The red light district is quiet at this hour, the low tide of mellow locals go about their business before the king tide of suburban fools hits later tonight. It's a village, it takes me an extra ten minutes to walk five minutes to the train station by the time greetings and salutations have been performed along the way.
Down a long escalator, a pretty girl going the other way smiles, another big city, one second love affair, two seconds if you include me turning around to check out her tush. All is transient.
On the station concourse a gaggle of young folks who have been hired for their innate bubbliness are doing something they call raising awareness. Two full time hustlers on the street above failed to gain my attention, these bright yellow t shirts aren't about to slow me down.
"Hello, how are you today? We're here from the Cancer Council . . . "
"I'm a smoker, I'm doing my bit for cancer."
Through the ticket barrier, down another long escalator, underground, chill wind, the seats are empty, I just missed a train. I plug in the little white headphones that pass the time, close my eyes, I'm soon aware that a weirdo has decided I am his target today. Carrying a saxophone around attracts the fruity, I hold the conch and the wild boys follow. His mid winter sandalled feet schlick schlack back and forth in front of me, I can't hear what he is muttering but it can't be good. Volume down on the iPod, my new best friend is making doodle doodle honk noises. I stand, walk to the next seat down, he remains staring at where I was, I'm a little hurt that he doesn't miss me.
Two tunes later I'm on the train, first stop is in the business and shopping area downtown. Some ladies who lunch sit around me, I know they will change trains at Central so I have two stops to play with them. A smile and chat with the frumpiest of them, give them something to talk about on their trip back to the 'burbs. She snubs me, I'm tempted to shuffle up and down in front of her muttering doodle doodle honk.
Town Hall, majority off, a new majority on. Central Station, the middle class ladies alight, offer me a sympathetic smile and goodbye. For them I am foreign, alien, too much hair, whiskers and friendliness. It makes me happy knowing that such ladies still exist, they carry the world on their shoulders.
Redfern, this is me, the up escalator is a wind tunnel, reminds me that nothing good ever happens around here, just government housing and despair. Rehearsal studios can survive in cheap rent places like this. I'm comfortable, the downtrodden always welcome musicians, they know what is important.
Morning coffee then to the studio, to practise, to work.
My job is to play all the humanity of the city.
Doodle doodle honk.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Paper Over The Cracks.
Paper over the cracks, why not? Nothing is perfect. One day the house will be held together by nothing stronger than wallpaper glue and the will to stand up, so straighten up your fearless tie and stand tall.
When the wind blows everything creaks, stoke up the fire, make it crackle loudly, roar with laughter and no one will ever know. Late at night, when the guests have departed, when you are alone with memory, let every creak speak of the past when there was a lover in your bed.
Like every house, yours will fall. Soon you will be of memory only, until then let the house crack, creak, age in it's own time. The spirit that made it will return to build a new house on the land you once occupied.
Where you are going you won't need a house. Don't worry about it too much, paper over the cracks, why not?
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
When the wind blows everything creaks, stoke up the fire, make it crackle loudly, roar with laughter and no one will ever know. Late at night, when the guests have departed, when you are alone with memory, let every creak speak of the past when there was a lover in your bed.
Like every house, yours will fall. Soon you will be of memory only, until then let the house crack, creak, age in it's own time. The spirit that made it will return to build a new house on the land you once occupied.
Where you are going you won't need a house. Don't worry about it too much, paper over the cracks, why not?
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Monday, May 30, 2011
Express Yourself.
Humans are compulsive communicators, we can't help it. Lock us alone in a room for long enough and we'll use our bodily fluids to paint on the walls. We simply cannot help ourselves, we must express what is in our hearts and minds.
The big clever marketing types got onto this knowledge a while back, they exploit it constantly. I see fat blokes in the suburbs wearing t shirts with something called a swoosh on them, and the words "just do it" written on them. These guys can't walk to the shops, yet they feel part of something, that they are expressing a connection with sporting heroes. The marketing types have convinced these people that a manufactured expression is better than their own, individual expression.
The marketing types should be ashamed of themselves. They have brainwashed a generation into believing that their own, individual expression isn't good enough. They've convinced us that homogenised, mass produced, packaged expression fits us perfectly, that we don't need to speak for ourselves. Fashion is the faith of our times, celebrity it's apostles.
Thinking, feeling, then expressing are the freedoms that can't be taken away from us. Many of us have given this freedom away. When we communicate with the world from our hearts and minds we are alive. When the marketing types control our expression they are killing us.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The big clever marketing types got onto this knowledge a while back, they exploit it constantly. I see fat blokes in the suburbs wearing t shirts with something called a swoosh on them, and the words "just do it" written on them. These guys can't walk to the shops, yet they feel part of something, that they are expressing a connection with sporting heroes. The marketing types have convinced these people that a manufactured expression is better than their own, individual expression.
The marketing types should be ashamed of themselves. They have brainwashed a generation into believing that their own, individual expression isn't good enough. They've convinced us that homogenised, mass produced, packaged expression fits us perfectly, that we don't need to speak for ourselves. Fashion is the faith of our times, celebrity it's apostles.
Thinking, feeling, then expressing are the freedoms that can't be taken away from us. Many of us have given this freedom away. When we communicate with the world from our hearts and minds we are alive. When the marketing types control our expression they are killing us.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Practise Studio Blues.
He walks to the counter, hands over eight bucks for the privilige of standing alone in a room for an hour. The studio calls it the drummer's weekday special, for anyone who wants to practise alone with no need of the sound equipment. He know's it's a fair deal but he grumbles about being associated with drummers as he walks away.
The room has two doors, one opens out, the other opens in. Once both doors are closed tight no one will be able to hear him wail. There are no windows, a single vent on the ceiling circulates the sweaty air of musicians past. The walls are padded. He wonders if somewhere in an asylum there is a man in a similar room, obsessively repeating the same thing, over and over again, over and over again until it is perfect. He wonders if that man deludes himself that he is in a rehearsal studio somewhere, living another life.
The man turns to the familiar meditation of scales and arpeggios, breath in, breath out, calms his mind. This sense deprived room will soon pass, then he will be somewhere else.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The room has two doors, one opens out, the other opens in. Once both doors are closed tight no one will be able to hear him wail. There are no windows, a single vent on the ceiling circulates the sweaty air of musicians past. The walls are padded. He wonders if somewhere in an asylum there is a man in a similar room, obsessively repeating the same thing, over and over again, over and over again until it is perfect. He wonders if that man deludes himself that he is in a rehearsal studio somewhere, living another life.
The man turns to the familiar meditation of scales and arpeggios, breath in, breath out, calms his mind. This sense deprived room will soon pass, then he will be somewhere else.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Oh . . . it's you.
At first I was puzzled by her reaction to seeing me behind the counter. I wondered who she'd been expecting, there was a handful of us who manned the video store on different nights.
There was the wealthy family guy, studying law and voted best looking man at Melbourne University, she may have been looking for him. Then there was young, blonde Canadian model guy who'd just signed a two year contract for a television game show gig, he was a possibility. Then there was intellectual, arty type guy, he had the charm of a snake, she might have been hoping to chat with him. Oh yeah, there was also super fit martial arts guy who played drums with the sexiest covers act in town, there was a fair chance she was seeking him. Given this moment of consideration her reaction suddenly made sense.
She walked up to the counter and said, "Oh . . . it's you."
Some days it is difficult to remember that hanging out with folks we respect and admire helps us to be the best we can be, opens our minds to greater possibilities.
We all moved on from the video store, a couple of years later we accidentally found ourselves in the same place at the same time. An unspoken agreement was made, we drifted towards a cheap and cheerful Malaysian restaurant, where the food was good and everyone could afford to share the tab. At the end of the meal blonde Canadian model guy put his hand on the bill.
"I'm doing O.K. at the moment, you guys all helped it happen, I'd like to get this one."
He looked us all in the eye as he spoke, spoke to us, spoke for us all, to each other.
He spoke well.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
There was the wealthy family guy, studying law and voted best looking man at Melbourne University, she may have been looking for him. Then there was young, blonde Canadian model guy who'd just signed a two year contract for a television game show gig, he was a possibility. Then there was intellectual, arty type guy, he had the charm of a snake, she might have been hoping to chat with him. Oh yeah, there was also super fit martial arts guy who played drums with the sexiest covers act in town, there was a fair chance she was seeking him. Given this moment of consideration her reaction suddenly made sense.
She walked up to the counter and said, "Oh . . . it's you."
Some days it is difficult to remember that hanging out with folks we respect and admire helps us to be the best we can be, opens our minds to greater possibilities.
We all moved on from the video store, a couple of years later we accidentally found ourselves in the same place at the same time. An unspoken agreement was made, we drifted towards a cheap and cheerful Malaysian restaurant, where the food was good and everyone could afford to share the tab. At the end of the meal blonde Canadian model guy put his hand on the bill.
"I'm doing O.K. at the moment, you guys all helped it happen, I'd like to get this one."
He looked us all in the eye as he spoke, spoke to us, spoke for us all, to each other.
He spoke well.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Girls Named Wednesday Turn Me On.
Girls named Wednesday turn me on. I don't know why.
Ladies named Summer are usually too sophisticated for the likes of me, one season beyond me. I like them just the same, but girls named Wednesday turn me on.
Women named after the fourth, fifth and sixth month are always too nice for the likes of me. Where I come from they are the start of the snuggling time, warm and sweet, but girls named Wednesday turn me on.
They are all wonderful roses by any name, but give me a girl named Wednesday any day of the week.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Ladies named Summer are usually too sophisticated for the likes of me, one season beyond me. I like them just the same, but girls named Wednesday turn me on.
Women named after the fourth, fifth and sixth month are always too nice for the likes of me. Where I come from they are the start of the snuggling time, warm and sweet, but girls named Wednesday turn me on.
They are all wonderful roses by any name, but give me a girl named Wednesday any day of the week.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Paris, Why Not?
We are friendly, but not friends. Men of a certain age, following our own paths, they intersect on occasion.
A bump into meeting.
"Hi, how's it going?"
He gestures at the Autumn leaves that have made the pavement ankle deep in a morning, the first time this year. We skip over the conversation about the weather, smile at the season and each other.
He says, "we can pretend we are somewhere interesting."
"Let's go with Paris."
"Paris, why not?"
"Bon soir."
"Bon soir."
I like it when our paths intersect.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
A bump into meeting.
"Hi, how's it going?"
He gestures at the Autumn leaves that have made the pavement ankle deep in a morning, the first time this year. We skip over the conversation about the weather, smile at the season and each other.
He says, "we can pretend we are somewhere interesting."
"Let's go with Paris."
"Paris, why not?"
"Bon soir."
"Bon soir."
I like it when our paths intersect.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Belief In Love.
Meeting her was like living in the same house for twenty five years then accidentally discovering the passage to another land at the back of the wardrobe. The unknown land I found myself in looked exactly the same as the one I'd left, but I knew straight away that it was different. It was a magical place where I was suddenly a prince, travelling with the princess opened every door to me.
It was as if she had come to me from another time and place, found herself too delicate and pure for this reality. My task was to protect and shield her, to hold her hand when was bewildered by all the cacophony.
We tried to live in each other's worlds, couldn't ever be in two places at once. We could only visit through the wardrobe, one was always in a foreign place, doing their best to fit in. I was no prince and she was no commoner. We created our own world, spent as much time as we could there, our real worlds would always drag us back.
We loved each other, no doubt. All we had to do was let go of our own world's and believe in our own.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
It was as if she had come to me from another time and place, found herself too delicate and pure for this reality. My task was to protect and shield her, to hold her hand when was bewildered by all the cacophony.
We tried to live in each other's worlds, couldn't ever be in two places at once. We could only visit through the wardrobe, one was always in a foreign place, doing their best to fit in. I was no prince and she was no commoner. We created our own world, spent as much time as we could there, our real worlds would always drag us back.
We loved each other, no doubt. All we had to do was let go of our own world's and believe in our own.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Friday, May 27, 2011
Travellers And Tourists.
The tourist travels with a lover, friend, kin, people to pass the time with. The traveller goes in search of time itself, shares the road with fellow travellers on the same quest.
The tourist seeks comfort, security, they know what they want, the traveller accepts the fearful highs and dreadful lows if they may lead to self knowledge.
The tourist sees home as the final destination, the traveller carries his real estate in his bag.
I've only known a few genuine travellers, mostly men, people who will give up their quest when they die, people for whom home is the process, the work.
They are the engine drivers, shovelling the coal and wearing the soot so the rest of us can ride in comfort.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The tourist seeks comfort, security, they know what they want, the traveller accepts the fearful highs and dreadful lows if they may lead to self knowledge.
The tourist sees home as the final destination, the traveller carries his real estate in his bag.
I've only known a few genuine travellers, mostly men, people who will give up their quest when they die, people for whom home is the process, the work.
They are the engine drivers, shovelling the coal and wearing the soot so the rest of us can ride in comfort.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
There Are No Words.
I recently wrote something about a gifted young boy, he could understand many things that no one else could, but he didn't yet have the words to explain them to himself. At the time it was a throwaway line, but reading it back it felt right. Language has evolved with humans, become integral to our comprehension of reality.
Some days the only words I speak involve ordering and paying for a coffee, saying thank you. I can happily not speak for days. Other days are full of chats and nonsense. Yet language is essential to every day, every moment. The silent words inside my head explain my reality to me. I guess I'll know I'm dead when the internal conversation ceases.
Occasionally we encounter experiences that are beyond words. These experiences can fill us with joy or make us insane. These events can be quiet, simple, a smell, a feeling, they don't have to be noisy and flashy. These experiences can't be manufactured, they are the accidental glimpses up the skirt of the universe, governed only by chance. If you've felt such an experience you know what I mean, there are no words. The brain has no idea how to process, it seeks some words that come close and sticks to them, but that experience can't be defined.
Words define most of our reality. The moments they can't define are a rare connection with the reality beyond our knowing, they are life and death at the same time, madness and joy.
Learning to be silent just long enough to hear the other reality is one of the tasks in this life. I can happily go days without speaking, I'm still learning to hush my inner voice, to allow myself to be dead just long enough to feel alive.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Some days the only words I speak involve ordering and paying for a coffee, saying thank you. I can happily not speak for days. Other days are full of chats and nonsense. Yet language is essential to every day, every moment. The silent words inside my head explain my reality to me. I guess I'll know I'm dead when the internal conversation ceases.
Occasionally we encounter experiences that are beyond words. These experiences can fill us with joy or make us insane. These events can be quiet, simple, a smell, a feeling, they don't have to be noisy and flashy. These experiences can't be manufactured, they are the accidental glimpses up the skirt of the universe, governed only by chance. If you've felt such an experience you know what I mean, there are no words. The brain has no idea how to process, it seeks some words that come close and sticks to them, but that experience can't be defined.
