. When the tourists turned left you turned right, wandered down to one of the old piers that isn't used by any but fishermen and dreamers. You are close enough to that other bridge to have to look up to it, not out at it. You saw it from the plane yesterday and know it stretches forever, every bit as impressive as it's better known sister yet quiet and grey and disappearing into the bay, part of the water and the mist, or is it drizzle?

The fishermen are pulling in small whiting, one every few minutes, letting them flap to death in supermarket plastic bags. Some will end up stuffed with dried mushrooms and sold to businessmen for lunch in Chinatown, some will be taken home to feed families, some sold for just enough to buy burgers and fries and cigarettes.

There you are, you are sitting on the dock of the bay and you can feel America under your feet and the planet spinning, you are a fisherman and a dreamer, a dharma bum taking a moment to feel exactly where you are right now, right now.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Blues, Not Art, first single from Blute blues flute band, now on iTunes, all the other sites.

A Way With Words.

So I'm watching some quaint British foppery on my television. The working class butler type says, "it's like a Suffolk village your name, Myrtle Quincy". The order of the words makes it charming, if he'd said, "your name is . . .", it might have sounded accusatory, or like poking fun at her expense. The writer possessd knowledge of the working class English dialect and used it to his advantage.

Most writing is a matter of twisting a small amount of knowledge to advantage. Unless a piece is entertaining any information a writer wishes to pass on will be ignored. The King James Bible is a classic example, the turn of phrase in that book is some of the best ever, makes up a large percentage of our modern cliches. The author didn't have any new information to impart, he just had what we we call a way with words.

Richard Brautigan once splashed his talent liberally across two full pages describing a crow on the side of a Montana road eating a discarded truck tire instead of simply writing, "it was cold out". He nailed it, I think of that passage whenever I hear of Montana or cold weather. The sweetness of Brautigan's writing was in his humour and his way of chatting to just you, like you and he were old buddies who didn't need too much explanation, knew each other's thoughts, could happily shoot the breeze on the front porch together, enjoy the landscape of the words quietly.

A.A. Milne wrote one murder mystery novel, The Red House Mystery, at the behest of his father. It is camp and funny, like his children's works, based on mistaken identity and a secret passage, the entire value of the book is in the charm of the writing. On the last page the hero was invited to a weekend in a posh home, the hint that another murder and solving might occur, but Mr. Milne was just teasing. I put that book down wishing he'd written a series.

I'm at the very beginning of writing my first murder mystery, my detective is a solitary, monk like man, a spiritual detective who seeks the truth in all it's forms. The murder is the small amount of information, the charisma and philosophy of the detective is the entertainment. I'm turning phrases with a lathe, sketching the word landscapes, polishing my charms. The next step is putting all the words in the correct order so they sound right.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Taxi Farewell.

It is the kind of farewell that should linger. You want to give her kisses, hugs, consoling words, but the moment you shut the taxi door she is gone, the cabby is on the meter, he has no time for hands pressed against glass. It's like a child going to school, you want to watch her safely inside but she is lost in the sea of uniform taxis and gone. She's gone.

You hope he is a safe cabby, that she'll arrive at the airport without trouble, but it is out of your hands, another man holds her fate for now.

You hope he is a kind cabby, with tissues in the glove box if she needs them, or a joke if she doesn't. You hope she doesn't need the tissues, you hope she does

She is gone. You've closed the door behind her, a stranger is driving her to the airport. It's usually you who flys away.

Another taxi pulls up. Another girl alights. She asks directions, lingers. If only that farewell could have lingered, if goodbye hadn't been a door slamming, you'd ask this new girl to join you for coffee, but right now you are still waving at the school gate even though you know she is gone.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Ant And The Grasshopper And Paying For Downloads.

In Aesop's famous fable the ant toils all summer, gathering food for the winter months, while the grasshopper spends his summer singing for joy. When the seasons change the grasshopper finds himself hungry, applies to the ant for food and is rejected, chided, told that idleness leads to want. That ant was a prick.

