People often ask me what I do in Portland Oregon when I go there each year. I do pretty much what I do here in Sydney. I hang around, drink coffee, chat, write, play where and when someone is gracious enough to invite me. The obvious question is why I travel so far to repeat an ordinary day elsewhere?
My response may sound lame. In Portland things are real and cool at the same time. In a world of fake one town of genuine is a blessing. I feel excited and mellow at the same time there, like anything could happen and who cares if it doesn't? The tunes sound sweeter, the kisses taste saltier, the flowers smile at me, the waitresses smile at my accent. The girls are no prettier than anywhere else but they are real. The cheeseburgers are unashamedly heart stopping, the summer berries sing in my mouth, The coffee keeps me buzzing on the edge of creativity, the architecture and gardens fill me with perspective, a sense that all will be created in it's own time, not mine.
There's more, but that paragraph alone is worth the price of admission.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Thursday, 30 June 2011
Do Not Go Gently Into Middle Age.
Do not go gently into middle age, rage, rage against the dying of the mojo. Do not fade into nostalgia, the circle of hell that Dante forgot, the good old days. That way only leads back to the womb, to reliance on the mother you spent your teenage years escaping.
If you plan to gain weight do it in style, debauched and wild, not with microwaved pizza on the couch. Switch off the box that affirms your safety, step out onto the street where you used to converse with living humans, it isn't as dangerous as the television tells you. Take your kids with you, let them see the example of a man in real life, not just the monarchy of home.
Maintain the rage, fight against complacency, hate routine so much you can taste it.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
If you plan to gain weight do it in style, debauched and wild, not with microwaved pizza on the couch. Switch off the box that affirms your safety, step out onto the street where you used to converse with living humans, it isn't as dangerous as the television tells you. Take your kids with you, let them see the example of a man in real life, not just the monarchy of home.
Maintain the rage, fight against complacency, hate routine so much you can taste it.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Wednesday, 29 June 2011
The Art Of Mateship.
"I need to ask you a favour mate, well, two favours."
"Whaddya' need mate?"
"On Monday I have to take the new work to the gallery, it's too big to carry on my own. Should only take half an hour, down the big stairs, through Woolloomooloo, up the path to the gallery."
"No worries mate, canvas is light, even I can carry that. What's the other favour."
"I need you to take it seriously. We have to be on time to meet the bloke there. And I need you to refrain from tripping down the stairs jokes, from small talk, I don't know mate, for some reason it seems inportant that we carry it there in the right way. It's my first real work. Hope you don't think I'm a being a wanker mate, it's just important to me."
"No worries mate, I understand, like Seymour Glass shining his shoes before he goes on the radio in that Franny And Zooey book you lent me."
"Right mate, just like that."
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
"Whaddya' need mate?"
"On Monday I have to take the new work to the gallery, it's too big to carry on my own. Should only take half an hour, down the big stairs, through Woolloomooloo, up the path to the gallery."
"No worries mate, canvas is light, even I can carry that. What's the other favour."
"I need you to take it seriously. We have to be on time to meet the bloke there. And I need you to refrain from tripping down the stairs jokes, from small talk, I don't know mate, for some reason it seems inportant that we carry it there in the right way. It's my first real work. Hope you don't think I'm a being a wanker mate, it's just important to me."
"No worries mate, I understand, like Seymour Glass shining his shoes before he goes on the radio in that Franny And Zooey book you lent me."
"Right mate, just like that."
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Planning A Portland Week.
So I've decided to take my tenor saxophone with me to Portland Oregon, play with some bands, reggae and blues, have some fun. Why not? Fun is good.
I can already see how my first week will pan out.
Monday, Pub At The End Of The Universe open mic. Always a great mix of styles and players, hopefully catch up with Jay, Jim Strange, Ian the publican, Andrew Gorny guitar genius.
Tuesday, blues jam at Star E. Rose Cafe, N.E. Alberta, with blues legend Johnny D. I learn so much just being in the same room as Johnny D, his cool, his essence, his intense vocals, and a whole bunch of other great folks like Hollie Sundin.
Wednesday, Jim Crutcher's open mic out at Tigardville Station Bar. A room full of the sweetest folk you'll ever meet and some great tunes, sit in on the jam with the boys and girls at the end of the night.
Thursday, busk on S.E. Hawthorne, take any cash earned and go for the best cheeseburger in town at that pub I can never remember the name of.
Friday, Artichoke Music, maybe play audience, maybe play if there's a blues act on.
Saturday, Portland Saturday Markets, go in search of Earl and the Reggae Allstars if Earl is back from the east coast, maybe try the Jolly Roger Pub later that night and see which reggae band is doing their thing.
Sunday I'll need a rest, but won't get one because there is always something on in Portland, great folks to play with and for, I'm excited.
Life is sweet.
Parkstreet.
I can already see how my first week will pan out.
Monday, Pub At The End Of The Universe open mic. Always a great mix of styles and players, hopefully catch up with Jay, Jim Strange, Ian the publican, Andrew Gorny guitar genius.
Tuesday, blues jam at Star E. Rose Cafe, N.E. Alberta, with blues legend Johnny D. I learn so much just being in the same room as Johnny D, his cool, his essence, his intense vocals, and a whole bunch of other great folks like Hollie Sundin.
Wednesday, Jim Crutcher's open mic out at Tigardville Station Bar. A room full of the sweetest folk you'll ever meet and some great tunes, sit in on the jam with the boys and girls at the end of the night.
Thursday, busk on S.E. Hawthorne, take any cash earned and go for the best cheeseburger in town at that pub I can never remember the name of.
Friday, Artichoke Music, maybe play audience, maybe play if there's a blues act on.
Saturday, Portland Saturday Markets, go in search of Earl and the Reggae Allstars if Earl is back from the east coast, maybe try the Jolly Roger Pub later that night and see which reggae band is doing their thing.
Sunday I'll need a rest, but won't get one because there is always something on in Portland, great folks to play with and for, I'm excited.