Words define most of our reality. The moments they can't define are a rare connection with the reality beyond our knowing, they are life and death at the same time, madness and joy.
Learning to be silent just long enough to hear the other reality is one of the tasks in this life. I can happily go days without speaking, I'm still learning to hush my inner voice, to allow myself to be dead just long enough to feel alive.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Inner City Intent.
So I'm striding down Regent Street, Redfern, it's a tough part of town, most of the shops are more concerned with securing their glass fronts than adorning them.
At a side street I look up at the side wall of an old Victorian building, I wonder how many coats of paint it's seen in one hundred and fifty years, half a dozen of them are showing like layers of petticoat beneath a white dress. The sun is at my back, a bird flies directly overhead, it's shadow on the wall is the actual size of a bird, then the bird arrives a second later, intent and spirit arriving just before reality.
I wonder about a man standing at this point a century and a half ago, his back to the sun, his shadow cast on the bush he is about to strip, his intention to build a shop and dwelling. His main concern is obtaining and affording a large enough sheet of glass for a shopfront, glass is in short supply in this new colony. The idea of placing a metal rollerdoor in front of that glass is completely foreign to him, the idea of random vandalism by drunks and junkies. His intent is to build a future for his family, to prosper along with this new city.
Generations of families have tended store and lived here since, generations of birds have rested here too. Even when the inner city becomes tawdry and cranky I still love it, it is the real city, connected, where the real city has intent. I can feel the origin of the city here, history, at the same time I am here and now.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
At a side street I look up at the side wall of an old Victorian building, I wonder how many coats of paint it's seen in one hundred and fifty years, half a dozen of them are showing like layers of petticoat beneath a white dress. The sun is at my back, a bird flies directly overhead, it's shadow on the wall is the actual size of a bird, then the bird arrives a second later, intent and spirit arriving just before reality.
I wonder about a man standing at this point a century and a half ago, his back to the sun, his shadow cast on the bush he is about to strip, his intention to build a shop and dwelling. His main concern is obtaining and affording a large enough sheet of glass for a shopfront, glass is in short supply in this new colony. The idea of placing a metal rollerdoor in front of that glass is completely foreign to him, the idea of random vandalism by drunks and junkies. His intent is to build a future for his family, to prosper along with this new city.
Generations of families have tended store and lived here since, generations of birds have rested here too. Even when the inner city becomes tawdry and cranky I still love it, it is the real city, connected, where the real city has intent. I can feel the origin of the city here, history, at the same time I am here and now.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
3 Beats, 2 Hearts.
A friend of mine says he believes firmly in the institution of marriage, because he gets high paying gigs out of it. On the whole I agree with him, and having played at enough weddings I find the entire fiasco disturbing more often than not. The one moment that always makes me happy is the waltz, when the couple dances in front of the crowd, then are slowly joined by family, then friends. Symbolic and beautiful. I always imagine that men and women approach that dance from very different places.
This song is, of course, a waltz. When I record it I'll start it mellow, guitar and voice, gradually bring in the full skiffle band, double bass, stand up drum kit, fiddle, piano accordion, trumpet, until it is wailing, a triumphant declation of eternal love.
3 Beats, 2 Hearts.
He never danced a waltz in his life,
He has to tonight now he's taken a wife.
The people are watching,
The couple who're waltzing,
Dancing for the first time as husband and wife.
She's only waltzed with girlfriends for laughs,
Been saving this dance for her other half.
The people are watching,
The couple who're waltzing,
Dancing for the first time as husband and wife.
Every year on this night,
Like this moment sublime,
They'll hold each other tight,
And dance in three four time.
Dance in three four time together.
She glows like a bride, his chest fills with pride,
Three beats, two hearts, 'til death do them part.
The people are watching,
The couple who're waltzing,
They're dancing for the first time as husband and wife.
Every year on this night,
A moment sublime,
They'll hold each other tight,
And dance in three four time.
The people are watching,
The couple who're waltzing,
Dancing for the first time as husband and wife.
So get up and join them all you family and friends,
For this is the dance that never ends.
Every year on this night,
As this moment sublime,
They'll hold each other tight,
And dance dance dance.
Ad lib.
They'll dance in three four time,
Dance in three four time together.
'Cos it's a wedding dance, an anniversary dance,
A dance of friendship, so get up on the dance floor all you people.
It's a dance of life, a dance of love.
And it goes one two three, one tow three,
Yeah, that's how it goes.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
This song is, of course, a waltz. When I record it I'll start it mellow, guitar and voice, gradually bring in the full skiffle band, double bass, stand up drum kit, fiddle, piano accordion, trumpet, until it is wailing, a triumphant declation of eternal love.
3 Beats, 2 Hearts.
He never danced a waltz in his life,
He has to tonight now he's taken a wife.
The people are watching,
The couple who're waltzing,
Dancing for the first time as husband and wife.
She's only waltzed with girlfriends for laughs,
Been saving this dance for her other half.
The people are watching,
The couple who're waltzing,
Dancing for the first time as husband and wife.
Every year on this night,
Like this moment sublime,
They'll hold each other tight,
And dance in three four time.
Dance in three four time together.
She glows like a bride, his chest fills with pride,
Three beats, two hearts, 'til death do them part.
The people are watching,
The couple who're waltzing,
They're dancing for the first time as husband and wife.
Every year on this night,
A moment sublime,
They'll hold each other tight,
And dance in three four time.
The people are watching,
The couple who're waltzing,
Dancing for the first time as husband and wife.
So get up and join them all you family and friends,
For this is the dance that never ends.
Every year on this night,
As this moment sublime,
They'll hold each other tight,
And dance dance dance.
Ad lib.
They'll dance in three four time,
Dance in three four time together.
'Cos it's a wedding dance, an anniversary dance,
A dance of friendship, so get up on the dance floor all you people.
It's a dance of life, a dance of love.
And it goes one two three, one tow three,
Yeah, that's how it goes.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
www.myspace.com/kentparkstreet
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
My Funny Valentine.
What's the point of learning to sing and play a gorgeous song like My Funny Valentine if you can never play it for someone? How can you dedicate "Your looks are affable, If unphotographable" to any woman, and walk away intact?
I once met the girl that song was perfect for. She was an artist's model, there's always something very attractive about a lass who gets nude for a living, she was like the thinking man's stripper. She wasn't in any way pretty. All her features were slightly off, didn't quite sit together, like the picture hadn't been composed properly. Even individually her features weren't anything to write home about, yet she was beautiful, so very beautiful.
When she posed the hack painters would have changed her, made her look pretty, the artists would have seen her real beauty.
She made me smile with my heart.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I once met the girl that song was perfect for. She was an artist's model, there's always something very attractive about a lass who gets nude for a living, she was like the thinking man's stripper. She wasn't in any way pretty. All her features were slightly off, didn't quite sit together, like the picture hadn't been composed properly. Even individually her features weren't anything to write home about, yet she was beautiful, so very beautiful.
When she posed the hack painters would have changed her, made her look pretty, the artists would have seen her real beauty.
She made me smile with my heart.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Wake Up Sleepy Darling.
Wake up, wake up sleepy darling, wake up. It's morning and I need you.
It's morning and you need to go to work. Don't go. I'll call in for you, say you've lost your voice. Don't go. You don't look so well.
You look wonderful.
Don't get up and hide yourself away in underwear and outerwear and your work face, stay with me, naked, show me your loving face. I need you. The dawn watch has hoisted the mainsail, the big top is in town, I'm harder than conjugating Icelandic verbs, I need you.
Wake up, wake up, but don't wake up too much, stay half asleep and let me woo you into staying. Your work needs you but I need you more. Your work will be there tomorrow. Of course I will be here tomorrow too, but I need you now and your work can wait.
Call it a sick day, I need you to stay and heal my pain.
Wake up, wake up sleepy darling. It's morning and I need you.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
It's morning and you need to go to work. Don't go. I'll call in for you, say you've lost your voice. Don't go. You don't look so well.
You look wonderful.
Don't get up and hide yourself away in underwear and outerwear and your work face, stay with me, naked, show me your loving face. I need you. The dawn watch has hoisted the mainsail, the big top is in town, I'm harder than conjugating Icelandic verbs, I need you.
Wake up, wake up, but don't wake up too much, stay half asleep and let me woo you into staying. Your work needs you but I need you more. Your work will be there tomorrow. Of course I will be here tomorrow too, but I need you now and your work can wait.
Call it a sick day, I need you to stay and heal my pain.
Wake up, wake up sleepy darling. It's morning and I need you.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
We Are The Flying Boys.
"Mama always told me not to look into sights of the sun,
But Mama, that's where the fun is."
Springsteen.
You've seen us soaring above, wondered if you could ever join us. Our name is a parental caution, making us more delicious. Some say all we do is fly around all day and all night, but if you could fly, what would you do?
Unlike Peter Pan and his effete cohorts we know we will grow old, so every day we fly higher, try to touch the sun. Those who succeed die young and gorgeous, plummet tremendously, powerfully. For the rest, we know one day we will be too old and weak to fly, there will be a time to walk the earth again.
Of course we are afraid. Being a Flying Boy is against all the laws of nature, and nature will track down and kill her outlaws. Facing fear with style is what makes us beautiful.
We are few. If we didn't exist someone would invent us. We are living dreams.
We are the Flying Boys.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com .
But Mama, that's where the fun is."
Springsteen.
You've seen us soaring above, wondered if you could ever join us. Our name is a parental caution, making us more delicious. Some say all we do is fly around all day and all night, but if you could fly, what would you do?
Unlike Peter Pan and his effete cohorts we know we will grow old, so every day we fly higher, try to touch the sun. Those who succeed die young and gorgeous, plummet tremendously, powerfully. For the rest, we know one day we will be too old and weak to fly, there will be a time to walk the earth again.
Of course we are afraid. Being a Flying Boy is against all the laws of nature, and nature will track down and kill her outlaws. Facing fear with style is what makes us beautiful.
We are few. If we didn't exist someone would invent us. We are living dreams.
We are the Flying Boys.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com .
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Old Key, Old Lock.
Old key, old lock, familiar, satisfying, click.
The male and female parts of the same mechanism, one wanders, one waits, their spirits are eternally united. A master craftsman designed and built them for a purpose. They were literally made for each other, made for a time and a place.
The trinkets they were assigned to protect are now dust. Now the old key and the old lock are the treasure, a reminder of essential spiritual connection.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The male and female parts of the same mechanism, one wanders, one waits, their spirits are eternally united. A master craftsman designed and built them for a purpose. They were literally made for each other, made for a time and a place.
The trinkets they were assigned to protect are now dust. Now the old key and the old lock are the treasure, a reminder of essential spiritual connection.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Violin Holy.
From a photograph by Kris Reichl.
At four years old he doesn't possess the words to tell himself what he is seeing, he is old enough to know that no one he knows can see what he sees.
Sitting alone, away from the fire, he watches the old man playing violin. He can see the essence of the man, the bones and heart of him. The boy's dark eyes can see the internal structure of the violin, how the timber and shape conspire to create beautiful sound, he knows that once he gains the manual dexterity of an adult he will be able to build the perfect violin.
That's not all he sees. As he stares at the fire he can see his own life, to the point of his death.
For two years now, since the first time he touched a woman's belly and said, "baby", women from all over have been brought to him to discern pregnancy. He has learned to create a performance, lay on hands and hum to himself so everyone feels comfortable, but he can see it, feel it the first time he lays eyes on the woman. He knows that in the future he will have to hide this and every other vision he possesses, pretend to grow out of this magic state. People will adore a child with such skills but an adult with such skills would be distrusted to the point of murder.
He already knows that he will live a solitary life, that the only way he will be able to express the essence he sees will be through music. He will travel and play violin, the way he plays will enchant and disturb people, his talent will be welcome, his essential truth less so. He will teach those who come to him, try and try to give his gift to the few who will understand.
Eventually he will retire to a workshop and build violins. His violins will contain everything he has seen, everything he knows. His instruments being played around the world will, for a moment, connect people to something they don't understand.
The boy stares at the fire, then at the old man playing violin. At four years old he already knows that the path of a holy man won't be easy, that it will take millions like him over millions of years to leave behind enough beauty for everyone to begin to understand.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Illuminatus Code.
The kentparkstreetblog post titled Illuminatus Code contains no Illuminatus code.
It is not a Key.
It is not a Lock.
It is a Red Herring designed to attract the scrutiny of those seeking The Illuminati.
The kentparkstreetblog post titled Illuminatus Code contains no Illuminatus code.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
It is not a Key.
It is not a Lock.
It is a Red Herring designed to attract the scrutiny of those seeking The Illuminati.
The kentparkstreetblog post titled Illuminatus Code contains no Illuminatus code.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Monday, May 23, 2011
Saxophone Jailbreak.
The notes are pouring out of my saxophone like a jailbreak, every one a convicted criminal hell bent on messing with the minds of anyone in ear shot. They're not answering to the laws of man, key signature be damned, in this moment anything is possible. Freedom beckons and they roar and holler, running, one after the other, pushing and jostling, rushing towards debauchery and excess. They plan to start a riot of booze and sex and wild times, drag anyone who is willing along for the ride, and some who aren't.
I'm in a practise studio, alone, blissful.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I'm in a practise studio, alone, blissful.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Where Old Rockers Go To Die.
When they retire from the burning and the sweating on stage old rockers go one of two ways.
Some bloat out on the couch, like a dog and it's owner begin to look like the couch, become one with the couch, become the couch. They are sold as second hand furniture and never heard of again.
Others exist on a diet of cigarettes and coffee and the funerals of old band mates. They fade away into tighter and tighter black Levi's and t shirts until they are slender enough to be carried away on the wind.like Autumn leaves.
I'm glad I'm not an old rocker.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Some bloat out on the couch, like a dog and it's owner begin to look like the couch, become one with the couch, become the couch. They are sold as second hand furniture and never heard of again.
Others exist on a diet of cigarettes and coffee and the funerals of old band mates. They fade away into tighter and tighter black Levi's and t shirts until they are slender enough to be carried away on the wind.like Autumn leaves.
I'm glad I'm not an old rocker.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Schrodinger's Kent And The Trick Top Hat.
I've woken up inside a box. I've tried, I can't get out. The box is small, dark, silent. At some random point in time the cosmic scientists will open the box to see if the Kent is alive or dead.
There are no words to describe how I feel.