So when that ant locks the door of his McMansion each night, wants to settle in with some sweet tunes, I'll bet he searches all night to find a pirated free download site. Instead of just laying out ninety nine cents he will search and search to get that sweet tune for nothing. He is happy to listen to the grasshopper sing for joy all summer but not to contribute to his ability to keep doing it.

I live in a culture full of these ant like pricks who want me to play for nothing.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Blues, Not Art, first single from Blute blues flute band, now on iTunes, all the other sites.

The Lioness.

Of course the lioness should be running and killing. Of course she shouldn't be enclosed, enclosured. Of course, of course, everyone knows it, even the smallest child who looks at her without really knowing what a lioness is knows it.

If they were forced to be honest all the people who strive to keep her satisfied and placid would have to admit that they know it. The vetenarian, the biologist, the dietician, the animal psychologist who taught her to be unafraid of noise and camera flashes, the cleaners who carry away her shit, deep down they all know it.

Yesterday someone was in a hurry, made a mistake. Someone didn't wash all the blood off her meat. She tasted blood, felt the texture of it on her tongue. In that moment her genetic memory rushed through her, a silent violent roar in her ears, the drug of the primal and innate released into her own blood.

Of course the lioness should be running and killing, everyone knows it, but today she knows it too.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Blues, Not Art, first single from Blute blues flute band, now on iTunes, all the other sites.  

I'm Just Not Miserable Enough.

I haven't written a song for over six months. I'm just not miserable enough. I'm too happy. I need a combination of conflicting emotions, angst, confusion, delirious joy, passion and the hurt of a self indulgent schoolboy before I can write a song, but right now I'm just too calm and relaxed.

In a bid to remedy this situation I'm seeking a disastruous relationship with a particular kind of woman. This woman must be beautiful, so beautiful my heart pounds whenever I'm near her and sometimes when I'm not. From this I will obtain the falling in love song, the pretty, passionate one, full of hope and joy.

She must be self obsessed, confident she has been hurt by love more often and more brutally than any other woman on the planet and therefore more fearful of love than any other woman on the planet. I'll write the there there song, I'll always treasure you, carry you over the rough ground, never ever ever hurt you song.

She must communicate like an idiot, or simply turn her telephone off whenever she knows she's done the wrong thing by me. If I can't get an angsty, let me in and I'll make everything alright, talk to me song out of that I'm just not trying.

Lastly she must be prone to irrational anger and resentment, bordering on mental illness. This must kill the relationship in a paricularly bloody and unpleasant manner so I can pen the I don't need you song, and finally the I miss her song.

This is certainly what has worked for me in the past, where most of my material has come from. I'm shallow enough to get through all four of these stages within a month, I'm not seeking any long term commitment. The women I've undertaken this process with in the past seemed unmoved by it, walked away without a scratch. I don't think I'm asking for too much.

I'm willing to have my heart and soul lifted then crashed onto the rocks to gain a few new songs, it would be well worth it. Right now I can't write a thing, I'm just not miserable enough.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Solo, acoustic Red Brown Dust, on iTunes and all the other sites.

It Takes Courage To Be A Bully.

It takes courage to be a bully, to stand up and demand obedience, attention, power. Television programs and my father told me that bullies are really cowards, that if someone stands up to them they back down. Television programs and fathers would be better advised to teach bullied kids how to throw a left right combination.

I tried standing up to a pair of bullies in primary school. There were two of them, a tag team, and they won easily. I just made them mad, they weren't afraid of me or anyone else. I taught myself how to throw a punch, was forced to employ it against the minions they sent against me, kids who were otherwise my friends. Bullies aren't stupid enough to put themselves in line to be hit. It takes brains to be a bully, manipulation and intimidation are skills that most adults struggle to master.

Bullies don't give up their trade when they leave school. Why would they, when they've seen how profitable it is? They take on new names, criminal, executive, sociopath, they're all just bullies. We trust the state to keep them in line, but they thrive where they can. Who can blame them? They are just doing what they've learned is a method for success.