Life is sweet.
Parkstreet.
Tuesday, 28 June 2011
Attraction And Political Correctness, Another Underpants Post.
On Australian television there is a commercial for underpants that features thirty or forty models strutting around in unison. The product is everyday, cotton comfortable underwear so the mood is very tongue in cheek. The models are long legged and firm busted but fit into the realm of real women, no mega boobs or stick figures. The ad runs for thirty seconds, I believe it should run for thirty minutes, I could watch and watch and watch.
I find every woman in that advertisement attractive, if any one of them knocked on my door dressed in their every day underwear and asked, "can you help me out?", I would willingly oblige even though I know nothing of their personalities, tastes, even if they are nice people. How can that be? I'm discerning about everything else I consume, physically and emotionally, discerning about the company I keep, yet I could happily undertake the most intimate act with these strangers. Of course they are beautiful girls, but I know plenty of beautiful girls.
The primitive urge to mate with a healthy partner who would ensure the survival of offspring explains part of it, none of us are immune to that. Yet throughout history the sort of women men find attractive and pursue has changed with fashion and culture. In some cultures large women signify wealth and therefore status. In ours the skinny, bony model is queen. It's not all about procreation.
In this particular case I believe the attraction is the sense of fun in the ad. There is no pouting, no distant gazes, just sexy girls in knickers and bras enjoying being sexy. It may be acting but it's joyous, sexy acting. Australia has become so politically correct and strung out that I find myself questioning why beautiful women wearing underwear and a smile are attractive!
I'm off to try to raise funding to turn that commercial into a feature film length production.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I find every woman in that advertisement attractive, if any one of them knocked on my door dressed in their every day underwear and asked, "can you help me out?", I would willingly oblige even though I know nothing of their personalities, tastes, even if they are nice people. How can that be? I'm discerning about everything else I consume, physically and emotionally, discerning about the company I keep, yet I could happily undertake the most intimate act with these strangers. Of course they are beautiful girls, but I know plenty of beautiful girls.
The primitive urge to mate with a healthy partner who would ensure the survival of offspring explains part of it, none of us are immune to that. Yet throughout history the sort of women men find attractive and pursue has changed with fashion and culture. In some cultures large women signify wealth and therefore status. In ours the skinny, bony model is queen. It's not all about procreation.
In this particular case I believe the attraction is the sense of fun in the ad. There is no pouting, no distant gazes, just sexy girls in knickers and bras enjoying being sexy. It may be acting but it's joyous, sexy acting. Australia has become so politically correct and strung out that I find myself questioning why beautiful women wearing underwear and a smile are attractive!
I'm off to try to raise funding to turn that commercial into a feature film length production.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Note To Self.
I mostly play improvised music, a state of mind business, tuning into the part of me that feels music naturally and forgetting all else. Today I picked up my guitar, held it in my arms, hands and voice vibrating the air in unison, songs with a beginning, middle, end. It was a pleasure to feel this real, honest form of music, a timely reminder not to disappear up my own spiritual arse.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Monday, 27 June 2011
Nothing To Say.
My last post, The Song Of Her Is A Waltz, sums up everything I'm thinking and feeling today. I'm in the blissful state of having nothing to say.
Some days are good days and should be left alone to be good, no thought, breath in, breath out, let it be.
Parkstreet.
Some days are good days and should be left alone to be good, no thought, breath in, breath out, let it be.
Parkstreet.
Sunday, 26 June 2011
The Song Of Her Is A Waltz.
I'm watching a man, I can see him but he can't see me. Just by looking at him I know him, know him like he is myself.
He looks distant, distracted, happy, not disconcerted. In his mind he is dancing little rhythms, singing little melodies. He has always felt and interpreted the world this way, has only recently accepted it, was always afraid of losing touch with reality if he let the music take over. An experience a few months ago let him know that he was fine, that it was the fear that made him feel he was losing his mind, not his nature.
The music is part of him now, not just what he does. As he walks he sings everything he percieves, sings frail old man, sings pretty young girl, sings pedestrian crossing, traffic, pavement, railway station. Everything has it's own song. He recently played his last thoughtful gig, where the sets were cobbled together to fit an audience, where he played what sounded right. From now on he will play only himself, the rhythms and songs in his mind, play without thinking.
I can see something else in him too. There is another song, a constant, a sweet tune, her name, her eyes, her smile, her body, her spirit. There is a hint of yearning, mostly serenity, the knowledge that she exists enough to make him sing joyously of the universe even though she is many miles away. It's obvious that she was the key to his acceptance of himself and his nature, that it took a while for that key to turn the lock, to calm the fear, to open his soul.
The song of her is a waltz, the eternal dance, no beginning, no end, just being. There is no melody, all is improvised, all now. She can feel that he is singing of her even though she is many miles away, time and space mean nothing.
The man looks up, notices me watching him, recognizes my recognition. Suddenly everything is everything, I know him like he is myself.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
He looks distant, distracted, happy, not disconcerted. In his mind he is dancing little rhythms, singing little melodies. He has always felt and interpreted the world this way, has only recently accepted it, was always afraid of losing touch with reality if he let the music take over. An experience a few months ago let him know that he was fine, that it was the fear that made him feel he was losing his mind, not his nature.
The music is part of him now, not just what he does. As he walks he sings everything he percieves, sings frail old man, sings pretty young girl, sings pedestrian crossing, traffic, pavement, railway station. Everything has it's own song. He recently played his last thoughtful gig, where the sets were cobbled together to fit an audience, where he played what sounded right. From now on he will play only himself, the rhythms and songs in his mind, play without thinking.
I can see something else in him too. There is another song, a constant, a sweet tune, her name, her eyes, her smile, her body, her spirit. There is a hint of yearning, mostly serenity, the knowledge that she exists enough to make him sing joyously of the universe even though she is many miles away. It's obvious that she was the key to his acceptance of himself and his nature, that it took a while for that key to turn the lock, to calm the fear, to open his soul.