Architects and sculptors use the light and space in and around their work to create ideas, reflect emotions. For writers it is the unwritten word, for musicians the unplayed note. The light and space, idea and emotion, are created by nuance, suggestion.
There is no light and space in this box. I am the only object in here, there is nothing to remove, no way to suggest or reflect. I have nothing to express, yet I am still here.
I am here.
I exist.
Me.
Perhaps I am here to learn that I can exist without ideas and emotions? It must be possible, here I am in this small, dark, silent box, doing it, existing.
No, that can't be it, experiences only have meaning in the context of the light and space around them, the rest time in between.
I've got it. I am the only object in this box. I, the thing I call self, must disappear, be the unwritten word, the unplayed note. When the cosmic scientists open the box to see if the Kent is alive or dead they will find light and space. For them the box will be a trick top hat.
When the self becomes light and space ideas and emotions are created and reflected.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
There are no words to describe how I feel.
Architects and sculptors use the light and space in and around their work to create ideas, reflect emotions. For writers it is the unwritten word, for musicians the unplayed note. The light and space, idea and emotion, are created by nuance, suggestion.
There is no light and space in this box. I am the only object in here, there is nothing to remove, no way to suggest or reflect. I have nothing to express, yet I am still here.
I am here.
I exist.
Me.
Perhaps I am here to learn that I can exist without ideas and emotions? It must be possible, here I am in this small, dark, silent box, doing it, existing.
No, that can't be it, experiences only have meaning in the context of the light and space around them, the rest time in between.
I've got it. I am the only object in this box. I, the thing I call self, must disappear, be the unwritten word, the unplayed note. When the cosmic scientists open the box to see if the Kent is alive or dead they will find light and space. For them the box will be a trick top hat.
When the self becomes light and space ideas and emotions are created and reflected.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Whistle A Happy Tune.
When I was a kid old men used to whistle as they walked along. It was a cheery sound, a skill they had learned from their fathers decades ago. It made everyone smile, feel that getting old wouldn't be so bad.
I never learned to whistle so well, if I'm going to be a good old man whistler in thirty years I'd better start practising now. I plan to shamble around the streets of Marseille when I'm old, be known as the old whistling man, make everyone smile. Occasionally I'll toss in a twinkle eyed wolf whistle, leave a young lady believing she made an old man's day.
When I'm old, when every bone hurts and I'm scared I might accidentally urinate with every step, I shall focus my energy and concentration on vibrating air with my mouth, breath in, breath out.
Just whistle a happy tune and no one needs to know you are afraid of dying.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Warm Up, improvised solo flute track, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
I never learned to whistle so well, if I'm going to be a good old man whistler in thirty years I'd better start practising now. I plan to shamble around the streets of Marseille when I'm old, be known as the old whistling man, make everyone smile. Occasionally I'll toss in a twinkle eyed wolf whistle, leave a young lady believing she made an old man's day.
When I'm old, when every bone hurts and I'm scared I might accidentally urinate with every step, I shall focus my energy and concentration on vibrating air with my mouth, breath in, breath out.
Just whistle a happy tune and no one needs to know you are afraid of dying.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Warm Up, improvised solo flute track, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
The Little White Ball Of Reality.
In every moment of every day there are millions of median middle class men meditating on their perception of reality. For a couple of hours they dress outlandishly, depart the world they know as real, attempt to focus all their energy and concentration on themselves and a little white ball.
The zone they enter is strictly regulated by a previously agreed code of honour. To distance themselves from the little white ball the men employ a collection of tools that they carry in a bag on their shoulders. With these tools they manipulate the ball around a three domensional plane that is designed to be a humanistic imitation of nature.
To perform this meditation successfully a man must reject any other reality until it is complete. He must remove the concept of expectation, simply focus all his energy and concentration on himself and a little white ball. Men who undertake this practise regularly find themselves feeling relaxed and happy, able to manipulate the reality they know as real more easily.
The fact that most of these men believe they are simply playing a game makes the meditation more effective.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The zone they enter is strictly regulated by a previously agreed code of honour. To distance themselves from the little white ball the men employ a collection of tools that they carry in a bag on their shoulders. With these tools they manipulate the ball around a three domensional plane that is designed to be a humanistic imitation of nature.
To perform this meditation successfully a man must reject any other reality until it is complete. He must remove the concept of expectation, simply focus all his energy and concentration on himself and a little white ball. Men who undertake this practise regularly find themselves feeling relaxed and happy, able to manipulate the reality they know as real more easily.
The fact that most of these men believe they are simply playing a game makes the meditation more effective.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Juliet And Me.
When I was about twenty years old I decided to live a simple working class life. Every morning at dawn I'd walk twenty minutes into the centre of town, don the grey working class dustcoat, spend my days lifting heavy things. It made me feel strong and fit and proud of my youth.
On my way home each afternoon I'd stop at an Italian cafe close to home, sit at the bar for a short black pick me up. One day a naturally blonde Italian girl appeared behind the counter. She was dazzlingly beautiful. It turned out she was a nice person too, a very rare blend. Every slick Italian peacock jiggling an imported car keyring would hit on her, she would laugh them all off without ever putting anyone down. I liked her.
I found myself dallying for a second coffee each day, we would chat across the bar, tell the short stories of our lives. One afternoon she mentioned she was seeing a band that night, just down the road, would I like to meet her there? I was thrilled.
Behind her an older, grey haired man who had worked in the cafe forever was holding a bread knife. He pointed at me, pointed at her, shook his head, then performed a menacingly convincing mime of cutting my cock off with the bread knife. I'd forgotten it was an Italian cafe, that this man was probably blonde before he went grey, was possibly the girls uncle, godfather.
I laughed, assumed he was mucking around. He wasn't. By the time she turned around he was polishing glasses innocently, but she knew what was going on. She smiled at me and shrugged. In that moment the romance was over.
She explained later that my job was the problem. Her family would never understand. It didn't worry her one bit, but I had to understand that her family wouldn't understand.
I was a working class man in my prime. I laughed it off and walked away. It was no tragedy.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
On my way home each afternoon I'd stop at an Italian cafe close to home, sit at the bar for a short black pick me up. One day a naturally blonde Italian girl appeared behind the counter. She was dazzlingly beautiful. It turned out she was a nice person too, a very rare blend. Every slick Italian peacock jiggling an imported car keyring would hit on her, she would laugh them all off without ever putting anyone down. I liked her.
I found myself dallying for a second coffee each day, we would chat across the bar, tell the short stories of our lives. One afternoon she mentioned she was seeing a band that night, just down the road, would I like to meet her there? I was thrilled.
Behind her an older, grey haired man who had worked in the cafe forever was holding a bread knife. He pointed at me, pointed at her, shook his head, then performed a menacingly convincing mime of cutting my cock off with the bread knife. I'd forgotten it was an Italian cafe, that this man was probably blonde before he went grey, was possibly the girls uncle, godfather.
I laughed, assumed he was mucking around. He wasn't. By the time she turned around he was polishing glasses innocently, but she knew what was going on. She smiled at me and shrugged. In that moment the romance was over.
She explained later that my job was the problem. Her family would never understand. It didn't worry her one bit, but I had to understand that her family wouldn't understand.
I was a working class man in my prime. I laughed it off and walked away. It was no tragedy.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The Happy Place.
Breathe Kent, breathe, relax, sleep and go to your happy place. It's happening, I'm drifting, I see a red velvet curtain, one bright light, and here come my . . .
"Seventy two Virginians."
Seventy two Virginians? Good god, it's happened again, instead of my happy place I've come to The Happy Place, a B grade comedy club in Mediumsizedtown Wisconsin. There is more stolen material here than at Mafia and Sons Haberdasher around the corner on Third. What am I doing here? Oh well, may as well hang out for a while, check out the act, but if I hear the words "what's with that?" I'm out of here.
"What's with that?"
O.K., I'm out, I'm breathing, relaxing drifting, and there she is, Bridgette Bardot, dancing in that skirt with the long, long split, playing the conga's out of time but nobody minds. Her imperfections make her perfect. She spies me across the room, catches my eye, it's my dream, why not? She dances towards me, I won't bother saying seductively, seduction is implicit, lets her hair drape across my face. Her stilletto heel lands on my thigh, she stares at me for a reaction, I play it cool, give her none, she approves, she's just about to place her imperfect, perfect buttocks in my lap when I hear . . .
"Two baby seals walk into a club."
Bardot storms out, offended by the joke and by the venue I've chosen to take her to. It's a variation on a variation on a joke. These guys employ the word variation in a very different way to the way Bach employed it. Why am I here again? Do I belong here? Is this what I really dream of?
I force myself out, into another time and place, to the patio of Tiny's Coffeehouse in Portland Oregon. Over the balustrade is a food cart, a shapely girl in a white singlet and tight blue jeans is opening the grill, turning over vast chinks of meat, the smell is intoxicating. Soon this meat will be sliced thick and placed in a roll with far too much butter and mayonnaise and mustard, served to a salivating student. My own regular morning sandwich will be ready any moment, a gorgeous Tiny's waitress will open the window and shout, "Kent, your sandwich . . .
"Kent . . . introducing Mister Kent Parkstreet."
I can't believe it, I'm on the stage of The Happy Place in Mediumsizedtown Wisconsin. Completely unprepared I go with a tight five, riffing on the pitfalls of astral planing. I tell the audience of a dream, of being misdirected from my happy place, only to hear a bad comedian repeat a joke about seventy two Virginians. I suddenly know what is happening, look out for myself in the audience. There I am, lurking up the back looking confused. I test my theory, watch myself disappear as I say the words, "what's with that?"
I'm caught in the infinite regression that is hell. Never ending mirrors, all polished to reflect my own perception, my own reality. I'm a sham comedian in a sham club, watching myself and not laughing.
I must get out.
I'm camped under the gas heater on the patio at Tiny's, the food carts next door are desserted, an ice wind occasionally blows in misty rain. I'm prepared with spare napkins, wipe my keyboard, get back to work. I came out here to be alone, to work, to write about the nature of perception and reality. There are no girls to distract me, no corny jokes, just the work.
"Kent, Kent, your sandwich."
I eat with one hand, tap out words with the other, I'm in my happy place.
O.K., maybe a few corny jokes here and there.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
"Seventy two Virginians."
Seventy two Virginians? Good god, it's happened again, instead of my happy place I've come to The Happy Place, a B grade comedy club in Mediumsizedtown Wisconsin. There is more stolen material here than at Mafia and Sons Haberdasher around the corner on Third. What am I doing here? Oh well, may as well hang out for a while, check out the act, but if I hear the words "what's with that?" I'm out of here.
"What's with that?"
O.K., I'm out, I'm breathing, relaxing drifting, and there she is, Bridgette Bardot, dancing in that skirt with the long, long split, playing the conga's out of time but nobody minds. Her imperfections make her perfect. She spies me across the room, catches my eye, it's my dream, why not? She dances towards me, I won't bother saying seductively, seduction is implicit, lets her hair drape across my face. Her stilletto heel lands on my thigh, she stares at me for a reaction, I play it cool, give her none, she approves, she's just about to place her imperfect, perfect buttocks in my lap when I hear . . .
"Two baby seals walk into a club."
Bardot storms out, offended by the joke and by the venue I've chosen to take her to. It's a variation on a variation on a joke. These guys employ the word variation in a very different way to the way Bach employed it. Why am I here again? Do I belong here? Is this what I really dream of?
I force myself out, into another time and place, to the patio of Tiny's Coffeehouse in Portland Oregon. Over the balustrade is a food cart, a shapely girl in a white singlet and tight blue jeans is opening the grill, turning over vast chinks of meat, the smell is intoxicating. Soon this meat will be sliced thick and placed in a roll with far too much butter and mayonnaise and mustard, served to a salivating student. My own regular morning sandwich will be ready any moment, a gorgeous Tiny's waitress will open the window and shout, "Kent, your sandwich . . .
"Kent . . . introducing Mister Kent Parkstreet."
I can't believe it, I'm on the stage of The Happy Place in Mediumsizedtown Wisconsin. Completely unprepared I go with a tight five, riffing on the pitfalls of astral planing. I tell the audience of a dream, of being misdirected from my happy place, only to hear a bad comedian repeat a joke about seventy two Virginians. I suddenly know what is happening, look out for myself in the audience. There I am, lurking up the back looking confused. I test my theory, watch myself disappear as I say the words, "what's with that?"
I'm caught in the infinite regression that is hell. Never ending mirrors, all polished to reflect my own perception, my own reality. I'm a sham comedian in a sham club, watching myself and not laughing.
I must get out.
I'm camped under the gas heater on the patio at Tiny's, the food carts next door are desserted, an ice wind occasionally blows in misty rain. I'm prepared with spare napkins, wipe my keyboard, get back to work. I came out here to be alone, to work, to write about the nature of perception and reality. There are no girls to distract me, no corny jokes, just the work.
"Kent, Kent, your sandwich."
I eat with one hand, tap out words with the other, I'm in my happy place.
O.K., maybe a few corny jokes here and there.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
They Talk About The Food.
Years ago I was channel surfing, caught just a few minutes of a poorly made comedy film. The premise was that a bunch of Moscovites discovered they could walk through their wardrobe, and Narnia style, find themselves in Paris. One character fell in love with Paris, swore never to return, another fell in love with a woman but had to return to his work. The clown character smuggled a car back home, piece by piece.
The scene that stuck in my mind involved a musician going in search of an old friend who had defected from an orchestra tour decades earlier, he regretted lacking the courage to do the same thing, wanted to find out what his life might have been like if he had. It was a sweet idea in an otherwise lousy film, a diamond in the dung.
He found his friend playing violin in a very swank restaurant. They took coffee together, the violinist was asked how lucky he felt to be playing in such beautiful surroundings. The violinist looked sad, as only a Russian can, asked his old friend if he remembered when they were poor students, how they would share boiled potatoes, cabbage, some sausage and cheap vodka?
"Remember how we'd talk about life?"
He gestured at the people dining around them, dismissed them in disgust.
"These people have everything and they talk about the food."
I don't know why those few minutes of an otherwise terrible film have stuck in my mind for over a decade, but they have. Maybe the violinist was ungrateful, he'd enjoyed a comfortable life in a free nation? Maybe the friend who had sought him out felt better about returning home?
Maybe I agree that simple fare and good conversation are the things that matter, that we can become dulled by luxury?
Yep, I think that's it.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The scene that stuck in my mind involved a musician going in search of an old friend who had defected from an orchestra tour decades earlier, he regretted lacking the courage to do the same thing, wanted to find out what his life might have been like if he had. It was a sweet idea in an otherwise lousy film, a diamond in the dung.