In my primary school class there were two bullies and twelve other boys. An organized resistance of twelve could have easily overcome the two. Here and now in the grown up world the odds are about the same, if the many resist the few bullies can be defeated. While we allow them to divide and conquer us they will always win.

The glib answer that bullies are cowards is part of the problem, underestimated and under policed by teachers, parents bullies learn that they win every time.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Geography And Romance.

So I'm listening to Tom Waits sing Somewhere from West Side Story, it's a gorgeous rendition. I'm walking home late at night through inner city push and shove nightlife, and wondering if this is a place for romance to bloom?

I'm wondering if D and I had taken that old fashioned apartment with the timber panelling, the one on the quiet street near the beach, instead of the one we ended up living in, the one in the heart of the action, within walking distance to all the bars, if we'd chosen that other location would things have ended differently? If I'd employed my savings as a deposit on a small apartment instead of blowing it in Paris could I have given J the security she craved but never had? Would she have seen me differently, trusted me? If I lived in Portland, if I weren't just on a brief visit, would the casual thing between A and me have grown into something more, or was the fleeting nature the joy of the affair?

So I'm listening to Waits, a time and place with peace and quiet and open air, all around is the doof doof beat and drunken loudmouths and traffic, all these young enthusiastic people out on a Friday night looking for love, I'm wondering why they come here? I'm thinking back on the times I've lived in quiet towns, the peace in my soul, but all the pretty girls had left for the city.

I'm looking back at the last two girls I was involved with, both more involved with the sins of the city than with me. In both cases I thought that all I needed to do was get them out of this rat race, take them somewhere with time to learn and share, but they were anchored, immobile. In the culture I live in the only limitation to travel is imagination. These girls couldn't imagine somewhere else.

So I'm listening to Waits sing Somewhere and I've decided to just enjoy the music, the lush strings, the voice, the lyric, drift off into imagination. I realize that the time and place weren't the problem, that all I need is the imagination to create a place, a Somewhere, and a girl who will hold my hand and let me take her there.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

A Blogger Preacher.

Occasionally folks tell me some of my blogs are a little preachy. I like to think they mean in a Clint Eastwood, shirt off, wood chopping kind of way but I don't think they do.
If I were pressed for a Wild West analogy I'd go for the lazy prospector. As a blogger I kick the dirt around, hope to see something shine up at me. As long as my trouser cuffs are dusty people will think I'm doing something. When I do strike gold I know I'm too indolent to dig it up myself, too distracted to even find my way back to it, so I place a headline flag on it for others to find, let them do the hard yards of mining, refining, creating a jewel. Sometimes I hit upon a precious stone that needs no work, shines perfectly in it's own right. I leave them on display, one day I'll collect them, publish them in a velvet box.

I don't see the term preacher as an insult. A genuinely soulful preacher spreads the word of love in an inspiring and entertaining way. One day I hope to be a blogger preacher.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Every Step Poetry.

One o'clock in the morning, I'm sauntering home after a sweet day full of coffee and conversation and enough work to pay the bills. My old black Con's are so worn in they have grown wings, I don't feel the ground, every step is poetry.

The idea of detachment has been on my mind all day. I'm blissfully detached as a boy racer makes an attempt on my life at a pedestrian crossing, I have Roger Federer's footwork, dance around him and forget he exists. Anger spent on fools is below me tonight,

I weave through the chaotic crowd on the strip, my mind pays no attention, my feet know which direction to lead me, they can feel the unknowable patterns in chaos. My pace slows as I approach the heavy lads between me and my home, to speed up would be to admit intimidation. My gait tells them I'm removed from their world, the sins they have to offer are in my wake.

I smile at happy couples, walking arm in arm, step for step. I'm charmed by them. I feel I have the universe on my arm, everything and everyone are my lovers, the rhythm of my steps is the rhythm of everything, the rhythm of everything is the rhythm of my steps. How could it be any other way if everything is me and I am everything?

My day's thoughts on detachment conclude as my walk home is complete. I have to walk through this world on my own two feet, I can make every step poetry.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Solitary Monkey.