The song of her is a waltz, the eternal dance, no beginning, no end, just being. There is no melody, all is improvised, all now. She can feel that he is singing of her even though she is many miles away, time and space mean nothing.
The man looks up, notices me watching him, recognizes my recognition. Suddenly everything is everything, I know him like he is myself.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Looking Death In The Eye.
When she died I believed I wanted to die, to join her. When I decided I wanted to live I just knew that the afterlife was for eternity, that a few years apart would be cool. When I fell in love again I became sure that heaven meant no more jealousy and silly sex organs, that everyone loved everyone up there. In short I believed whatever made me feel better, whatever rationalized my feelings.
I'm not down on myself for it, me and seven billion of the other people living on the planet right now have done the same thing in one way or another. Now I'm aware that's what I was doing I would certainly be down on myself if I did it again.
Instinct tells me that once the flame of life is extinguished, the body that transported that life itself consumed by flames, there is nothing else. My gut tells me this life is short, jolly or brutish depending on our luck, then over. Many disagree with me, in some ways I wish I could believe in their afterlife, in other ways a one off life is poetic, the living soul must truly live.
Living just once doesn't discount the value of a soul. It doesn't mean that soul isn't open to feel the universe. It's brevity makes it more valuable, beautiful. That the bits that make me came from all over the universe that they'll disperse to make another life another time, that is truly wonderful. It's possible that the tiny spark of magic that makes me an individual will disperse and return to the universe too, just in case I plan to return that spark in the best shape I can, not clouded by the petty desires and miseries of this life.
Looking death in the eye, seeing what you really see, is essential to truly living.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I'm not down on myself for it, me and seven billion of the other people living on the planet right now have done the same thing in one way or another. Now I'm aware that's what I was doing I would certainly be down on myself if I did it again.
Instinct tells me that once the flame of life is extinguished, the body that transported that life itself consumed by flames, there is nothing else. My gut tells me this life is short, jolly or brutish depending on our luck, then over. Many disagree with me, in some ways I wish I could believe in their afterlife, in other ways a one off life is poetic, the living soul must truly live.
Living just once doesn't discount the value of a soul. It doesn't mean that soul isn't open to feel the universe. It's brevity makes it more valuable, beautiful. That the bits that make me came from all over the universe that they'll disperse to make another life another time, that is truly wonderful. It's possible that the tiny spark of magic that makes me an individual will disperse and return to the universe too, just in case I plan to return that spark in the best shape I can, not clouded by the petty desires and miseries of this life.
Looking death in the eye, seeing what you really see, is essential to truly living.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Coming Home Babe.
I open my flute case, put the three pieces together, ensure the mouthpiece is at the correct angle, then stop and listen. I open my heart and mind, let the music flow, wait for the moment to play, when I can enhance the sound and feel, not before.
Flute is an unlikely instrument for a blues player, I don't why the two met in my mind, but they did. I've resisted it for years, tried one hundred other musical options, but coming home to playing blues is coming home. That simple twelve bar progression with it's infinite variation is in me. I love it.
There seems little else to do but put my flute together, open my heart and mind, and blow. I'm coming home babe.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Saturday, 25 June 2011
Real Work, Real Thought.
"Get your little bag of rocks out of my breakfast."
An apartment full of students and other lunatics has it's ups and downs. A constant stream of first year arts chicks experimenting with their sexuality is balanced by a constant stream of first year arts chicks experimenting with their spiritual path. One is fun, the other isn't.
At the time I was going through a working class hero phase, working in a basement storeroom lifting heavy things. I could afford a joint and a bottle of wine so I was a good option for many of the lasses who passed through the communal apartment. I'd sit up all night drinking with the tripper kids, talking philosophy and god, then rise at dawn to walk to work, don the grey dustcoat of the unheard man. I was exploring two truths at the same time, sleeping little, my candle was a cliche burning bright.
One night it came to me. There is truth in work. A very annoying girl had decided she'd found the truth in reading runes, pulling random, abstract messages from a bag, interpreting them as a guide. I tried to be open minded but knew it was nothing but horse shit. She had abdicated the throne of her mind, handed over the power of thought to a silly new age fad. A smart enough person, she could have applied herself to real ideas and study, instead chose to attend university as a passtime. She had given up on hope. Buttering up to work every day, in whatever form, is an expression of hope.
I tried to debate reasonably, discover her thinking behind her faith in the runes, was canned for not understanding faith. One thing I knew was that faith is not handing over personal responsibility to a dice roll. I went to bed, at six in the morning the kids were still at the kitchen table pulling rocks from a bag and discussing the truth of the outcome. They frowned at me as I sat at my usual spot to eat my Weet Bix, a working man needs breakfast. They were all saying words but I couldn't hear them, I just wanted to eat and go to work.
Perhaps I was a little harsh as I pushed their nonsense out of my way, perhaps it is the job of a teacher to be harsh on occasion? I told them that without applying real thought to real work there was no truth.
Over twenty years later I'm just starting to understand my own words. I've effectively been pulling random rocks out of a bag and expecting a divine truth, when I have worked hard I've seen it as a path to a destination, not a path to truth.
It's time for me to push aside my own little bag of rocks, eat my breakfast, apply myself to real thought about real work.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
An apartment full of students and other lunatics has it's ups and downs. A constant stream of first year arts chicks experimenting with their sexuality is balanced by a constant stream of first year arts chicks experimenting with their spiritual path. One is fun, the other isn't.
At the time I was going through a working class hero phase, working in a basement storeroom lifting heavy things. I could afford a joint and a bottle of wine so I was a good option for many of the lasses who passed through the communal apartment. I'd sit up all night drinking with the tripper kids, talking philosophy and god, then rise at dawn to walk to work, don the grey dustcoat of the unheard man. I was exploring two truths at the same time, sleeping little, my candle was a cliche burning bright.