He found his friend playing violin in a very swank restaurant. They took coffee together, the violinist was asked how lucky he felt to be playing in such beautiful surroundings. The violinist looked sad, as only a Russian can, asked his old friend if he remembered when they were poor students, how they would share boiled potatoes, cabbage, some sausage and cheap vodka?
"Remember how we'd talk about life?"
He gestured at the people dining around them, dismissed them in disgust.
"These people have everything and they talk about the food."
I don't know why those few minutes of an otherwise terrible film have stuck in my mind for over a decade, but they have. Maybe the violinist was ungrateful, he'd enjoyed a comfortable life in a free nation? Maybe the friend who had sought him out felt better about returning home?
Maybe I agree that simple fare and good conversation are the things that matter, that we can become dulled by luxury?
Yep, I think that's it.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Friday, May 20, 2011
For A Talented Friend.
Fuck them all, fuck them all, fuck them all, say it three times, let the words set you free.
You are talented, therefore different. The normal people will send the Nazi's to your door to save themselves. You would rather die than do this to them because you know love and you know honour. Love and honour are essential to talent.
The normal people will try to define you, first with words, then sticks and stones, but they are not adequately armed. How can the normal gene know the mutant gene that propels evolution? Both genes are required, valid, but without the mutant all would stagnate then regress. Both ballast and sail are required for progress, it takes talent to trim a sail. You respect their role but they will never respect yours.
You can try to fit in, they'll let you wear their uniforms, march in their parades, but they will never accept you. Yet they will hand you the rifle on the day of the ceremony because they know you will fire that sucker right down on the one, the way it is supposed to be. They will recognize and deny your talent in the same breath, take the rifle from your hands.
There is no shame in taking what you need from the culture you live in. By ensuring evolution and progress you ensure survival for all, the culture owes you. While you understand this and your culture doesn't you may be forced to take what you need.
Stand up my friend, stand up and say fuck them all, fuck them all, fuck them all.
Let the words set you free.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Blues, Not Art by Blute blues flute band, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
You are talented, therefore different. The normal people will send the Nazi's to your door to save themselves. You would rather die than do this to them because you know love and you know honour. Love and honour are essential to talent.
The normal people will try to define you, first with words, then sticks and stones, but they are not adequately armed. How can the normal gene know the mutant gene that propels evolution? Both genes are required, valid, but without the mutant all would stagnate then regress. Both ballast and sail are required for progress, it takes talent to trim a sail. You respect their role but they will never respect yours.
You can try to fit in, they'll let you wear their uniforms, march in their parades, but they will never accept you. Yet they will hand you the rifle on the day of the ceremony because they know you will fire that sucker right down on the one, the way it is supposed to be. They will recognize and deny your talent in the same breath, take the rifle from your hands.
There is no shame in taking what you need from the culture you live in. By ensuring evolution and progress you ensure survival for all, the culture owes you. While you understand this and your culture doesn't you may be forced to take what you need.
Stand up my friend, stand up and say fuck them all, fuck them all, fuck them all.
Let the words set you free.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Blues, Not Art by Blute blues flute band, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
Purpose.
Three men are given the job of digging ten holes each. They each receive the same details, diameter and depth.
The first is told what the holes are for, what purpose they will serve. He naturally finds the work satisfying, knowing he is part of a greater cause.
The second man isn't told what the holes are for, he completes the task with no emotional involvement, it's just a job for money.
The third man is instructed to use the dirt from the second hole to fill in the first, and so on down the line, then carry the dirt from the first hole down to fill up the tenth. He becomes angry, his work feels futile.
Searching for a purpose, a greater cause, is the job we should undertake before we start work.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The first is told what the holes are for, what purpose they will serve. He naturally finds the work satisfying, knowing he is part of a greater cause.
The second man isn't told what the holes are for, he completes the task with no emotional involvement, it's just a job for money.
The third man is instructed to use the dirt from the second hole to fill in the first, and so on down the line, then carry the dirt from the first hole down to fill up the tenth. He becomes angry, his work feels futile.
Searching for a purpose, a greater cause, is the job we should undertake before we start work.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The End Of The World As We Know It.
Religious fanatics are constantly on the edge of climax over the end of the world. It's how they get their jollies without ever committing the sin of completion.
Most fanatics have turned to god because everyone else thinks they're an arsehole. They love the idea of a doomsday because they don't have to commit the sin of suicide and they can take every bastard who has told them to stop being an arsehole with them.
If we ignore them they will go away.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Most fanatics have turned to god because everyone else thinks they're an arsehole. They love the idea of a doomsday because they don't have to commit the sin of suicide and they can take every bastard who has told them to stop being an arsehole with them.
If we ignore them they will go away.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Thursday, May 19, 2011
The Jeans That Levi Made.
During the California goldrush a fellow named Levi Strauss decided to produce cheap, durable trousers for working men. As he popped rivets into a fabric called denime I'm sure he thought it was a pretty good idea, I'm certain he had no idea where his company would end up.
Who could have predicted that he had created the world's most popular garment, a symbol of rock and roll rebellion, the most desirable product on the communist Russia black market? I imagine he would have laughed if anyone told him his company would have a palace in one of the most sophisticated cities on earth for an office, an exhibit in the Smithsonian. Who'd have thought that one hundred and fifty years later a skinny, spoiled kid in the Melbourne suburbs would insist his new jeans were washed three times so they didn't look too "nice"?
I love stories like this. The idea of one man with one good idea and an honest intent making good. Perhaps Mr. Strauss hoped to earn enough to keep himself and his family, send his children to school, if all went very well send his children to good schools. By starting with an honest intent to produce a quality product all became possible, he had already succeeded.
I try to think on stories like this when I feel lost. When I put my flute together to play it, when I open my mouth to sing, when I sit down to write, I try to start from an honest intent to produce quality. By not thinking about the result, just the intent, I have already succeeded. I need to be reminded often, this idea is easily lost amongst the rock and roll distractions.
When I put my old blue jeans on today I remembered that the brand name is Levi's, with an apostrophe. They are the jeans that Levi made.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Warm Up, solo improvised flute track, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
Who could have predicted that he had created the world's most popular garment, a symbol of rock and roll rebellion, the most desirable product on the communist Russia black market? I imagine he would have laughed if anyone told him his company would have a palace in one of the most sophisticated cities on earth for an office, an exhibit in the Smithsonian. Who'd have thought that one hundred and fifty years later a skinny, spoiled kid in the Melbourne suburbs would insist his new jeans were washed three times so they didn't look too "nice"?
I love stories like this. The idea of one man with one good idea and an honest intent making good. Perhaps Mr. Strauss hoped to earn enough to keep himself and his family, send his children to school, if all went very well send his children to good schools. By starting with an honest intent to produce a quality product all became possible, he had already succeeded.
I try to think on stories like this when I feel lost. When I put my flute together to play it, when I open my mouth to sing, when I sit down to write, I try to start from an honest intent to produce quality. By not thinking about the result, just the intent, I have already succeeded. I need to be reminded often, this idea is easily lost amongst the rock and roll distractions.
When I put my old blue jeans on today I remembered that the brand name is Levi's, with an apostrophe. They are the jeans that Levi made.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Warm Up, solo improvised flute track, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
Fetish Sex And Tennis.
An episode of the television show Bones featured a group of people who shared an unusual sexual fetish. The Id and Ego leads had very different opinions on the subject, the analytical Bones defending individual expression of sexual desire, the emotional Booth never quite defining his objection to it.
In the final bar scene Booth explained his problem, he couldn't see the point of going to a whole lot of trouble to have crappy sex. Bones questioned how he knew fetishists had crappy sex. Booth delivered a gorgeous speech about sex being the only moment in life where two people can become one, the one true, raw expression of physical love between souls, that in comparison anything else is crappy sex. Bones had to admit that he had actually won an argument.
I agree with Booth, pure, honest, sincere sex is our true desire, the true path. Given that, do we cheapen that purity if we engage in sex as recreation? Is exploring fantasy and kink just a distraction because the real thing isn't always available? Or is the fictional, the written scenario, the living out of desires a completely different game?
Humans are among a handful of creatures on this planet that enjoy recreational sex. It's obviously in us, part of the imagination that makes us what we are. I can't see any reason to object to fetish sex, given the usual assumptions of consent. I don't see it as being so different to a good game of tennis. hot, sweaty, interactive.
Fetish sex is fun, but I'd never compare a game of tennis to the real thing.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
In the final bar scene Booth explained his problem, he couldn't see the point of going to a whole lot of trouble to have crappy sex. Bones questioned how he knew fetishists had crappy sex. Booth delivered a gorgeous speech about sex being the only moment in life where two people can become one, the one true, raw expression of physical love between souls, that in comparison anything else is crappy sex. Bones had to admit that he had actually won an argument.
I agree with Booth, pure, honest, sincere sex is our true desire, the true path. Given that, do we cheapen that purity if we engage in sex as recreation? Is exploring fantasy and kink just a distraction because the real thing isn't always available? Or is the fictional, the written scenario, the living out of desires a completely different game?
Humans are among a handful of creatures on this planet that enjoy recreational sex. It's obviously in us, part of the imagination that makes us what we are. I can't see any reason to object to fetish sex, given the usual assumptions of consent. I don't see it as being so different to a good game of tennis. hot, sweaty, interactive.
Fetish sex is fun, but I'd never compare a game of tennis to the real thing.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Tightrope.
Most of the energy and concentration of the tightrope walker is spent on maintaining balance, forward momentum is slow.
At times we all feel that all we can do is maintain balance, not fall from a dizzying emotional height. At these times our forward momentum slows, we wonder if we will ever reach solid ground again. For some the temptation is to give up and step off the tightrope, others lose patience and attempt a headlong rush for the end.
Most things can be achieved when energy and concentration are applied, often one step at a time. You'll look back at that tightrope with pride, knowing you've accomplished something, appreciating the ground under your feet, knowing that if you have to you can walk that tightrope again.
Then you can walk or run in your own sweet time.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
At times we all feel that all we can do is maintain balance, not fall from a dizzying emotional height. At these times our forward momentum slows, we wonder if we will ever reach solid ground again. For some the temptation is to give up and step off the tightrope, others lose patience and attempt a headlong rush for the end.
Most things can be achieved when energy and concentration are applied, often one step at a time. You'll look back at that tightrope with pride, knowing you've accomplished something, appreciating the ground under your feet, knowing that if you have to you can walk that tightrope again.
Then you can walk or run in your own sweet time.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Fools And Rainbows.
Photograph by Kris Reichl.
I saw a rainbow, a majestic arc, perfect, here one moment, gone the next.
I began concocting writery nonsense about absorbing the colours and expressing them with black and white word pictures. Nonsense. I was exploiting the rainbow as much as any fool scrambling after the pot of gold at the end.
The colours are in me. It's up to me to carve my own arc, majestic or not, for I am certainly here one moment, gone the next. The rainbow was just a reminder.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The Stage.
For a musician the stage is just another room in his house, the room where he entertains guests.
What room do you invite your friends into? Are you a coffee and conversation around the kitchen table type? Or formal dinner with all the trimmings? Maybe you are more inclined to have large numbers crammed into the back room, the one that can be hosed out the next morning?
Take your own character, your own style out onto the stage with you. It's just another room in your house.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
What room do you invite your friends into? Are you a coffee and conversation around the kitchen table type? Or formal dinner with all the trimmings? Maybe you are more inclined to have large numbers crammed into the back room, the one that can be hosed out the next morning?
Take your own character, your own style out onto the stage with you. It's just another room in your house.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Pellegrini's.
Pellegrini's coffee bar is the most environmentally sound cafe I've been to, not because of any green principles, just because they do things the same way they've been doing them for fifty years. The only thing that comes in a package is the sparkling mineral water, everything else is made by hand from fresh ingredients. Simple, eh?
I started going to Pellegrini's over twenty years ago, I was working in a dungeon kitchen 'round the corner and came in for a short black pep up before eight hours of misery. (For older Melbourne folk the kitchen was Tiki and John's Theatre Restaurant, don't blame me for the food, I just cut up the pumpkins and washed the dishes.) Every day I received an excellent short black, strong and just bitter enough to be real life. After a few weeks I didn't need to speak, my coffee, a soft pack of Stuyvesant cigarettes and a book of matches appeared as I sat down.
Talking isn't a strong suit with the staff here. True Italian service, you get what you need without fuss. Talking is a major part of being a customer though. A long coffee bar on one side, and a bench bar down the other, with not much room in between, you can't help but meet your neighbours. Most often this is a good thing, the place just attracts an interesting crowd. Some become passing friends who you only see over coffee, some you never see again.
The food is cooked by Italian women who know what they are doing. Simple, honest pasta dishes, a buffet at lunchtime and a cake selection that makes it too hard to choose. To see your food being cooked take a seat in the kitchen, a long low table sits you at eye level with the hot pans and trays of lasagne.
Pellegrini's wins at least one award for it's coffee every year. It is simply the best in town, the best in most towns. Local poet Barry Dickens wrote an ode to this place, saying that as long as Pelligrini's is in Bourke St. then everything will be o.k. Hear hear.
Pellegrini's. Top end of Bourke St. Melbourne. Just ask any local who likes coffee, they'll direct you there.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I started going to Pellegrini's over twenty years ago, I was working in a dungeon kitchen 'round the corner and came in for a short black pep up before eight hours of misery. (For older Melbourne folk the kitchen was Tiki and John's Theatre Restaurant, don't blame me for the food, I just cut up the pumpkins and washed the dishes.) Every day I received an excellent short black, strong and just bitter enough to be real life. After a few weeks I didn't need to speak, my coffee, a soft pack of Stuyvesant cigarettes and a book of matches appeared as I sat down.
Talking isn't a strong suit with the staff here. True Italian service, you get what you need without fuss. Talking is a major part of being a customer though. A long coffee bar on one side, and a bench bar down the other, with not much room in between, you can't help but meet your neighbours. Most often this is a good thing, the place just attracts an interesting crowd. Some become passing friends who you only see over coffee, some you never see again.
The food is cooked by Italian women who know what they are doing. Simple, honest pasta dishes, a buffet at lunchtime and a cake selection that makes it too hard to choose. To see your food being cooked take a seat in the kitchen, a long low table sits you at eye level with the hot pans and trays of lasagne.
Pellegrini's wins at least one award for it's coffee every year. It is simply the best in town, the best in most towns. Local poet Barry Dickens wrote an ode to this place, saying that as long as Pelligrini's is in Bourke St. then everything will be o.k. Hear hear.
Pellegrini's. Top end of Bourke St. Melbourne. Just ask any local who likes coffee, they'll direct you there.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Background Music.