A troupe of chattering monkeys, scrambling for power and attention. He who chatters the loudest and fastest gathers the most attention, he who fights the most fiercely gathers the most power.

One quiet monkey abandons the troupe, wanders off to rest and reflect. He is no great sage, he has no great wisdom to impart, he is just confused, he cannot understand the constant struggle for attention and power. What is attention for? What is power for? There is plenty of food, plenty of trees to sleep in, what's all the desperate scrambling for?

The troupe usually punishes non conformity by ostracizing the culprit. This monkey can't be punished that way because he is happy on his own. His behaviour will be tolerated briefly, then he will be beaten to death. A monkey who won't pay attention or succumb to power is breaking all the rules, if the idea catches on the entire culture will be altered, those with the most attention and power will lose everything.

The only way the solitary monkey will survive is by leaving, travelling, gathering wisdom, answers to his questions. He must seek out monkeys with wisdom, another troupe with a more evolved culture. Even if he learns all he wants to know, gains wisdom, he can never return home, his troupe will never understand, they will have to evolve in their own time.

The enlightened monkey may wander forever, he may find a home. There is no easy path for him, his fate was decided the moment he took time to walk away from the chattering monkeys and reflect on his life.

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

An Anal Probe For The Twentieth Century.

Stories of aliens abducting humans in order to anally probe them is one of the great jokes of the twentieth century. In some ways it was a century in need of great jokes, in so many ways it wasn't the finest hour for the species we call human. On the other hand all the horrific violence may have been the throes of change for us, the twentieth may be the century looked back on as an evolutionary leap.

We took the giant leap from the first powered flight to exploring space. Of course our first reaction to the idea of space was childishly humancentric, as evidenced by the ludicrous assumption that aliens would be fascinated by us and our bottoms. Some cultures still see space as a way of earning currency by lifting satellites for profit, others view space as a potential military asset. The most advanced cultures see the range of possibilities, they actively seek planets that may support life in a form we can understand instead of wiggling their bums around and waiting for a visit.

The first photographs of our planet floating in space altered the way we view our place in the universe. The idea of one culture fighting another for short term gain suddenly made as much sense as a knife fight on an inflatable life raft. Advances in technology gave such disputes the potential to kill us all. Again, some cultures have grasped this idea quicker than others, but we'll all get there eventually.

The twentieth was also the century we leapt from Einstein's string of theories to String Theory. Not only were we not the centre of the universe, our universe may well be just one of many. If maturity is related to a sense of perspective then this century was what pop psychologists like to call a major life lesson. I believe it is no accident that the cultures most involved in this pure science and education were also the cultures that took a serious interest in human rights. Humans that had matured beyond childish grasping also learned that trifling differences like race, gender, religion are crazy reasons to hate.

We are too close to the last century to see clearly what will grow from it. I'm certain future historians will see it as the century we went from believing our own arseholes were the centre of the universe to taking our first human steps towards genuine perspective.

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

Kings And Lovers.

The king must lead his troops into battle. When fear and weariness lead him to hand over this role to the prince the king is leader by title only, then it is only a question of when he will die in his sleep.

Lovers must have the courage to expose themselves to danger, charge into the affair roaring with inspiration.

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

Mate. (With translation in brackets for my American friends.)

Mate (Dude), there was this bloke and he was there, but then he was here, you know, right here, and too much and too fast, so I said, "mate" ("dude"), and then he was all like, "mate" ("dude"), and it got a bit, you know, and I didn't mean anything by it so I tried, I said, "mate" ("dude"), but he wasn't having any of it and then this other bloke who had nothing to do with it came over and he was all, "mate" ("dude") at me too, and it was all over nothing so I said to the first bloke, "mate" ("dude"), then turned to the other bloke and said, "mate mate mate" ("dude dude dude"), but they were both just like, "mate!" ("dude!"), so I had to get out of there mate (dude) and I left my wallet behind, so could you spare me enough for a beer mate (dude)?,

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

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

Denying The Male.

The easiest way to split a culture is on the gender fault line. The easiest way to achieve this is to discount the male and the masculine. My culture is nearly there.