One night it came to me. There is truth in work. A very annoying girl had decided she'd found the truth in reading runes, pulling random, abstract messages from a bag, interpreting them as a guide. I tried to be open minded but knew it was nothing but horse shit. She had abdicated the throne of her mind, handed over the power of thought to a silly new age fad. A smart enough person, she could have applied herself to real ideas and study, instead chose to attend university as a passtime. She had given up on hope. Buttering up to work every day, in whatever form, is an expression of hope.
I tried to debate reasonably, discover her thinking behind her faith in the runes, was canned for not understanding faith. One thing I knew was that faith is not handing over personal responsibility to a dice roll. I went to bed, at six in the morning the kids were still at the kitchen table pulling rocks from a bag and discussing the truth of the outcome. They frowned at me as I sat at my usual spot to eat my Weet Bix, a working man needs breakfast. They were all saying words but I couldn't hear them, I just wanted to eat and go to work.
Perhaps I was a little harsh as I pushed their nonsense out of my way, perhaps it is the job of a teacher to be harsh on occasion? I told them that without applying real thought to real work there was no truth.
Over twenty years later I'm just starting to understand my own words. I've effectively been pulling random rocks out of a bag and expecting a divine truth, when I have worked hard I've seen it as a path to a destination, not a path to truth.
It's time for me to push aside my own little bag of rocks, eat my breakfast, apply myself to real thought about real work.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Romance And Success.
Some of the most despicable humans have loved and been loved. Romantic love is often seen as a sign of success, but it isn't, romance stands alone from any other quality we may or may not possess.
When I chat with male friends it is easy to believe they are all chanelling the spirit of Don Juan, that maybe I'm the only one who doubts myself in the romantic or bedroom realm. When I chat with women I hear a very different story, two out of three report dysfunction of some sort in their partners. The cliche that you can't believe everything you hear stands firm when it comes to romance.
I've known men with status and wealth who's romantic lives were a disaster or a sham, I've known bum musicians without a dollar to their name who need a chair and a whip to keep the ladies at bay. Most of the career women I know have truly horrible romantic lives, I don't know why. It is clear to me that worldly success has nothing to do with romantic success.
Most of us agree that a sweet romantic life is one of the keys to happiness. Most of us have no idea how to achieve such a sweet romance. We try to make ourselves attractive through other worldly pursuits but it simply doesn't work. Some stumble upon love accidentally, I repress the desire to hate them for it, it just doesn't seem fair that it happens easily for some and not for others. Others pursue romance actively, in the bars or online, some successfully, some not.
It seems to me that the main impediment to finding romance is the idea of attaching one's self worth to it. No prospective partner can live up to that sort of pressure. Once we understand that true love is genuinely true love for our best and worst that pressure is relieved, everyone can chill and get on with the good stuff.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
When I chat with male friends it is easy to believe they are all chanelling the spirit of Don Juan, that maybe I'm the only one who doubts myself in the romantic or bedroom realm. When I chat with women I hear a very different story, two out of three report dysfunction of some sort in their partners. The cliche that you can't believe everything you hear stands firm when it comes to romance.
I've known men with status and wealth who's romantic lives were a disaster or a sham, I've known bum musicians without a dollar to their name who need a chair and a whip to keep the ladies at bay. Most of the career women I know have truly horrible romantic lives, I don't know why. It is clear to me that worldly success has nothing to do with romantic success.
Most of us agree that a sweet romantic life is one of the keys to happiness. Most of us have no idea how to achieve such a sweet romance. We try to make ourselves attractive through other worldly pursuits but it simply doesn't work. Some stumble upon love accidentally, I repress the desire to hate them for it, it just doesn't seem fair that it happens easily for some and not for others. Others pursue romance actively, in the bars or online, some successfully, some not.
It seems to me that the main impediment to finding romance is the idea of attaching one's self worth to it. No prospective partner can live up to that sort of pressure. Once we understand that true love is genuinely true love for our best and worst that pressure is relieved, everyone can chill and get on with the good stuff.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Friday, 24 June 2011
And You.
You.
A world in a speck of dust, a hand full of galaxies.
Walking home every step a potential alternate universe.
And you.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
A world in a speck of dust, a hand full of galaxies.
Walking home every step a potential alternate universe.
And you.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
A Festival Of Ignorance.
She's using her Japanese heritage to promote a Yoko Ono image, not pulling it off. It takes more than the first semester of a degree in arts, majoring in Women's Studies, to match up to an arty wanker of international standing. I'm estimating this is her third drug experience, and she's milking it for every "I'm so crazy" moment.
It's a burlesque kind of show, before the girl in the bunny costume comes on we warm up with a few jazz standards. Miss would be Ono objects to the lyric "That's why the lady is a tramp". A string of loud, incongruous "how dare you's". Very loud.
She hasn't heard or understood the rest of the lyric, which points out that the lady is strong and independant and therefore labelled a tramp, a light hearted social commentary of it's time. The student of sociology hears what she wants to hear, disregards the rest, she is a symbol of her generation.
She is a one woman, obnoxious festival of ignorance.
After the gig she finds me outside, is not above selling a simpering smile for the payment of a cigarette. Once alight she decides to tell me how shit I am, in those words. As I walk away she tries to pull me back to apologize, burns my favourite jacket with the cigarette she has just whored out of me.
I kind of love her for believing she invented outrageous behaviour.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
It's a burlesque kind of show, before the girl in the bunny costume comes on we warm up with a few jazz standards. Miss would be Ono objects to the lyric "That's why the lady is a tramp". A string of loud, incongruous "how dare you's". Very loud.
She hasn't heard or understood the rest of the lyric, which points out that the lady is strong and independant and therefore labelled a tramp, a light hearted social commentary of it's time. The student of sociology hears what she wants to hear, disregards the rest, she is a symbol of her generation.
She is a one woman, obnoxious festival of ignorance.