I once worked for a great cook in Melbourne Australia. He'd taken over a pub kitchen, chips and other fried nonsense for the bar, excellent real food in his old fashioned dining room. I always enjoyed the music he played in the dining room, asked him what the secret was to picking the right sounds.
He was chuffed that I asked, because he did have a method. He said he paid attention to how the day was feeling on his way in to work, how the people were, the weather, the general vibe. He looked in the bookings book to see how many people he could expect, he reflected on the news of the day, how it would affect his customers, then chose what felt right for him just at that moment.
This idea of taking a moment to feel how the day is, subjectively and objectively, is something we all should do more of. Not just for picking the right background music, but to actually live in our day to day world with other humans.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
He was chuffed that I asked, because he did have a method. He said he paid attention to how the day was feeling on his way in to work, how the people were, the weather, the general vibe. He looked in the bookings book to see how many people he could expect, he reflected on the news of the day, how it would affect his customers, then chose what felt right for him just at that moment.
This idea of taking a moment to feel how the day is, subjectively and objectively, is something we all should do more of. Not just for picking the right background music, but to actually live in our day to day world with other humans.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Tiny's Coffeehouse.
Kim calls out,"hey Kent',
Coffee coming up.
She laughs at my accent,
As I pick up the cup.
Shaun and I assess,
The philosophy of our days.
In twenty words or less,
Clarity in the motning haze.
Crossword from the New York Times,
Coffee from Brazil.
I've come from warmer climes,
To feel this Portland chill.
Feel that Portland chill,
It's something more than cool.
Feel that Portland chill,
So much more than cool, cool, cool.
Tiny's Coffeehouse.
Cnr 12th and Hawthorne, S.E. Portland Or
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Coffee coming up.
She laughs at my accent,
As I pick up the cup.
Shaun and I assess,
The philosophy of our days.
In twenty words or less,
Clarity in the motning haze.
Crossword from the New York Times,
Coffee from Brazil.
I've come from warmer climes,
To feel this Portland chill.
Feel that Portland chill,
It's something more than cool.
Feel that Portland chill,
So much more than cool, cool, cool.
Tiny's Coffeehouse.
Cnr 12th and Hawthorne, S.E. Portland Or
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Coffee With My Barber.
Once you start getting your hair cut with a Sicilian barber you have no choice but to go back for the rest of your life. Your children's children will feel a duty to go to the same barber.
If that barber is Joe Bardetta in Bayswater Rd. Kings Cross you won't mind. Joe has a coffee machine and will make you a viscious little coffee while you wait. He won't make you a skim milk moccha with chocolate sprinkles on top. There are other hairdressers for that sort of palaver.
Joe also does great hair cuts, but it is the coffee that interests me. Making me a fine espresso makes me feel like a guest, a welcome guest. It isn't a modern marketing ploy, it's just a coffee. The fact that he has a meat slicer for prosciouto at lunch time just confirms the sort of business he runs.
When I next move cities, I can't change barbers until I do, I'll seek out the barber with a coffee machine and a meat slicer out the back. I won't seek out dance music and a display of "product" in the window.
Coffee and civilization walking hand in hand yet again.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
If that barber is Joe Bardetta in Bayswater Rd. Kings Cross you won't mind. Joe has a coffee machine and will make you a viscious little coffee while you wait. He won't make you a skim milk moccha with chocolate sprinkles on top. There are other hairdressers for that sort of palaver.
Joe also does great hair cuts, but it is the coffee that interests me. Making me a fine espresso makes me feel like a guest, a welcome guest. It isn't a modern marketing ploy, it's just a coffee. The fact that he has a meat slicer for prosciouto at lunch time just confirms the sort of business he runs.
When I next move cities, I can't change barbers until I do, I'll seek out the barber with a coffee machine and a meat slicer out the back. I won't seek out dance music and a display of "product" in the window.
Coffee and civilization walking hand in hand yet again.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Cultural Respect.
I bought my first real guitar in Paris in 2000. Excited, I walked down Rue de Rome towards Haussman, stopped off at a cafe to celebrate, stood at the bar where the coffee is cheaper, said,"cafe", and made the short gesture with thumb and forefinger.
The bartender noticed the guitar, wouldn't take my money for the coffee. I was a little embarrassed, I was a flute player, the guitar was a new toy, what if he asked me to play something? I needn't have worried, the price of a cup of coffee is seen as just a token of respect for musicians in Paris, nothing is expected in return. I certainly wasn't in Australia any more.
There was a pile of ashtrays on a shelf beside me, I took one and started ashing my cigarette into it. The bartender flew over and removed it, explained in extraordinary sign language that the ashtrays were for the customers who paid for table service, people at the bar just ashed on the floor, the waiter would come 'round and sweep up every half hour or so. I explained, in truly horrific French, that in Australia the customs were very different, that I was sorry for any offence.
The friendship between me and the bartender was confirmed. We understood each other. He knew I wasn't American or English, that I respected his craft as he respected mine, that I understood that cafes are happy places when everyone pays attention to ettiquette.
Wherever I go now I take a moment to watch what the locals do. Being a bum Australian musician only buys so much social credit.
Parkstreet.
The bartender noticed the guitar, wouldn't take my money for the coffee. I was a little embarrassed, I was a flute player, the guitar was a new toy, what if he asked me to play something? I needn't have worried, the price of a cup of coffee is seen as just a token of respect for musicians in Paris, nothing is expected in return. I certainly wasn't in Australia any more.
There was a pile of ashtrays on a shelf beside me, I took one and started ashing my cigarette into it. The bartender flew over and removed it, explained in extraordinary sign language that the ashtrays were for the customers who paid for table service, people at the bar just ashed on the floor, the waiter would come 'round and sweep up every half hour or so. I explained, in truly horrific French, that in Australia the customs were very different, that I was sorry for any offence.
The friendship between me and the bartender was confirmed. We understood each other. He knew I wasn't American or English, that I respected his craft as he respected mine, that I understood that cafes are happy places when everyone pays attention to ettiquette.
Wherever I go now I take a moment to watch what the locals do. Being a bum Australian musician only buys so much social credit.
Parkstreet.
The Waitress, Always The Waitress.
I was in Degrave's Street in Melbourne recently. I was on my way to a lunch time gig, an unusual hour for me to be in the city.
Degrave's Espresso was the first cafe in what was an empty laneway a dozen or so years ago, now it is one of many, the whole street is blocked to cars and full of cafe seating. The pedestrians have taken back this patch of a big city and it works superbly.
People watching is one of the main reasons for drinking coffee outside home. Melbourne is a fine people watching town. Naturally my eye is attracted to the women folk and Melbourne girls have style. In Degrave's Street I saw skinny lipstick lesbian girl, barbie girl in denim mini and boots, burgundy robed dreadlocks girl, office girl, stocking tops and all. I could have sat there for hours.
As always it was the waitress who caught my eye. Blue jeans, black t shirt, natural, no make up, hair tied up, smoking hot! It's always the waitress. Maybe it is the fact that they bring me the caffeine I need so badly, maybe it is that they talk to me, maybe the work keeps them in great shape, I don't care what it is, it's always the waitress.
I've fallen in love with waitresses all over the world, each one different to the other, each one a delight in her own way. I've even gone out with a few. Here's a tip, offer a waitress a foot massage and she'll be eternally grateful.
Here's to Degrave's Street, to the Melbourne cafe scene, to the passing girls and here's to the waitresses.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Degrave's Espresso was the first cafe in what was an empty laneway a dozen or so years ago, now it is one of many, the whole street is blocked to cars and full of cafe seating. The pedestrians have taken back this patch of a big city and it works superbly.
People watching is one of the main reasons for drinking coffee outside home. Melbourne is a fine people watching town. Naturally my eye is attracted to the women folk and Melbourne girls have style. In Degrave's Street I saw skinny lipstick lesbian girl, barbie girl in denim mini and boots, burgundy robed dreadlocks girl, office girl, stocking tops and all. I could have sat there for hours.
As always it was the waitress who caught my eye. Blue jeans, black t shirt, natural, no make up, hair tied up, smoking hot! It's always the waitress. Maybe it is the fact that they bring me the caffeine I need so badly, maybe it is that they talk to me, maybe the work keeps them in great shape, I don't care what it is, it's always the waitress.
I've fallen in love with waitresses all over the world, each one different to the other, each one a delight in her own way. I've even gone out with a few. Here's a tip, offer a waitress a foot massage and she'll be eternally grateful.
Here's to Degrave's Street, to the Melbourne cafe scene, to the passing girls and here's to the waitresses.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Street Cafe.
Lou reed said that life used to take place on the street and now it takes place online. Here I am online myself, but I'd like to think he is wrong.
The cafe on the street is a romantic ideal, a place to see and be seen, to bump into, to meet casually without pressure. It is a place for friends and lovers, unlike a coffee at home it is a place where something might happen, something might just happen tonight. Unfortunately our city streets aren't all sweet Parisian idylls, the most common contact with a stranger at a Sydney cafe is when we are asked for money or cigarettes.
Life is easier online, we choose who we speak to, who we don't, everything is neatly packaged on that little screen. Our culture has gone security and contol mad, we are scared of life outside our homes and workplaces. I wonder why? Do we absorb too many horror stories from our ever present news media? Maybe if we turned the television off, turned the computer off, walked on our own two feet down to a local cafe, we'd find it ain't so scary out there?
I take coffee at a cafe with tables on the street every night, The Piccolo Bar in Kings Cross Sydney is the curent venue. I live inner city, something of a red light district, but there is nothing to fear out there. All I find is other like minded people out for a little taste of life for the price of a cup of coffee. Maybe a conversation with a stranger, maybe even a spot of romance. I met my last two girlfriends at cafes, it can happen.
If we give up the streets, let fear prevent us from using what is rightfully ours, we fulfill the prophecy, we ensure that only dangerous people will occupy them. If decent, honest folks use the streets, become the majority, the battle is over.
Who knows, we might meet at your local or mine one night?
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The cafe on the street is a romantic ideal, a place to see and be seen, to bump into, to meet casually without pressure. It is a place for friends and lovers, unlike a coffee at home it is a place where something might happen, something might just happen tonight. Unfortunately our city streets aren't all sweet Parisian idylls, the most common contact with a stranger at a Sydney cafe is when we are asked for money or cigarettes.
Life is easier online, we choose who we speak to, who we don't, everything is neatly packaged on that little screen. Our culture has gone security and contol mad, we are scared of life outside our homes and workplaces. I wonder why? Do we absorb too many horror stories from our ever present news media? Maybe if we turned the television off, turned the computer off, walked on our own two feet down to a local cafe, we'd find it ain't so scary out there?
I take coffee at a cafe with tables on the street every night, The Piccolo Bar in Kings Cross Sydney is the curent venue. I live inner city, something of a red light district, but there is nothing to fear out there. All I find is other like minded people out for a little taste of life for the price of a cup of coffee. Maybe a conversation with a stranger, maybe even a spot of romance. I met my last two girlfriends at cafes, it can happen.
If we give up the streets, let fear prevent us from using what is rightfully ours, we fulfill the prophecy, we ensure that only dangerous people will occupy them. If decent, honest folks use the streets, become the majority, the battle is over.
Who knows, we might meet at your local or mine one night?
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Conversations #1.
Tonight a friend suggested that psychologically we all freeze our image of ourselves in our finest moment, at the peak of our youth or at our greatest success. We then tend to think the same way, dress the same way, listen to the same music forever more.
I agreed, told him I plan to freeze psychologically when my finest hour comes along. Good god I do hope it is ahead of me, not behind me.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I agreed, told him I plan to freeze psychologically when my finest hour comes along. Good god I do hope it is ahead of me, not behind me.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The Moon Is A Noir Detective.
Photograph by Kris Reichl.
The full moon is freaking me out, staring in at me through my balcony doors. It hasn't said anything but I just know that big white bastard is judging me.
"Back off man, it's not as if people go around staring up at you."
His unblinking interrogation wants to know what I've done since he was last full? Not much, huh? Still dabbling? Still hanging around cafes and wondering what to do next? What sort of excuse for a man are you?
A noir detective, a darkened room and a lamp in the eyes. He's waiting for me to crack, to confess. He doesn't confront me, I can smoke cigarettes in the dark all night, see him off, by tomorrow he'll be replaced by the good cop, a paler, less imposing character than this fat silent bully. The laws of nature are on my side.
Just wait, by the next time the full moon comes around everything will be different, I'll be able to look him in the eye, laugh in his enormous face.
By the next time the full moon comes around everything will be different.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Monday, May 16, 2011
People Are Like Packages.
People are like packages.
If you work for the post office packages are a pain in the arse. They are nothing but work, lifting, sorting, delivering, packages packages packages all day every day. Any curiosity about what's inside fades after the first week, all that matters is getting 'em in and getting 'em out in time.
When we recieve a package in the mail, maybe once a month, once a year, packages are exciting. You've ordered something then had to wait for it, a brief love affair, anticipation is as good as the object.
When we receive a surprise package, unannounced, unforeseen, we become very excited. We seek clues on the outside, where it might have come from, how heavy it is. Anything could be inside, Schrodinger's Cat or one million dollars in small notes, who knows? No one knows until that package is torn open, the unsolicited and unexpected discovered, the mystery solved.
People are like packages.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Blues, Not Art, single by Blute blues flute band, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
If you work for the post office packages are a pain in the arse. They are nothing but work, lifting, sorting, delivering, packages packages packages all day every day. Any curiosity about what's inside fades after the first week, all that matters is getting 'em in and getting 'em out in time.
When we recieve a package in the mail, maybe once a month, once a year, packages are exciting. You've ordered something then had to wait for it, a brief love affair, anticipation is as good as the object.
When we receive a surprise package, unannounced, unforeseen, we become very excited. We seek clues on the outside, where it might have come from, how heavy it is. Anything could be inside, Schrodinger's Cat or one million dollars in small notes, who knows? No one knows until that package is torn open, the unsolicited and unexpected discovered, the mystery solved.
People are like packages.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Blues, Not Art, single by Blute blues flute band, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
For Jack, My Love.
From a photograph by Kris Reichl.
For Jacqueline Elizabeth Scanlon, August 28th 1969 - May 16th 2001.
There is no gravestone, if her ashes were scattered I don't know where.
My people grieve like we dance, clumsily, on sanctioned occasions when everyone else is doing the same thing, where we won't be noticed. I cut through this place most days, a few minutes of solitude and perspective, I walk silently but there is never anyone to disturb, my people forget places like this.
Today I stop, sit, wonder what I would do if there were a gravestone for her, if I could find an elegant, eloquent, solitary expression of my grief. It's not in me, I can only imagine someone else. I can see her caressing the spirit of the stone that is ageing in the place of my young love who will never grow old, never grow old with me.