Many children are raised without masculine influence, girls grow into women who can see only the feminine way, boys grow into men who are confused by their natural being and how it conflicts with what they've been taught. There is an innate maleness, it is real, it exists. Denying it is denying half the culture.

If maturity is balance then a culture without gender balance will always remain in a juvenile game of push me pull you.

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

Please Please Please Please.

Part of the art of songwriting is the ability to place oneself in another's reality. For this song I had to imagine myself in the mind of a sad, middle aged man with a sex life so disastrous that he has resorted to asking nicely for it. Of course this was a long stretch for me. I'm told that when I perform this song I appear tragic and desperate but that's only because I'm a brilliant, brilliant actor.

The song is performed with a jaunty ska feel so it isn't as sad as it looks in print.

Please Please Please Please.

Please, please please please sleep with me.
Won't you please, darling sleep with me?

I'll buy you a drink and I'll score you a smoke,
You'll be in the mood once you've had a toke,
If you need some coke well I know this bloke,
Yeah whatever it takes to give your engine a stoke.

Won't you please, please please please sleep with me?
Please, baby sleep with me.

Believe that I'm cute or do it out of pity,
Will it help if I tell you that you're pretty?
I'll use all my best lines, my charm and my witty,
'Cos I'm so alone in this hot cold city.

So please, please please please sleep with me.
Won't you please, darling sleep with me?

I don't expect no Karma Sutra atheletics,
No pornographic calisthenics.
No silly rock star twelve hour tantrics,
Just a sweet tune, old fiddle, old dog, old tricks.

Please, please please please sleep with me.
Please, won't you sleep with me?

You're here alone.
I'm here alone.
Come on baby baby throw this old dog a bone.
Please.

I've got my own hair.
I've got my own teeth.
Will it help if I say I'll wear a sheath?
Please.

Please won't you let me take you to bed?
Or you can take me 'cos I'm easily lead.
Together we can ride in the two person sled.
You bring the tail, I'll bring the head.

So please, please please please sleep with me.
Won't you please, darling sleep with me?

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

The Boy In The Man.

I remember the first song I ever recorded, I was four or five years old. My father bought a state of the art radiogram, an object about the size of the apartment I now live in, it could record directly to cassette, my father held the microphone because it was his toy. The song went like this.

I want someone to buy me a pony,
Jig jog jig jog jigga jog jig.
Not too fat and not too boney,
Jig jog jig jog jigga jog jig.

For I want to go for a ride
All around the countryside,
With a jig jog jig jog jig jog jig jog,
Jig jog jig jog jigga jog jig.

I believe all the jig jogs were intended to emulate the jaunty rhythm of riding a pony. Raised in the leafy eastern suburbs of Melbourne I'd never seen a pony, I had no idea what I was singing about.

It took me nearly forty years to record my voice again. It's a very different voice from the voice of the frail, asthmatic child. I'm now recording my own lyrics, of my own experience, but the principles are the same. A sound engineer sticks a microphone in front of me and I take a deep breath and try to do it right. I'm really no different to an approval seeking four year old.

On that first recording I made a mistake, I sang one too many jig jogs in the last verse. Sensitive sod that I was, and still am, I remember the teasing I received for it. Today I don't care if people like my recordings or not, now as then I'm doing the best I can with what I've got.

The boy is still in the man but I believe the man has come a long way.

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

The Grand National Shame.

Every year at a racecourse called Aintree, outside Liverpool in England, a steeplechase called The Grand National is run, and every year horses die because the course is too difficult for them to manage safely. Every year horses die, and every year the course is packed with punters including members of the British royal family. This year two horses died, the race was diverted around two of the hedge jumps so the rest of the field didn't trample the dying horses. This is disturbingly uncivilized behaviour for an otherwise civilized, grand nation, and all in the name of entertainment.

I usually try to connect some philosophical idea with events I write about. There is nothing I can say about The Grand National and the people who support it that isn't self evident.

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

Don't Explain.