After the gig she finds me outside, is not above selling a simpering smile for the payment of a cigarette. Once alight she decides to tell me how shit I am, in those words. As I walk away she tries to pull me back to apologize, burns my favourite jacket with the cigarette she has just whored out of me.
I kind of love her for believing she invented outrageous behaviour.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Thursday, 23 June 2011
Back To Bed.
I was woken by the compulsive renovator upstairs this morning. I know eight in the morning isn't early for most of you, but I'm a fictional character, I make up my own hours. Then the man my real estate agent sends to not fix anything came around, poked at my washing machine and smelled bad for a while. I have a late night gig tonight so I decided to go back to bed.
Going back to bed is one of the greatest joys I know. It's not the compulsory sleep of nature, it's the extra. bonus sleep of a free man. A few simple decisions, radio on, radio off, two pillows or three, then blissful nothingness, not asleep, not awake, just being.
Then there is time to imagine who I'd like to join me, someone else who'd appreciate this simple happiness? Every man has a long list of fantasy bed partners, the back to bed partner is a different entity altogether, someone who's company makes everything better, even the time when I'm just being. The girl I can go back to bed with is the one.
I slept much longer than I should have, woke up with a feeling I haven't known in years. It's mid afternoon, time to go out into the world, a suddenly different world.
I know who I'd choose to go back to bed with.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Going back to bed is one of the greatest joys I know. It's not the compulsory sleep of nature, it's the extra. bonus sleep of a free man. A few simple decisions, radio on, radio off, two pillows or three, then blissful nothingness, not asleep, not awake, just being.
Then there is time to imagine who I'd like to join me, someone else who'd appreciate this simple happiness? Every man has a long list of fantasy bed partners, the back to bed partner is a different entity altogether, someone who's company makes everything better, even the time when I'm just being. The girl I can go back to bed with is the one.
I slept much longer than I should have, woke up with a feeling I haven't known in years. It's mid afternoon, time to go out into the world, a suddenly different world.
I know who I'd choose to go back to bed with.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Wednesday, 22 June 2011
Living The Saxophone Dream.
This week my Friday night gig involves playing saxophone at a stripper's birthday party. The birthday girl and some of her friends will be performing erotic dance to the music. I will get paid cash and fed finger food. I have the hide to call this work.
I am indeed living the saxophone dream.
Parkstreet.
I am indeed living the saxophone dream.
Parkstreet.
Maliciously Positive.
A friend recently joked that he enjoys being constantly positive becasue it irritates people. For someone like me, someone who enjoys a good old fashioned complain, this is a whole new use of a positive attitude I hadn't considered.
Don't think of it as your car breaking down, think of it as reducing your carbon footprint. Your socks don't smell so bad, not half as bad as your feet. It's not that she doesn't like you, it's just the idea of having sex with you that repulses her. Think of it as buying in, not selling out, really it is.
My friend is a naturally optimistic and positive person, he often uses a joke at his own expense to help others feel the same way. My respect for him won't prevent me twisting his words and using them to justify my own appalling behaviour.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Don't think of it as your car breaking down, think of it as reducing your carbon footprint. Your socks don't smell so bad, not half as bad as your feet. It's not that she doesn't like you, it's just the idea of having sex with you that repulses her. Think of it as buying in, not selling out, really it is.
My friend is a naturally optimistic and positive person, he often uses a joke at his own expense to help others feel the same way. My respect for him won't prevent me twisting his words and using them to justify my own appalling behaviour.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Life Can Get Heavy.
A soldier carries a heavy pack throughout a campaign, relies on every single object in it for his survival. If the soldier perceives the pack as a burden he will suffer, if he sees it as a brother, a part of himself, it will still weigh as much but he will carry it easily.
Grief is often seen as a burden. It isn't. The time before grief, when shock and anger won't allow grief, is astonishingly painful. The time after grief when the real world beckons us back is terrifying. The time of deep grief is comforting, grief is a companion, a part of us, it is heavy but bearable.
A mother can lift a child's weight easily. Any other object of the same weight would defeat her even though it doesn't wriggle and shout. The same weight of a sack of potatoes, just as heavy, easily born.
Life can get heavy. Embrace it, it is part of you.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Blues, Not Art by Blute, blues flute band, on iTunes, all the other sites.
Grief is often seen as a burden. It isn't. The time before grief, when shock and anger won't allow grief, is astonishingly painful. The time after grief when the real world beckons us back is terrifying. The time of deep grief is comforting, grief is a companion, a part of us, it is heavy but bearable.
A mother can lift a child's weight easily. Any other object of the same weight would defeat her even though it doesn't wriggle and shout. The same weight of a sack of potatoes, just as heavy, easily born.
Life can get heavy. Embrace it, it is part of you.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Blues, Not Art by Blute, blues flute band, on iTunes, all the other sites.
Tuesday, 21 June 2011
Lowered Expectations Revisited.
There was a time when a town that could build a bridge held status, that town had reached a stage of technical skill and wealth that made grand engineering feats possible. With a bridge all things became possible, communication, trade, expansion. Today we take bridges for granted, drive our cars across them without considering the marvel, curse them when they are full of traffic.
The idea of humans employing their collective wealth and skill to create an environment that improves the lot of all is way out of fashion. We are all being trained to expect less from our lives rather than more. We all complain when our built infrastructure fails us, yet we are resistant to paying for maintenance and new construction.
In the 1980's an Australian government was elected on the back of denying an unpopular dam, it was symbolic of the times. No government, state or federal, has had the courage to plan a new dam since, even though our population is half as large again as it was back then. In a country with so much land and so prone to drought this is madness, complete madness. We are being trained to expect less, use less, but we will reach a point where we can't use any less and the civil infrastructure will let us down.
We have become ashamed of our skill and wealth, not proud of it. We are the lesser for it. We should be proud of our bridges and the status they reflect on us.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The idea of humans employing their collective wealth and skill to create an environment that improves the lot of all is way out of fashion. We are all being trained to expect less from our lives rather than more. We all complain when our built infrastructure fails us, yet we are resistant to paying for maintenance and new construction.