She can feel all that would have passed in a decade, allows herself the loss. Her own spirit sings silently, knows my love can hear her, that for a moment she is there. The actress playing my role can walk away and live, she knows that death, like time, is relative, that one true expression of grief flows the same as many.
There is no gravestone, if her ashes were scattered I don't know where.
I stand, continue my journey home.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Is She Really Going Out With Him?
The elevator doors opened, it didn't feel like there was room for her, her smile, her big brown eyes and her aura of joy, they crowded all around me. He stepped in behind her, not sure if they were together I made a point of meeting his eye and saying hello to him too, he ignored me, looked at the doors.
The girl and I shared smiles, small talk about a cold weather lazy Sunday, we had so much in common already. She leant back, accidentally leaned against the alarm button, the bell rang briefly. She passed a comment about her fat arse causing trouble again. I didn't need a written invitation, took a look at her tush, anything but fat, presented in tight track pants it was quite possibly perfect.
The surly bloke must have read my mind, looked at me menacingly. Still not sure if they were together I bit back the obvious response, that her butt would set off alarms wherever it went.
Ground floor, she squeezed her smile and her eyes and her joy out of the elevator, her and her quite possibly perfect bottom followed the angry, unpleasant man. I walked the other way, just another romantic puzzle where the pieces don't fit, another mystery I'll never understand.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The girl and I shared smiles, small talk about a cold weather lazy Sunday, we had so much in common already. She leant back, accidentally leaned against the alarm button, the bell rang briefly. She passed a comment about her fat arse causing trouble again. I didn't need a written invitation, took a look at her tush, anything but fat, presented in tight track pants it was quite possibly perfect.
The surly bloke must have read my mind, looked at me menacingly. Still not sure if they were together I bit back the obvious response, that her butt would set off alarms wherever it went.
Ground floor, she squeezed her smile and her eyes and her joy out of the elevator, her and her quite possibly perfect bottom followed the angry, unpleasant man. I walked the other way, just another romantic puzzle where the pieces don't fit, another mystery I'll never understand.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Meet You On The Steps.
From a photograph by Kris Reichl.
"Meet you on the steps."
You are now a Melbourne local, it is assumed you know that the steps of Flinders Street Station is the point of rendezvous.
A writer sits on the steps, watches those who arrive early and late, adventures and romances beginning, friends and lovers, each the opening paragraph of a new story. No one tells the story of the grand edifice behind the steps, it lives every day, there is no ending yet. While Melbourne stands these steps are the common stone that all have stood on.
The writer glances at the shop named City Hatters, nestled beneath the steps, from a time when a gentleman would never have dreamed of meeting a lady without a coat and hat. He imagines the crowd today dressed for a more romantic age, that girl walking up to a man in a sharp suit instead of jeans, how much sweeter that greeting kiss would have been, that boy having to wait until after the dinner and show to see so much of a lady's skin and only if all went well.
Thousands of stories come and go. They are all Melbourne stories, the steps are the common opening scene, the writer will only find the beginning here, not the middle and end.
The writer stands up and walks away, he has the opening line for a story that can be set in Melbourne past, present or future.
"Meet you on the steps."
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com . .
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Words Matter.
So it's a weekday afternoon and I'm watching cartoons, judge me if you will. One character detects a noxious aroma, suspects his friends, asks, "who let Fluffy off the chain?"
Somewhere there is a delighted writer who managed to squeeze his favourite fart euphamism into a medium that will share it with tens of millions of children, and some adults. I wonder if he heard it from his children that day or if a rogue uncle asked it of him thrity years ago?
Some groups of words just stick together, take on a life of their own. Cliches from the King James Bible are still employed centuries after their writing, quoted and misquoted with no regard for where they came from. My cup runneth over, love covers a multitude of sins, I could fill a page.
I've recently heard some common phrases being misused. During A.N.Z.A.C. Day war commemoration I heard politicians and journalists comment on the spirit of old soldiers by saying age shall not weary them. In context, "They shall not grow old as those who are left grow old, Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn", a brilliant piece of writing, a small blessing for those who sacrificed their lives, the knowledge that old soldiers will do it hard. The other was a fashion model said to be going the whole nine yards by having her lips and eyelashes done for a big shoot. In early military aircraft a machine gunner would sit in a small cockpit, his ammunition came in belts nine yards long. To give the enemy the whole nine yards was to kill and wound hundreds of men in the time it took for a nine yard belt to pass through a magazine.
Using words without thought cheapens those words.
The teller machine I use recently changed one of the options from "withdraw cash" to "get cash out", market research proved that many people understood the new option and not the old. The only reason the teller machine is known as an A.T.M. is that the marketing types knew that a three letter acronym, a T.L.A., would sound more friendly, less like a machine was taking the job of a human teller. There is nothing automatic about a teller machine, it is a machine that accepts instructions and performs a corresponding action like any other machine.
You've probably picked up that I enjoy words, they are something of a hobby for me. I really do take great pleasure from hearing "who let Fluffy off the chain" in a cartoon, respect the beautiful honesty of war poetry. I often enjoy the art of the sports commentator as much as the sport, could listen to Phil Ligget describe a snail race as well as Le Tour de France. Considering it is our primary method of communication, a hallmark of civilization, I believe words are important. I see them being replaced by icons and images, accompanied by meaningless slogans. Every day poetry is being lost.
If communication is key to any relationship can we be surprised that as our language deteriorates our community and personal relationships deteriorate? Words can be a sledgehammer or a conductor's baton, while we choose only the hammer beauty and nuance are lost. From the silliest kids fart euphamism to the poetry that evokes the greatest in us, words matter.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Somewhere there is a delighted writer who managed to squeeze his favourite fart euphamism into a medium that will share it with tens of millions of children, and some adults. I wonder if he heard it from his children that day or if a rogue uncle asked it of him thrity years ago?
Some groups of words just stick together, take on a life of their own. Cliches from the King James Bible are still employed centuries after their writing, quoted and misquoted with no regard for where they came from. My cup runneth over, love covers a multitude of sins, I could fill a page.
I've recently heard some common phrases being misused. During A.N.Z.A.C. Day war commemoration I heard politicians and journalists comment on the spirit of old soldiers by saying age shall not weary them. In context, "They shall not grow old as those who are left grow old, Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn", a brilliant piece of writing, a small blessing for those who sacrificed their lives, the knowledge that old soldiers will do it hard. The other was a fashion model said to be going the whole nine yards by having her lips and eyelashes done for a big shoot. In early military aircraft a machine gunner would sit in a small cockpit, his ammunition came in belts nine yards long. To give the enemy the whole nine yards was to kill and wound hundreds of men in the time it took for a nine yard belt to pass through a magazine.
Using words without thought cheapens those words.
The teller machine I use recently changed one of the options from "withdraw cash" to "get cash out", market research proved that many people understood the new option and not the old. The only reason the teller machine is known as an A.T.M. is that the marketing types knew that a three letter acronym, a T.L.A., would sound more friendly, less like a machine was taking the job of a human teller. There is nothing automatic about a teller machine, it is a machine that accepts instructions and performs a corresponding action like any other machine.
You've probably picked up that I enjoy words, they are something of a hobby for me. I really do take great pleasure from hearing "who let Fluffy off the chain" in a cartoon, respect the beautiful honesty of war poetry. I often enjoy the art of the sports commentator as much as the sport, could listen to Phil Ligget describe a snail race as well as Le Tour de France. Considering it is our primary method of communication, a hallmark of civilization, I believe words are important. I see them being replaced by icons and images, accompanied by meaningless slogans. Every day poetry is being lost.
If communication is key to any relationship can we be surprised that as our language deteriorates our community and personal relationships deteriorate? Words can be a sledgehammer or a conductor's baton, while we choose only the hammer beauty and nuance are lost. From the silliest kids fart euphamism to the poetry that evokes the greatest in us, words matter.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Crocodile Tears And Moccasins.
I knew a woman who wanted to live and work in a country where the most destitute people lived, stand shoulder to shoulder with them, show them that someone cared. A fine sentiment but as long as she had an airline ticket exit strategy in the back pocket of her Levi's I'm certain the locals would have felt close to nothing for her grand gesture.
I knew another woman who tried to understand and empathise with my eye condition by walking home from the next suburb with her eyes closed. Another fine sentiment. If she'd asked me, I would have suggested driving at night in the rain without windscreen wipers, a much closer approximation than seeing nothing. That way she would be able to see clearly for a moment, then next to nothing, never be certain of what was really ahead, be able to make out people ahead but not which particular people, or whether they were carrying a bunch of roses or an axe.
She didn't ask.
It is impossible to truly experience walking in another's moccasins if you can step out of them at any moment, fly home, open your eyes. Trying their moccasins on for size, filling them with crocodile tears then handing them back is just plain old fashioned insulting.
It's probably just better to ask what the other person's life is like, listen to the answer, lend an honest hand when you can. Fine sentiments come cheap, but so does listening.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I knew another woman who tried to understand and empathise with my eye condition by walking home from the next suburb with her eyes closed. Another fine sentiment. If she'd asked me, I would have suggested driving at night in the rain without windscreen wipers, a much closer approximation than seeing nothing. That way she would be able to see clearly for a moment, then next to nothing, never be certain of what was really ahead, be able to make out people ahead but not which particular people, or whether they were carrying a bunch of roses or an axe.
She didn't ask.
It is impossible to truly experience walking in another's moccasins if you can step out of them at any moment, fly home, open your eyes. Trying their moccasins on for size, filling them with crocodile tears then handing them back is just plain old fashioned insulting.
It's probably just better to ask what the other person's life is like, listen to the answer, lend an honest hand when you can. Fine sentiments come cheap, but so does listening.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Friday, May 13, 2011
Everything Is Old And Everything Is New.
A story from a photograph by Kris Reichl.
She is on her way, to one of the places where the centre of Earth looks out into space, a place where virgins were once sacrificed. Like all women she is both a virgin and not a virgin, everything is old and everything is new.
She silently instigated this trip, willed it, her friends woke her before dawn, bundled her into a car, now she is on her way. In her mind she has been abducted by those she loves, she is willing and unwilling to go.
A rare moment of vanity, she wants to look her best when she meets the mountain, all she can see is the road disappearing behind her. In every journey there is a moment to turn back, a point in time and space where a decision can be made without feeling loss. She watches the past roll away behind her and knows this moment passed well before the first step was taken, passed when she first felt desire to know the planet in it's raw, chaotic form.
She lets her friends in on her private abduction fantasy, coyly omitting the more perverse virgin sacrifice elements. They all laugh, admit to being a little frightened too, suddenly breakfast beside a live volcano is a jolly jaunt, a shared advernture. Laughter makes fear disappear.
Smiling she drifts back into fantasy. The journey has just begun, there is the hard reality of climbing ahead, for now she is in a place without time, where everything is old and everything is new, the road rolling in front of her is the same as the road rolling behind her, she is a virgin and not a virgin. It feels like the car is standing still, Earth rolling beneath it, bringing her to the volcano as much as she is going to it.
She is on her way, she is there, she was there, everything is old and everything is new.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Dances With Wolves.
One hunter lays down his weapons, dons the head and pelt of a wolf, the bloodier the better, the scent and sight designed to frighten the prey into an ambush.
Later, after the feast, the fire is fuelled up to light the celebratory dance. The comic wag of the clan plays the prey, takes centre stage, chewing, yawning and stretching, scratching and farting, acting like a contented creature and making the children laugh. Soon the wolfman approaches, snarling, fearsome, leaping wildly. A call and response ensues, the wolf snarls, the children squeal, the women squeal for different reasons. The din increases, all raise their voices to the gods, eventually the dozy comic quarry is stirred, joins the wild dance, a thrashing panic. The prey runs into the arms of his fellow hunters, the ham actor dies a ham actor's death, long and slow, each stab and blow landing in time with the hand clapping of the entire clan until a spasm sees life depart. The children cheer, they aren't confronted by death, they know that killing is the first step towards a full belly. The prey is carried back to the fire, a triumphant finale.
The dance celebrates and connects the communal. Because it is entertaining the children recall and include details in their play, learn to hunt. The young men take the opportunity to display to the young women. All take the opportunity to stir the gods, give thanks for bounty, plead for future good fortune.
The clan will evolve, the head of a wolf will become a mask, the blood paint. Stage lights will replace the fire, cave paintings evolve into elaborate sets. Language and song will usurp the place of some of the action.
No matter how sophisticated every performance returns to the primal. It must contain universal themes and celebrate them. It must contain enough danger and fear to heighten the senses, and enough sexiness. It must contain humour, entertainment, so the content is enjoyable and therefore easy to recall.
In every performance something or someone must be slain, a person, an idea, something that will feed the people.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Later, after the feast, the fire is fuelled up to light the celebratory dance. The comic wag of the clan plays the prey, takes centre stage, chewing, yawning and stretching, scratching and farting, acting like a contented creature and making the children laugh. Soon the wolfman approaches, snarling, fearsome, leaping wildly. A call and response ensues, the wolf snarls, the children squeal, the women squeal for different reasons. The din increases, all raise their voices to the gods, eventually the dozy comic quarry is stirred, joins the wild dance, a thrashing panic. The prey runs into the arms of his fellow hunters, the ham actor dies a ham actor's death, long and slow, each stab and blow landing in time with the hand clapping of the entire clan until a spasm sees life depart. The children cheer, they aren't confronted by death, they know that killing is the first step towards a full belly. The prey is carried back to the fire, a triumphant finale.
The dance celebrates and connects the communal. Because it is entertaining the children recall and include details in their play, learn to hunt. The young men take the opportunity to display to the young women. All take the opportunity to stir the gods, give thanks for bounty, plead for future good fortune.
The clan will evolve, the head of a wolf will become a mask, the blood paint. Stage lights will replace the fire, cave paintings evolve into elaborate sets. Language and song will usurp the place of some of the action.
No matter how sophisticated every performance returns to the primal. It must contain universal themes and celebrate them. It must contain enough danger and fear to heighten the senses, and enough sexiness. It must contain humour, entertainment, so the content is enjoyable and therefore easy to recall.
In every performance something or someone must be slain, a person, an idea, something that will feed the people.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Cell Phone Manners.
A bunch of late shift workers would meet up at Topolino's pizza joint, waiters, cooks, nurses, policemen, musicians, strippers. A young cook started joining us, very young, very enthusiastic, great fun, at first.
One night the young fellow arrived with a plastic toy cell phone. Cell phones had just hit Australia, still considered a yuppy toy, it was pretty funny. The toy went around the table, the button on the back set off an annoying ring tone, another button stopped it.