This morning my trusty old alarm/clock/radio woke me to the sounds of some jazz musicians being interviewed, explaining their music to us simple folk. For a moment I thought I was still asleep, victim of my worst nightmare, but it was real, the horror of jazz musicians explaining their music.

There is an art to introducing music, creating an atmosphere, setting up a mood so the song can shine, a painting is best hanged in the right light, a sympathetic frame. After that the work should stand alone, it is a piece with a life of it's own, no other living creature requires explanation. A dog is a dog, you are attracted to it or you aren't, you get to know and love it by hanging out with it, a dog doesn't have to be explained and either does music.

Once we start explaining anything the magic disappears. It's the difference between saying I love you and listing some qualities that ensure compatibility. If we are floundering for definition the love isn't true, the emotion isn't real, it isn't really music. Artists aren't stupid people, if they could say what they want to say with words they would, but expressing an emotion, anything real, is beyond words, that's what art is for.

If you need to explain it you just aren't doing your job.

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

Blues, Not Art, first single from Blute blues flute band, now on iTunes.

Romance And Writing.

The romance of love isn't in the sex act, it is in all the moments that lead to the sex act, the eyes and smiles, the touches and words and deeds. Love is a magic spell, a spiritual connection, call it what you will, it connects the internal me to the universe through the external you. To create such a powerful spell the incantations must be performed honestly, from the heart, with all the risk that entails. An atmosphere, a dance, poetry all with sincere and heartfelt intent.

The romance of writing isn't in the action of moving a character from point A via conflict to point B. The character must become a lover who connects us with the universe, between the beginning and end an atmosphere must enchant us, make us feel loving and loved. Richard Brautigan could write stories that include almost no action yet leave me feeling in love with the universe and all it contains. J.D. Salinger wrote a tale that mostly took place in one apartment, involving just three characters that somehow made me cry when I first read it, and cry again when I read it again.

Just as there is no science to romantic love, the art of creating poetry can't be taught or learned. Romance in writing can only come from the experience of romance in life and an honest intent to express it.

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

The Musician And Genius.

When a musician spends a lot of time in physical contact with an instrument he is said to gain muscle memory, a state where all the permutations have been mapped in the brain so no deliberation is required between idea and action. This state allows the mind to roam free instead of being bound to the work of interpreting all the information that passes between the internal and external.

There is no solid definition of genius, for me it revolves around this ability to connect the external and internal. The genius simply does not see any difference between him and the universe around him. He can just feel that time is relative, then, if he feels like it, work out a way to explain it to the rest of us. The genius, like the spiritual master, often can't see why we can't see.

The lessons learned from playing music won't create a genius but the thoughtful musician can apply this understanding to the world around him. It can be applied to any undertaking, any work, any recreation. A lover who can feel genuine connection with another being has to be a better lover.

The musician may not be able to comprehend the mysteries of modern physics at a glance, but he can explore the wonders of his own mind, then, if he feels like it, work out a way to play it to the rest of us.

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

Blues, Not Art, first single from Blute blues flute band, now on iTunes, all the other sites.

Kaleidoscope.

In the musical culture I was raised in there are just twelve notes. Just twelve. Hendrix played the same twelve notes as Bach, Parker employed the same twelve notes as Beethoven.

Those twelve notes are a kaleidoscope. They can never be played the same way twice. Each affects the other, changes the tone of the notes that were played before and the notes yet to be played. The variations are eternal ordered chaos.

When we play we are children turning the mechanism on a kaleidoscope, at the same time the mechanism is us. Every moment we are alive we gather the subtleties and nuances that make our kaleidoscope image ever more complex and beautiful. The same twelve notes, played through the mechanism that is us, keep turning and changing and evolving and singing their brand new day song. 

Just twelve notes. Simple psychadelic beauty.

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

Solo, improvised flute track, Warm Up, on iTunes, all the other sites.

The Piano Has Been Drinking.

There are two ways to look at the gig I'm playing tonight. One way is that it will be hell on earth. I'm still searching for the other way.