In the 1980's an Australian government was elected on the back of denying an unpopular dam, it was symbolic of the times. No government, state or federal, has had the courage to plan a new dam since, even though our population is half as large again as it was back then. In a country with so much land and so prone to drought this is madness, complete madness. We are being trained to expect less, use less, but we will reach a point where we can't use any less and the civil infrastructure will let us down.
We have become ashamed of our skill and wealth, not proud of it. We are the lesser for it. We should be proud of our bridges and the status they reflect on us.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Sometimes I Say Stuff.
Sometimes I just say stuff. I open my mouth and words flow out like water from a skin. Sometimes I'm just entertaining friends, saying funny stuff, other times I'm filling up the silence that my distraction addicted brain dreads.
I often forget that the people who are most likely to listen to what I say, to take my words to heart, are the people who love me. They can also be the people I am most careless around, perhaps their love makes me more fearful of silence than usual. Careless words are the mark of a fool.
It's often said that the person you can sit in happy silence with is a true love. That person can teach us the beauty of silence, free us from our fear.
This time I will shut up and listen to her silence, my silence, our silence.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I often forget that the people who are most likely to listen to what I say, to take my words to heart, are the people who love me. They can also be the people I am most careless around, perhaps their love makes me more fearful of silence than usual. Careless words are the mark of a fool.
It's often said that the person you can sit in happy silence with is a true love. That person can teach us the beauty of silence, free us from our fear.
This time I will shut up and listen to her silence, my silence, our silence.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Monday, 20 June 2011
Think Like A Fish.
I'm up to the last, nitty gritty bits of travel plans before I depart in a couple of weeks. Phone calls to banks and phone companies, all the boring stuff, I've put it all off as long as possible. By doing all this stuff properly now I'll know that everything will go smoothly when I arrive.
I always expect the worst from bureaucracy, based on experience. There is a chance that I pick up the phone in full battle armour, prepared for a red tape battle, fired up and ready for the worst. There is a chance that my opponent, my enemy, the phone centre operator, picks up on my combative mood and mirrors it.
Today I attempted a different approach, thought like a fish to catch a fish, thought like someone who has to wade through the swamp of human disorganization daily, who's sole aim is a few minutes on dry land for a mid morning coffee break. I lined up my ducks, allowed the operator the dignity of following their prepared script, answered their questions in order.
It so very nearly went smoothly.
Two out of three calls went like a dream, the third I struck the guy who was chatting on facebook while he half heartedly ticked my boxes. By then I wasn't in a fighting mood. It didn't take long to for that mood to return.
If two out of three dealings with bureaucracy went so well I'd be a happy man. Now all the tedious stuff is done there is nothing left but to board a plane, watch fourteen episodes of Family Guy then land in America and go trout fishing for dreams.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I always expect the worst from bureaucracy, based on experience. There is a chance that I pick up the phone in full battle armour, prepared for a red tape battle, fired up and ready for the worst. There is a chance that my opponent, my enemy, the phone centre operator, picks up on my combative mood and mirrors it.
Today I attempted a different approach, thought like a fish to catch a fish, thought like someone who has to wade through the swamp of human disorganization daily, who's sole aim is a few minutes on dry land for a mid morning coffee break. I lined up my ducks, allowed the operator the dignity of following their prepared script, answered their questions in order.
It so very nearly went smoothly.
Two out of three calls went like a dream, the third I struck the guy who was chatting on facebook while he half heartedly ticked my boxes. By then I wasn't in a fighting mood. It didn't take long to for that mood to return.
If two out of three dealings with bureaucracy went so well I'd be a happy man. Now all the tedious stuff is done there is nothing left but to board a plane, watch fourteen episodes of Family Guy then land in America and go trout fishing for dreams.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The Mean Alley Jazz Cats.
I've been fortunate enough to know a handful of men who are truly dedicated to their art and to themselves as men. It's been an honour to know them, I feel blessed. They are the mean alley jazz cats who keep everything real, who commit to their truth, who refuse to marry up their lives to lies and ties.
Staying hungry gets harder as we grow older. We can all find ways to keep our bellies full but running on emotional empty is hard and gets harder. A boxer knows when it is time to retire, when he is softening and slowing, the artist knows when he starts yearning for human company instead of the muse.
Every day we ask ourselves if we can keep going and every day the answer is yes.
From the outside these great men look like lunatics, prone to self harm, possibly a danger to others. Their truth makes others uncomfortable, only the like minded can be friends, the numbers of like minded dwindle over time, they land softly and disappear, glorious snow flakes.
The remaining few gather for coffee and conversation then return to work. They are born alone, work alone, die alone. I feel lucky to know some of these marvelous cats, to be welcomed and recognized by them.
Parkstreet.
Staying hungry gets harder as we grow older. We can all find ways to keep our bellies full but running on emotional empty is hard and gets harder. A boxer knows when it is time to retire, when he is softening and slowing, the artist knows when he starts yearning for human company instead of the muse.
Every day we ask ourselves if we can keep going and every day the answer is yes.
From the outside these great men look like lunatics, prone to self harm, possibly a danger to others. Their truth makes others uncomfortable, only the like minded can be friends, the numbers of like minded dwindle over time, they land softly and disappear, glorious snow flakes.
The remaining few gather for coffee and conversation then return to work. They are born alone, work alone, die alone. I feel lucky to know some of these marvelous cats, to be welcomed and recognized by them.
Parkstreet.
Sunday, 19 June 2011
Is Denialist Even A Word?
I'm a heretic, a non believer in The Church of Climate Change and Redemption Through Lowered Expectations. I must now wear the label of "Denialist" upon my clothing for all to see, The Church is not a forgiving one.
I dispute some of the science, not all of it, but that isn't the point, I am outcast because I dispute the methodology of The Church. Like all faiths the methodology has become more important than the cause, a faith unto itself.