"Hello? Yes, buy, buy, no, sell sell."
"Please Miss Pfieffer, I've asked you a thousand times to stop calling me, I don't want to know what you are wearing or what exotic pleasures you have in store for me, how many ways can I explain that you aren't hot enough for me?"
All the usual phone jokes, it was great fun, at first.
The young bloke was a rottweiller, he had a good gag and he wasn't about to let it go, kept pressing that button again and again, driving everyone mad. Little did we know that soon this constant ringing would become a reality wherever we went.
We left the pizza joint, all a little excited by the balmy summer evening, the young bloke pressed that button one too many times. A friend called out for the phone to be thrown to him. Once it was in the air he turned nonchalantly and chatted with me, oblivious to the plastic toy hitting the pavement. The damned thing didn't break. A real cell phone hitting the pavement that hard would have shattered, but that piece of plastic crap survived.
I decided the time had come for a good man to come to the aid of the party, put my foot down, hard, on top of that annoying ring tone. I leapt athletically in the air. It may be fair to say that I had imbibed a nimber of beverages that contained strong liquor. As I leapt my flute case slipped from my grip, went flying through the air. I kept my head, watched the pretty arc of my very expensive instrument as it flew but maintained my focus, landed square on the toy phone, crushed it mercilessly. Then I heard the sound of flute parts skittering down the street, ran to collect them and inspect the damage.
The next day I handed over a couple of hundred dollars to a flute repairman. Two hundred dollars to break a five dollar toy. It was worth it. I'd do it again.
If your phone keeps ringing loudly in my ear, if you insist on shouting into it, sharing your personal conversation will all around, I will do it again. Five dollar phone or expensive smart phone, I'll gladly pay the price for jumping on it.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One night the young fellow arrived with a plastic toy cell phone. Cell phones had just hit Australia, still considered a yuppy toy, it was pretty funny. The toy went around the table, the button on the back set off an annoying ring tone, another button stopped it.
"Hello? Yes, buy, buy, no, sell sell."
"Please Miss Pfieffer, I've asked you a thousand times to stop calling me, I don't want to know what you are wearing or what exotic pleasures you have in store for me, how many ways can I explain that you aren't hot enough for me?"
All the usual phone jokes, it was great fun, at first.
The young bloke was a rottweiller, he had a good gag and he wasn't about to let it go, kept pressing that button again and again, driving everyone mad. Little did we know that soon this constant ringing would become a reality wherever we went.
We left the pizza joint, all a little excited by the balmy summer evening, the young bloke pressed that button one too many times. A friend called out for the phone to be thrown to him. Once it was in the air he turned nonchalantly and chatted with me, oblivious to the plastic toy hitting the pavement. The damned thing didn't break. A real cell phone hitting the pavement that hard would have shattered, but that piece of plastic crap survived.
I decided the time had come for a good man to come to the aid of the party, put my foot down, hard, on top of that annoying ring tone. I leapt athletically in the air. It may be fair to say that I had imbibed a nimber of beverages that contained strong liquor. As I leapt my flute case slipped from my grip, went flying through the air. I kept my head, watched the pretty arc of my very expensive instrument as it flew but maintained my focus, landed square on the toy phone, crushed it mercilessly. Then I heard the sound of flute parts skittering down the street, ran to collect them and inspect the damage.
The next day I handed over a couple of hundred dollars to a flute repairman. Two hundred dollars to break a five dollar toy. It was worth it. I'd do it again.
If your phone keeps ringing loudly in my ear, if you insist on shouting into it, sharing your personal conversation will all around, I will do it again. Five dollar phone or expensive smart phone, I'll gladly pay the price for jumping on it.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Clutching At Beauty.
He clutches at beauty in the same way a drowning man clutches at straws. He knows full well that holding onto the beautiful won't sustain him but in his desperation it is the only thing he recognizes as floating, as above the every day life he is sinking in.
Every time he grasps at beauty he destroys it, drags it under with him.
Most drowning is caused by panic. If a man lies on his back, relaxes, thinks of nothing but breath in and breath out, he finds he floats equally as well as the humble straw. When a man relaxes, allows his own beauty to flow with every breath, he floats over the every day like beauty itself.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Every time he grasps at beauty he destroys it, drags it under with him.
Most drowning is caused by panic. If a man lies on his back, relaxes, thinks of nothing but breath in and breath out, he finds he floats equally as well as the humble straw. When a man relaxes, allows his own beauty to flow with every breath, he floats over the every day like beauty itself.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Today It's All About Me.
This blog post is all about me. I usually try to write on universal themes, ideas, sometimes old fashioned gags, but this one's about me. Deal with it.
A bit over twenty years ago I picked up a flute, felt a natural affinity, practised my arse off, played as a full time professional for the next decade. I kept playing it a little after that, mainly kicked guitars around and trialled and errored until I could sing. I've written a handful of songs that I'm proud of, a couple that are pretty funny. There's been a little saxophone honking along the way. I've done some good work.
I've realized now that my time as a full time player is over. It's cool, comes a time, I simply don't have the drive to push a career and I can't be a bum musician all my life. It's cool, I'll play for love or money when the time and place are right, enjoy the playing, ride the waves that come my way. I'm pretty certain I'll enjoy it more and possibly receive more success. It's all cool.
So one life is ending, a new one must begin. I've discovered that in twenty years of playing music I was visiting many different worlds that I would never have seen otherwise. I've played in the roughest dives, the poshest homes, I've played on the street, sitting on a white grand piano, on three continents, I've played with sweethearts and arseholes, I've played for sweethearts and arseholes, I've dealt with gangsters and socialites, been rich and poor. I have some tales to tell.
I've also discovered a desire to write, a new way to express myself. I'm taking the first baby steps towards becoming a writer, can see a way ahead to becoming a full time professional. I've started from scratch and late before, I can do it again. Time will tell.
After twenty years of playing music I am leaving it with exactly what I started with. Not much. I've had moments of bitterness, only moments, I chose a path, followed it, ended up here, so it goes. It's cool.
After wandering for many years I have made a decision. A genuine, stick my hands in and squeeze decision. It feels good. Now I know what each day is for, what my work is. A man without work is not a man. I used to get this feeling from music, now I'm getting it from writing.
This decision feels good. I feel good. Everything is cool. Tomorrow is a new and exciting day.
Tomorrow normal transmission will be resumed, today it is all about me.
Deal with it.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
A bit over twenty years ago I picked up a flute, felt a natural affinity, practised my arse off, played as a full time professional for the next decade. I kept playing it a little after that, mainly kicked guitars around and trialled and errored until I could sing. I've written a handful of songs that I'm proud of, a couple that are pretty funny. There's been a little saxophone honking along the way. I've done some good work.
I've realized now that my time as a full time player is over. It's cool, comes a time, I simply don't have the drive to push a career and I can't be a bum musician all my life. It's cool, I'll play for love or money when the time and place are right, enjoy the playing, ride the waves that come my way. I'm pretty certain I'll enjoy it more and possibly receive more success. It's all cool.
So one life is ending, a new one must begin. I've discovered that in twenty years of playing music I was visiting many different worlds that I would never have seen otherwise. I've played in the roughest dives, the poshest homes, I've played on the street, sitting on a white grand piano, on three continents, I've played with sweethearts and arseholes, I've played for sweethearts and arseholes, I've dealt with gangsters and socialites, been rich and poor. I have some tales to tell.
I've also discovered a desire to write, a new way to express myself. I'm taking the first baby steps towards becoming a writer, can see a way ahead to becoming a full time professional. I've started from scratch and late before, I can do it again. Time will tell.
After twenty years of playing music I am leaving it with exactly what I started with. Not much. I've had moments of bitterness, only moments, I chose a path, followed it, ended up here, so it goes. It's cool.
After wandering for many years I have made a decision. A genuine, stick my hands in and squeeze decision. It feels good. Now I know what each day is for, what my work is. A man without work is not a man. I used to get this feeling from music, now I'm getting it from writing.
This decision feels good. I feel good. Everything is cool. Tomorrow is a new and exciting day.
Tomorrow normal transmission will be resumed, today it is all about me.
Deal with it.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Monday, May 9, 2011
Charlie Sheen.
Everyone congratulated the martials arts master on the size of his classes.
"Students are flocking to your classes, you must be doing something right."
"If I were truly teaching they'd be fleeing, only the few would remain."
While Charlie Sheen is being booed off stage he can be certain that he is on the true path.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
"Students are flocking to your classes, you must be doing something right."
"If I were truly teaching they'd be fleeing, only the few would remain."
While Charlie Sheen is being booed off stage he can be certain that he is on the true path.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
It Fell Like A Man.
I recall reading of an old man dying as he walked on the street, the description was that he fell like a tree. He was standing one moment, the inner tension that maintains life was released, the man just fell and looked like a tree falling.
The tree in my folks yard was an introduced species, a pest, when it got into fields or river beds it spread like a weed. Contained in a suburban block it couldn't do too much harm, hundreds of tiny seedlings were simply mowed out of the lawn each Spring, but the acres of silky pollen it spread were reason enough, the tree had to go.
Some of those men who know how to do things were called, armed to the teeth they made short work of trimming larger branches, roping and directing the imminent fall. They weilded a seriously large chainsaw, if I were the tree I would have packed it in, given up and fallen, spared myself the ugly fight.
When the spinning blade went through the trunk it was like the old pulling the table cloth from under the china trick, nothing seemed to move, then the inner tension that maintains life was released and the tree fell.
The tree fell like a man. As it fell I saw a life ending. All around were pleased with themselves, the job had been undertaken and completed, but I was shocked, a life had just ended. Between being a tree and being timber a spirit departed, I saw it, the tree fell like a man dying.
There was no choice, the tree shouldn't have been brought to this country in the first place, the crime was committed decades earlier, our part was cleaning up after the crime. I had no problem with that tree being taken out, I was shocked that no one else noticed that it had been alive, that a mighty tree spirit had passed.
It fell like a man.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The tree in my folks yard was an introduced species, a pest, when it got into fields or river beds it spread like a weed. Contained in a suburban block it couldn't do too much harm, hundreds of tiny seedlings were simply mowed out of the lawn each Spring, but the acres of silky pollen it spread were reason enough, the tree had to go.
Some of those men who know how to do things were called, armed to the teeth they made short work of trimming larger branches, roping and directing the imminent fall. They weilded a seriously large chainsaw, if I were the tree I would have packed it in, given up and fallen, spared myself the ugly fight.
When the spinning blade went through the trunk it was like the old pulling the table cloth from under the china trick, nothing seemed to move, then the inner tension that maintains life was released and the tree fell.
The tree fell like a man. As it fell I saw a life ending. All around were pleased with themselves, the job had been undertaken and completed, but I was shocked, a life had just ended. Between being a tree and being timber a spirit departed, I saw it, the tree fell like a man dying.
There was no choice, the tree shouldn't have been brought to this country in the first place, the crime was committed decades earlier, our part was cleaning up after the crime. I had no problem with that tree being taken out, I was shocked that no one else noticed that it had been alive, that a mighty tree spirit had passed.
It fell like a man.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One Night, One Bar, One Performance.
This week I received a copy of a video shot in a bar called Tigardville Station, outside Portland Oregon. I really like the video, it's an honest representation of one performance on one night in one place.
The video doesn't possess the sound and picture quality to screen on television, the performance is raw, unpolished, but to me it is perfect. I like every D string dropping out of tune wart on it. I like the cocktail shaker in the background, I like the applause after the guitar solo's, I like that it feels real and honest.
There's an old joke about a sound engineer in his booth talking to the musicians in the studio through their headphones after a take. "It was all shit, we'll keep it." the engineer knows he can cut and polish it, electronic smoke and mirrors, make the shit shine like a diamond. I don't see the point.
Enough monkeys on enough synthesizers can eventually make a hit, with the help of a good engineer and Protools.
In this video we were entertaining some folks in a bar, real music for real people. It's what real music has been for centuries. The video is a record of it happening in one bar out of the tens of thousands of bars in America where the same thing was happening at the same time. It isn't going to make me rich or famous, it just makes me smile.
For me music is a communication between humans, the more simple and honest the better. In this case it is two guys with guitars communicating with really nice people. It's plenty. No multi million dollar production could make me happier.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The video doesn't possess the sound and picture quality to screen on television, the performance is raw, unpolished, but to me it is perfect. I like every D string dropping out of tune wart on it. I like the cocktail shaker in the background, I like the applause after the guitar solo's, I like that it feels real and honest.
There's an old joke about a sound engineer in his booth talking to the musicians in the studio through their headphones after a take. "It was all shit, we'll keep it." the engineer knows he can cut and polish it, electronic smoke and mirrors, make the shit shine like a diamond. I don't see the point.
Enough monkeys on enough synthesizers can eventually make a hit, with the help of a good engineer and Protools.
In this video we were entertaining some folks in a bar, real music for real people. It's what real music has been for centuries. The video is a record of it happening in one bar out of the tens of thousands of bars in America where the same thing was happening at the same time. It isn't going to make me rich or famous, it just makes me smile.
For me music is a communication between humans, the more simple and honest the better. In this case it is two guys with guitars communicating with really nice people. It's plenty. No multi million dollar production could make me happier.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Scales And Intent.
C D E F G A B C, the standard scale we all learn first, the first building block, the first formal musical knowledge passed on.
D E F G A B C D
By starting the scale on the second note we change how it sounds, minor and bluesy. Same notes, same order, different stepping off point. Our ears relate back to the starting point, they hear D as the bass note and the rest in that context.
E F G A B C D E
The same thing occurs when we start the scale on the next note, but the sound is minor and Arabicish. One can continue up the scale, whichever note we start on sounds like the bass, the root, home. Same notes, same order, different colour or flavour depending on where we start it.
The simplest things we learn are the most beautiful. We all learn to walk then decide where we want to go. We all learn to talk then decide what we want to say. We all learn the C scale then decide what we want to play.
Where we go, what we say, what we do all start with intent, with an emotional decision to start. That intent is the bass note, the root, the context for all that follows. Intent flavours and colours everything.
The joy of being human is that we can choose our own starting point. We are all pretty much the same, playing the same notes in the same order, but our intent makes us all different.
Start the scale where you are feeling it. Start it with a strong sweet tone and every note that follows will sing truly of you.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
D E F G A B C D
By starting the scale on the second note we change how it sounds, minor and bluesy. Same notes, same order, different stepping off point. Our ears relate back to the starting point, they hear D as the bass note and the rest in that context.
E F G A B C D E
The same thing occurs when we start the scale on the next note, but the sound is minor and Arabicish. One can continue up the scale, whichever note we start on sounds like the bass, the root, home. Same notes, same order, different colour or flavour depending on where we start it.