The venue is called a beer garden but it's really the lane beside the pub annexed with a canvass roof, some faux trellis covering the wall. It's the smoking area, by law, so it will be full, drinkers are smokers, full of post work punters with two and a half hours of beer inside them. The sound system is a series of small speakers around the walls, originally designed to announce the readines of bistro meals. The bar staff have control of this alleged sound system, all fancy themselves sound engineers.

Last time we played there I had to wipe the spit of an Irish backpacker off the microphone, after security had removed him, after he had attempted to kindle the sparks of revolution by means of song. I could have told him that never works, saved myself an unhygenic nastiness, but he wasn't in the mood for listening. Last time we played there I had to humour the enthusiast, fend off the requesters, did I mention there is no stage, we are down amongst the drunken morass, in touching distance? Did I mention that?

Last time we played there I swore it would be the last time.

If only I hadn't given up alcohol, eh?

So, the other way of looking at tonight's gig? Two mates in the trenches, an overwhelming opposition, the King's shilling at the end of the day, a shared experience that we'll laugh about in the near future, every time we hear Tom Waits tell the same tale in his song The Piano Has Been Drinking.

When I join the eternal choir I'll be able to hold my head up and tell them my dues are paid, for eternity.

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

A Couple Of My Favourite Saints.

One of my favourite saints is Saint Lorenzo, the patron saint of cooks. Refusing to betray his faith, he didn't complain about being beaten and imprisoned in squalour until his execution, he complained about the food. That's an elegant saint. He reminds me of Oscar Wilde on his death bed complaining about the wallpaper in his gorgeous, "one of us has to go" moment. A definition of cool, grace under pressure.

Another favourite is Saint Christopher, the patron saint of travellers. To atone for earlier misdemeanours he devoted his life to assisting travellers across a river, carrying the frail and elderly on his back. One day a tiny and very old man started becoming heavier and heavier on his back. Christopher suddenly realized he was carrying Jesus, he had been forgiven and was carried away to heaven. I may be taking the wrong message from this tale but I love the idea that a man too lazy to build a bridge or a boat can make it to heaven.

Springsteen said that it is hard to be a saint in the city. There are so many distractions and pressures that drag us away from our higher selves. We do betray our beliefs in the pursuit of money, it's hard to see another way. We do neglect the service of others while we serve ourselves. The beautiful stories of the saints are useful reminders that all of us can be saints, even if it is in one small service to another, or standing firm when the easy option is to fold.

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

Qantas And Me And The Glorious Humans.

A couple of days ago, on a whim, I posted a blog aimed at starting a viral campaign. The idea was to get enough people posting a message containing the word "Qantas" on my Facebook wall to attract the attention of the airline and score me a free flight to America. The response has been extraordinary.

My theory is that most people like the idea of supporting musicians but aren't that sure how to go about it. Everyone has jobs and kids and the ten thousand things that take up every day, who can turn up to gigs regularly? In this case they have not only joined in the fun of the long shot, they have also sent beautiful messages of support, made me feel like they are on my side. I believe they are on my side, on the side of a guy having a crack at doing what he loves. Music is often a solitary pursuit, most of the actual work occurs at home and inside one's own head, this public support is overwhelmingly gratifying. I'm quite amazed.

What the folks out there don't know, although they probably will now, is that I'm legally blind. You can't really pick something like that from a Facebook photograph. Anyone with a problem like this will tell you, independence is everything. Asking for help feels like defeat. Breaking a habit, actually asking for help, has been an interesting experiment for me. The spirit in which that help has been offered has made me think about how I approach my life, vision problems and all.

I'm lucky enough to live in Australia, I receive enough financial assistance to live a simple and comfortable life, better than many with perfect vision in many other countries. Getting by is great, but trying to step a musical career up to the next level requires money or public support. The support I've received in the last twenty four hours gives me hope. Even if this Qantas campaign comes to nothing I've gained so much.

Over the last few months I've found my feet musically, after years of dabbling in many different musical fields. I've returned to my first instrument and first love, the flute and the blues. It feels natural, like coming home, I feel confident that I'm producing good work, work I'm happy to promote. Everything is falling into place, the band, the songs, now this fantastic mass of glorious humans sending me positive messages.