I feel free to point out the size of the carbon footprints of the high priests and priestesses of The Church, Al Gore's is bigger than Texas. Combined the high priests and priestesses footprints are bigger than a double bill of The Beatles and Elvis, on ice. Saying this out loud is an unforgiveable sin.
I feel free to point out that if human production of carbon dioxide is the problem then surely less humans is one answer, but The Church decrees what is considered racist and what is not. Fear of appearing racist prevents any discussion of this subject. The faithful applaud Britain for her promise to reduce carbon dioxide release, yet decry the nuclear power that will make it possible. To suggest that computer modelling has been proved to be both wibbly and wobbly, in no way a basis for serious policy, is grounds for excommunication.
When one explains the nature of base load power, that solar and wind power can't cut it yet, The Chuch sticks it's collective fingers in it's ears and repeates the mantra, "lalalalalalalala I'm not listening" When one lists all the modern conveniences that will disappear if the current policies of lowering our expectations from life go ahead one is called soft, or uncaring.
Most of the people in my country live on the coast. The Church tells us the sea will swallow us all whole, tomorrow. Doomsday prophecies are the hallmark of a good, old fashioned fundamentalist church. All the time spent on nonsense and panic could be better spent on real solutions.
That a church would label me in the style of the NAZI's does not surprise me, where do you think the NAZI's got the idea from? If I am a Denialist so be it, I am still free to be one, for now. As The Church takes control of my government, as that civilized line between the two becomes blurred, even that freedom will be taken from me. As always, follow the money, The Church demands that research be orthodox, that funding be determined on that basis.
When a member of The Church labels me I don't bother arguing with them. I have tried that futile path, the true believer will not be swayed. I now have a standard response. Label me? Fuck you!
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I dispute some of the science, not all of it, but that isn't the point, I am outcast because I dispute the methodology of The Church. Like all faiths the methodology has become more important than the cause, a faith unto itself.
I feel free to point out the size of the carbon footprints of the high priests and priestesses of The Church, Al Gore's is bigger than Texas. Combined the high priests and priestesses footprints are bigger than a double bill of The Beatles and Elvis, on ice. Saying this out loud is an unforgiveable sin.
I feel free to point out that if human production of carbon dioxide is the problem then surely less humans is one answer, but The Church decrees what is considered racist and what is not. Fear of appearing racist prevents any discussion of this subject. The faithful applaud Britain for her promise to reduce carbon dioxide release, yet decry the nuclear power that will make it possible. To suggest that computer modelling has been proved to be both wibbly and wobbly, in no way a basis for serious policy, is grounds for excommunication.
When one explains the nature of base load power, that solar and wind power can't cut it yet, The Chuch sticks it's collective fingers in it's ears and repeates the mantra, "lalalalalalalala I'm not listening" When one lists all the modern conveniences that will disappear if the current policies of lowering our expectations from life go ahead one is called soft, or uncaring.
Most of the people in my country live on the coast. The Church tells us the sea will swallow us all whole, tomorrow. Doomsday prophecies are the hallmark of a good, old fashioned fundamentalist church. All the time spent on nonsense and panic could be better spent on real solutions.
That a church would label me in the style of the NAZI's does not surprise me, where do you think the NAZI's got the idea from? If I am a Denialist so be it, I am still free to be one, for now. As The Church takes control of my government, as that civilized line between the two becomes blurred, even that freedom will be taken from me. As always, follow the money, The Church demands that research be orthodox, that funding be determined on that basis.
When a member of The Church labels me I don't bother arguing with them. I have tried that futile path, the true believer will not be swayed. I now have a standard response. Label me? Fuck you!
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Devotion.
We define our lives by the way we define words, especially the words we tell ourselves. When we speak of devotion we usually mean to a person, a cause, a task. Genuine devotion is to the spirit, the universe, love, god, call it what you will. We often discover this true devotion through devotion to a person, a cause, a task, they are the media that teach us. When we find true devotion every action is defined by our knowledge of that word, every action, no matter how small it seems, becomes a part of the whole, something we don't understand but know exists.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Saturday, 18 June 2011
Vale Clarence Clemons.
When I was sixteen years old a mate dragged me to a Springsteen concert. I wasn't so keen, didn't know a lot about him. I was blown away.
His saxophonist, Clarenec Clemons, was a force of nature, a giant happiness machine who spread love and joy through the medium of his instrument.
As a beginner, skinny white boy saxophonist, if I can play with a fraction of his spirit I'll be content.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
His saxophonist, Clarenec Clemons, was a force of nature, a giant happiness machine who spread love and joy through the medium of his instrument.
As a beginner, skinny white boy saxophonist, if I can play with a fraction of his spirit I'll be content.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
My Old Table.
I'm thinking about the old vaudeville trick, where a table cloth is whisked from a fully set table without disturbing the wine glasses, plates, salt and pepper shakers. It happens so quickly that it's hard to understand what happened for a moment. I feel like it has happened to me, that a layer of pretence has been removed from the table of my life, almost without me noticing, that all the good things are where they were but now they rest on an exposed, natural surface.
The table isn't as presentable as the starched white cloth but I like it well enough. A few scars and burn marks, The natural grain actually sets off the setting nicely, it looks and feels right. I like most of the things on my table, they make me content, now I'm feeling them more honestly.
In one corner, hidden under my side plate, is a set of initials, carved over a quarter of a century ago. With the cloth in place they were only a memory. Now I can see them clearly.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The table isn't as presentable as the starched white cloth but I like it well enough. A few scars and burn marks, The natural grain actually sets off the setting nicely, it looks and feels right. I like most of the things on my table, they make me content, now I'm feeling them more honestly.
In one corner, hidden under my side plate, is a set of initials, carved over a quarter of a century ago. With the cloth in place they were only a memory. Now I can see them clearly.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Thank You For The Dignity Of Another Night's Work.
My favourite jazz drummer finishes every gig with the words, "thank you for the dignity of another night's work". It's a little tongue in cheek, but his humility is genuine, his life is dedicated to serving the groove, earning a living from it is a joy for him.