The simplest things we learn are the most beautiful. We all learn to walk then decide where we want to go. We all learn to talk then decide what we want to say. We all learn the C scale then decide what we want to play.
Where we go, what we say, what we do all start with intent, with an emotional decision to start. That intent is the bass note, the root, the context for all that follows. Intent flavours and colours everything.
The joy of being human is that we can choose our own starting point. We are all pretty much the same, playing the same notes in the same order, but our intent makes us all different.
Start the scale where you are feeling it. Start it with a strong sweet tone and every note that follows will sing truly of you.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Tomorrow The Blues Will Heal Me.
Today I feel empty. Like politicians off a sinking leader my desire and ability to express myself have desserted me.
I'm the quiet puppy of the litter, the one who tries to join in the wrestling game but knows his heart just isn't in it, retires to the basket to chew on something.
I'm the lone sailor on a calm sea, knowing he shouldn't wish for stormy weather but wishing for it anyway.
I'm the busker on the street, about to start blowing his horn, knowing he'll have to play The Pink Panther theme if he wants a dollar but unable to make himself play it.
I'm full of doubt, not sure which instrument to pick up, then unsure what I'd play on it anyway. "All my words come back to me in shades of mediocrity."
I'm smiling as I write this because the music is in me and I know it and even the darkest night can't take it away.
Tomorrow the blues will heal me.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I'm the quiet puppy of the litter, the one who tries to join in the wrestling game but knows his heart just isn't in it, retires to the basket to chew on something.
I'm the lone sailor on a calm sea, knowing he shouldn't wish for stormy weather but wishing for it anyway.
I'm the busker on the street, about to start blowing his horn, knowing he'll have to play The Pink Panther theme if he wants a dollar but unable to make himself play it.
I'm full of doubt, not sure which instrument to pick up, then unsure what I'd play on it anyway. "All my words come back to me in shades of mediocrity."
I'm smiling as I write this because the music is in me and I know it and even the darkest night can't take it away.
Tomorrow the blues will heal me.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Watching The Birds.
Many, many years ago a bloke I know was apponted the task of constructing telecommunication lines across the vast, empty desert in Australia's north. More miles of posts and poles than most countries have miles.
He found his progress being hindered by flocks of birds crashing into the wires, work crews spent more time repairing than constructing, my friend saw himself being stuck in the desert for the rest of his life. After every possible research on what may be attracting the birds to the wires he found no answer.
Word soon got back that in every instance there was roadkill nearby, usually a flattened kangaroo in the middle of the road. My friend drove hundreds of miles out into the desert until he came across a squashed 'roo, parked his car a mile up the road, walked back with a folding chair, sat very still and quiet. Soon enough birds descended to feast on the demised national emblem. soon enough a road train came barrelling down the otherwise desserted highway, instantly the birds took flight, their natural trajectory sending many of them directly into the wires. Wing span and speed determined this species of bird always took off at the same angle, an angle that carried them into my friend's work.
My friend's answer was to set up a permanent maintenance crew, wait a few thousand years for the birds to evolve a different wing span and velocity. His second response was to raise the height of the poles a little.
People often ask me what I'm doing, to their eyes I'm doing nothing. I'm fascinated by the innate, thoughtless responses of humans, the way we have evolved to respond the same way to the same stimulus every time. I think on how a culture can be altered to accomodate humanity.
"I'm sitting in the desert, watching the birds."
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
He found his progress being hindered by flocks of birds crashing into the wires, work crews spent more time repairing than constructing, my friend saw himself being stuck in the desert for the rest of his life. After every possible research on what may be attracting the birds to the wires he found no answer.
Word soon got back that in every instance there was roadkill nearby, usually a flattened kangaroo in the middle of the road. My friend drove hundreds of miles out into the desert until he came across a squashed 'roo, parked his car a mile up the road, walked back with a folding chair, sat very still and quiet. Soon enough birds descended to feast on the demised national emblem. soon enough a road train came barrelling down the otherwise desserted highway, instantly the birds took flight, their natural trajectory sending many of them directly into the wires. Wing span and speed determined this species of bird always took off at the same angle, an angle that carried them into my friend's work.
My friend's answer was to set up a permanent maintenance crew, wait a few thousand years for the birds to evolve a different wing span and velocity. His second response was to raise the height of the poles a little.
People often ask me what I'm doing, to their eyes I'm doing nothing. I'm fascinated by the innate, thoughtless responses of humans, the way we have evolved to respond the same way to the same stimulus every time. I think on how a culture can be altered to accomodate humanity.
"I'm sitting in the desert, watching the birds."
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Jelly Beans For The Rave.
So I'm sitting on the floor, on my left a red plastic bucket full of tiny pills, in front of me giant bags of jelly beans, on my right white plastic trays to hold the jelly beans once I've stuffed each one with one of the tiny pills. Everything seems perfectly normal, no one else in the room comments, this sort of thing goes on around here all the time.
I look back on that afternoon and wonder what the hell I was thinking? It was 1986, I was eighteen years old, on a six month coming of age jaunt in Sydney, trying any new experience that was offered up. The illicit jelly beans were for an event organized by a cultural organization named the Recreational Arts Team, everyone who attended their refined event later that night received one chemically altered sweetie on the way into the warehouse. In a few hours I handled more drugs than most people see in a life time, red plastic buckets full.
I was a wide eyed kid from the suburbs, it was all just fun and games to me. I look back at all the damage chemical drugs have done to friends since then and feel ashamed of my brief involvement in that world. Everyone who went to the warehouse rave knew what they were getting into, they paid for their tickets and took their chances, I was just an extra in the scene, but I still feel ashamed.
Back then my idea of a happy afternoon was a coffee in the sun with a book, a good night was some beers in a bar and some funny conversation. I tried a few drugs, was put off by the people involved as much as the affects, I was an actor in that scene, not a real man.
A month later I was asked to help out with the next party and declined. I'd learned something. I guess the whole point of a coming of age jaunt, leaving home to discover yourself, is to take a look at the extraordinary and see if you like it, then see the ordinary with new eyes.
I still have a giggle when I see jelly beans at the supermarket, they remind me of a weird time in my life, but I know I prefer them sweet and chewy and drug free.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I look back on that afternoon and wonder what the hell I was thinking? It was 1986, I was eighteen years old, on a six month coming of age jaunt in Sydney, trying any new experience that was offered up. The illicit jelly beans were for an event organized by a cultural organization named the Recreational Arts Team, everyone who attended their refined event later that night received one chemically altered sweetie on the way into the warehouse. In a few hours I handled more drugs than most people see in a life time, red plastic buckets full.
I was a wide eyed kid from the suburbs, it was all just fun and games to me. I look back at all the damage chemical drugs have done to friends since then and feel ashamed of my brief involvement in that world. Everyone who went to the warehouse rave knew what they were getting into, they paid for their tickets and took their chances, I was just an extra in the scene, but I still feel ashamed.
Back then my idea of a happy afternoon was a coffee in the sun with a book, a good night was some beers in a bar and some funny conversation. I tried a few drugs, was put off by the people involved as much as the affects, I was an actor in that scene, not a real man.
A month later I was asked to help out with the next party and declined. I'd learned something. I guess the whole point of a coming of age jaunt, leaving home to discover yourself, is to take a look at the extraordinary and see if you like it, then see the ordinary with new eyes.
I still have a giggle when I see jelly beans at the supermarket, they remind me of a weird time in my life, but I know I prefer them sweet and chewy and drug free.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The Work Goes On.
The village is high in the mountains, perched on the edge of a deep, steep gorge. The closest village is across that gorge, on foot the journey is a dangerous and arduous one that can take days, hundreds of metres down, across a fast flowing river then hundreds of metres back up again.
Instead the villagers prepare a strong piece of wood, shaped like an inverted V, place it over the rope that stretches across the gorge. To make the three hundred metre distance they need momentum, they run up and throw themselves at the rope, the wooden device hits the rope and they must grasp both sides immediately or plummet to their deaths. They do it without thinking, their mother's carried them across the gorge this way when they were babies. The rope has always been there, how else would they travel?
When the rope is looking worn it is replaced by attaching a new rope to the old and pulling it across. No one ever considers how the original rope was put in place, the rope has always been there, the local mythology states that it was a gift from the gods.
Of course the original rope was the result of one visionary human. He not only came up with the idea, he also found a way to inspire, organize and motivate the whole village to create the rope then work from either side of the gorge, adding length by length until it met in the middle at the bottom of the gorge. Pulled tight and secured someone had to test it. I'm guessing the rope's creator received that dubious honour. A tool that people are afraid to use is not a tool at all.
I'm sure there were tragedies, hands slipped off the wooden frames, the wrong timber was chosen and the frames broke. The tentative would have leapt too slowly and carefully, found themselves stranded halfway, had to hand by hand their way back. Eventually travelling via flying fox became so normal that everyone thought the rope had always been there.
The man who created the rope, all those who toiled to make it happen, they are all long forgotten. I'm sure at the time they thought the whole village would remember them forever, the great people who gave them trade and community with the rest of the world. Of course they were forgotten.
Centuries after it appeared as an idea in one man's brain the simple, brilliant rope is still in place. The work goes on long after the people who performed it are gone. Creating work that future generations will take for granted is good work.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Instead the villagers prepare a strong piece of wood, shaped like an inverted V, place it over the rope that stretches across the gorge. To make the three hundred metre distance they need momentum, they run up and throw themselves at the rope, the wooden device hits the rope and they must grasp both sides immediately or plummet to their deaths. They do it without thinking, their mother's carried them across the gorge this way when they were babies. The rope has always been there, how else would they travel?
When the rope is looking worn it is replaced by attaching a new rope to the old and pulling it across. No one ever considers how the original rope was put in place, the rope has always been there, the local mythology states that it was a gift from the gods.
Of course the original rope was the result of one visionary human. He not only came up with the idea, he also found a way to inspire, organize and motivate the whole village to create the rope then work from either side of the gorge, adding length by length until it met in the middle at the bottom of the gorge. Pulled tight and secured someone had to test it. I'm guessing the rope's creator received that dubious honour. A tool that people are afraid to use is not a tool at all.
I'm sure there were tragedies, hands slipped off the wooden frames, the wrong timber was chosen and the frames broke. The tentative would have leapt too slowly and carefully, found themselves stranded halfway, had to hand by hand their way back. Eventually travelling via flying fox became so normal that everyone thought the rope had always been there.
The man who created the rope, all those who toiled to make it happen, they are all long forgotten. I'm sure at the time they thought the whole village would remember them forever, the great people who gave them trade and community with the rest of the world. Of course they were forgotten.
Centuries after it appeared as an idea in one man's brain the simple, brilliant rope is still in place. The work goes on long after the people who performed it are gone. Creating work that future generations will take for granted is good work.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Friday, May 6, 2011
Seventy Two Versions.
Right now Bin Laden is in the heaven he deserves. He has been met by seventy two versions of the novelty song Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polkadot Bikini. The seventy two different versions of Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polkadot Bikini are playing randomly so he never knows which one to expect next.
Seventy two versions of Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polkadot Bikini for eternity.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Seventy two versions of Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polkadot Bikini for eternity.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Seventy Two Vegans.
Right now Bin Laden is in the heaven he deserves. He has been met by seventy two vegans, all strident lesbian kick boxer nudists with very liberal politics. He will spend eternity serving women.
Hell hath no fury like a seriously pissed off, iron and protein deprived, reactionary lesbian.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Hell hath no fury like a seriously pissed off, iron and protein deprived, reactionary lesbian.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Schrodinger's Cat.
Since it was mentioned in the television show Big Bang Theory the concept of Schrodinger's Cat has returned to conversation. Originally designed as a method to explain the idea of a quantum state Mr. Schrodinger's explanation is so beautifully simple that it is often used to describe many other states of the unknown.
The crux of the idea is that a live cat is placed in a box with an unstable molecule that can go radioactive and kill the cat at any moment. The key words are "at any moment". The cat could die the second after the box is closed, or in a billion years, it is completely unpredictable. For the human observer the cat inside the closed box is both alive and dead at the same time but in fact the cat is one or the other, that we can't observe the state is of very little interest to the terrified feline.
The philosophical connotations are obvious; no matter what we speculate, wish for, guess, makes no difference. Our perception of the cat being in two states at once is an example of human duality, we can hold two beliefs at the same time. The random state of the future has always frightened and excited humans. We are frightened of what might happen, excited about what might happen.
Sometimes we just have to open the box, step into the next, see for ourselves if we are greeted by a cuddly friend or a corpse.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The crux of the idea is that a live cat is placed in a box with an unstable molecule that can go radioactive and kill the cat at any moment. The key words are "at any moment". The cat could die the second after the box is closed, or in a billion years, it is completely unpredictable. For the human observer the cat inside the closed box is both alive and dead at the same time but in fact the cat is one or the other, that we can't observe the state is of very little interest to the terrified feline.
The philosophical connotations are obvious; no matter what we speculate, wish for, guess, makes no difference. Our perception of the cat being in two states at once is an example of human duality, we can hold two beliefs at the same time. The random state of the future has always frightened and excited humans. We are frightened of what might happen, excited about what might happen.
Sometimes we just have to open the box, step into the next, see for ourselves if we are greeted by a cuddly friend or a corpse.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Theatre For The Gods.
There's rehearsals, a script, a set, costumes, a soundtrack, two lead characters surrounded by a cast of bit players, there is a beginning, a middle and an end, hush then applause. There is a rap party afterwards. The performance is followed up by the production of a dvd and a book of photographs. If a wedding isn't theatre then what is it?
Many important occasions are accompanied by theatre. The opening of a parliament, the opening of a sporting event, the judges gown and gavel, the policeman's uniform and recital of rights, the marching of troops and the bugle, new years fireworks, a religious service, all nothing but ritual theatre.
The gods smile down on theatre, they know it is really for them, a ritual of worship designed to win approval and favour. The reaction of the human audience is part of the show, cheering and applause to gain the attention of those above.
The most primitive dance and chant, the most sophisticated royal wedding, theatre for the benefit of the gods.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Many important occasions are accompanied by theatre. The opening of a parliament, the opening of a sporting event, the judges gown and gavel, the policeman's uniform and recital of rights, the marching of troops and the bugle, new years fireworks, a religious service, all nothing but ritual theatre.
The gods smile down on theatre, they know it is really for them, a ritual of worship designed to win approval and favour. The reaction of the human audience is part of the show, cheering and applause to gain the attention of those above.
The most primitive dance and chant, the most sophisticated royal wedding, theatre for the benefit of the gods.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
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