Here's the shameless plug part, www.facebook.com/kentparkstreet , write "Qantas, send Parkstreet to America" on my wall, we'll wait and see if they respond. Thank you to all of you who have already done this, I'm grateful.

I'll keep you posted here, let you know if I get to fly to America this year, pitch my work to some labels, try some live flute stuff in Portland Oregon. Whatever happens I'm already enjoying the trip.

Parkstreet.
http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/
Flute stuff at www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet

The Gentle Men.

The two old boys shared a table, a conversation, half in English, the other half in their mother tongue, comparing notes on their day and their days. Two elderly emigres, they cou;ld have been in any cafe in any city in the world, bound by the same long distance sadness.

One let the other leave before him, waited for his friend to be out of sight then tried to stand up. He was struggling, the final push to standing balance just beyond him. Another customer stood up, walked towards the counter to pay, silently offered a strong forearm for the older man to borrow. Not a word was exchanged, the two men didn't make eye contact as they payed their accounts, finally a discreet nod, one each, recognition of a manly code of not making a fuss.

The older man departed after flirting gently with the waitress, the younger man sat back down again, ordered another coffee. He had stood up to pay so he could assist the other man without making a scene. It was a gorgeously masculine moment, a sweet generousity of spirit that seemed to come from far away in time and space, a time and place where men were men and no one felt the need to express everything.

The silent contract of respect between these two men was an antique, a perfectly crafted piece of history that was once commonplace. I felt priviliged to witness it.

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

Blind Courage.

I was in my early twenties when I picked up a flute, I headed down to the pedestrian tunnels that fed Melbourne's largest train station, milked their sweet acoustics, picked up some tips and gave my neighbours a break from my regular practise. It took some guts, I knew I wasn't so good, but I also knew that playing for the public was the only way to improve.

I usually took up residence at the bottom of a long stair case giving folks time to see and hear me, time to find some loose change. At the top of those stairs was a laneway that had recently been filled with street cafes, closed to cars, manchester warehouses giving way to tables and chairs and espresso machines. Once the peak hour pedestrian parade became too noisy I'd head up those stairs for coffee, blow a few of my hard earned coins. Every afternoon an old blind guy would come barging down the pavement. My guess was that it had been his route home for years, that he didn't give a crap about cafe society, that he just wanted all these secretaries and businessmen out of his way so he could catch his train home. He'd swing his white cane wildly, walk straight ahead, fearless, fully expecting everyone to get out of his way. It was hilarious and gorgeously dignified at the same time.

A guide dog could never be trained to attack a crowd like that. This man was determined beyond the good nature of a dog. The way he walked was his way of telling the world to fuck off. Change was of no interest to him, he was just walking as he'd always walked, from point work to point home. I loved him for it. He was so brave.

I'd started playing flute because I had time on my hands following eye surgery. Without that surgery I'd have ended up as blind as the man I watched each day. He was an inspiration. A blindly aggressive son of a bitch inspiration. I thought I was being brave playing my flute out of doors. Every time I feel self doubt I think of that blind man striking the ankles of the innocent to clear a path for himself and know I can make my own way if I'm willing to swing hard enough.

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

Qantas, Send Parkstreet To America.

I reckon Qantas should shout me a flight to the U.S.A. this year so I can plug my band's e.p. to blues labels over there. Don't you? Of course you do.

Qantas generously supports the arts, much bigger names than mine, one return air fare is small beer to such a company.  I'm thinking a Facebook campaign will do the trick. If enough people post, "Qantas, send Parkstreet to America" or something similar on my wall it will come to their attention, how can they say no? They can't.

So, www.facebook.com/kentparkstreet , spread the word, see if we can't make the internet work for the little flute player once in a while.

Qantas will receive credit on my blog during the trip.

You know it makes sense.

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

Blues, Not Art, the first single from Blute blues flute band now available on iTunes, all the other sites.