I'm returning to being a playing musician, rather than a writing one producing my own songs and shows. I'm enjoying the simple, working man feel of it. I turn up prepared, play, get paid, go home. I don't have to promote, organize, worry. Some folks are driven, others are happy to work at their own craft and earn a crust.
Tonight I played for a band leader and friend. The band was great, the audience were lovely, the staff spoiled us, and I could relax and enjoy every moment. My tasks were to add colour and emotion to the songs, to lose myself in the music and play from my heart. I feel I did those things and deserved my wage at the end of the night.
Life can be so sweet when we listen to our true nature, sing the song we hear in our heart. I feel blessed.
Thank you for the dignity of another night's work.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I'm returning to being a playing musician, rather than a writing one producing my own songs and shows. I'm enjoying the simple, working man feel of it. I turn up prepared, play, get paid, go home. I don't have to promote, organize, worry. Some folks are driven, others are happy to work at their own craft and earn a crust.
Tonight I played for a band leader and friend. The band was great, the audience were lovely, the staff spoiled us, and I could relax and enjoy every moment. My tasks were to add colour and emotion to the songs, to lose myself in the music and play from my heart. I feel I did those things and deserved my wage at the end of the night.
Life can be so sweet when we listen to our true nature, sing the song we hear in our heart. I feel blessed.
Thank you for the dignity of another night's work.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Friday, 17 June 2011
The Serious Music Show.
On Saturday mornings my bedside clock radio wakes me to a serious music show. Serious music folks discuss serious music in a serious manner. I usually listen because I enjoy being cranky and indignant but this morning I learned why I feel alienated from the modern music business.
The discussion was of a modern atonal piece, the consensus was that it required many listens to fully comprehend all the details. For me music is a performance art, each performance suffers the unbearable lightness of living just once. The same music may be played by the same musician the next night but it is a new life each time, a new audience, anything that needs to be expressed should be expressed in that one performance.
Recording has turned art music into intellectual masturbation. The biography and the liner notes have become as important as the actual sound. We forget how new the recording of music is, that for most of it's history music has been live or not at all. The relationship between audience and performer is the essence of the art, recording is a facsimile, an image of the real thing.
It is possible that recording is a seperate art altogether, that it should have a different title. If folks wish to masturbate intellectually over it perhaps they should do it in private, like any other masturbation? The emotional experience of being in a room, on one night, to hear one performance one time is one thing, recorded music another.
Some early jazz recordings capture that one night feeling, the band played live for the microphone, for an audience. Modern recording is so far removed from the live feeling that it may as well be a series of 0's and 1's.
Occasionally the serious music show will feature a live performance in the studio, real musicians playing for an airwaves audience. I'm amazed all these serious music types can't feel the difference.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The discussion was of a modern atonal piece, the consensus was that it required many listens to fully comprehend all the details. For me music is a performance art, each performance suffers the unbearable lightness of living just once. The same music may be played by the same musician the next night but it is a new life each time, a new audience, anything that needs to be expressed should be expressed in that one performance.
Recording has turned art music into intellectual masturbation. The biography and the liner notes have become as important as the actual sound. We forget how new the recording of music is, that for most of it's history music has been live or not at all. The relationship between audience and performer is the essence of the art, recording is a facsimile, an image of the real thing.
It is possible that recording is a seperate art altogether, that it should have a different title. If folks wish to masturbate intellectually over it perhaps they should do it in private, like any other masturbation? The emotional experience of being in a room, on one night, to hear one performance one time is one thing, recorded music another.
Some early jazz recordings capture that one night feeling, the band played live for the microphone, for an audience. Modern recording is so far removed from the live feeling that it may as well be a series of 0's and 1's.
Occasionally the serious music show will feature a live performance in the studio, real musicians playing for an airwaves audience. I'm amazed all these serious music types can't feel the difference.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The Ghost Of Richard Brautigan.
Last night the American Gothic cathedral that is Richard Brautigan visited me in my sleep. With the enchantment of his words he turned me into a red curry and carried me across the Pacific Ocean on a banana leaf.
Together we walked around the Haight Ashbury. Well, I walked, he floated. We both tried our darndest to love the tourist trash that now own that sacred ground. He took me back in time, showed me his apartment, where he worked, where he refused to do anything but what his talent demanded. I understood.
We walked and floated in silence, the silence of ourselves. At first I was a little disappointed, being in the company of the great writer I was expecting to see words glistening in the California sun like trout in a stream, occasionally leaping into the air for the sheer delight of jumping. I would have been happy if he'd just shown me a sign, the words "trout stream this way". I guess I was hoping to impress him, surface like a whale and blow him away with a salty spout of cleverness, but I felt that no words was part of the lesson.
He showed me a woman so beautiful that she caused traffic accidents wherever she went. I understood.
As morning approached his words turned my blood into wine, he carried me home in a holy grail. I awoke with the taste of wine on my lips, and the only words that he spoke all night in my mind.
"Kent Parkstreet, you are loved."
I understood. Trout stream this way.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Together we walked around the Haight Ashbury. Well, I walked, he floated. We both tried our darndest to love the tourist trash that now own that sacred ground. He took me back in time, showed me his apartment, where he worked, where he refused to do anything but what his talent demanded. I understood.
We walked and floated in silence, the silence of ourselves. At first I was a little disappointed, being in the company of the great writer I was expecting to see words glistening in the California sun like trout in a stream, occasionally leaping into the air for the sheer delight of jumping. I would have been happy if he'd just shown me a sign, the words "trout stream this way". I guess I was hoping to impress him, surface like a whale and blow him away with a salty spout of cleverness, but I felt that no words was part of the lesson.
He showed me a woman so beautiful that she caused traffic accidents wherever she went. I understood.
As morning approached his words turned my blood into wine, he carried me home in a holy grail. I awoke with the taste of wine on my lips, and the only words that he spoke all night in my mind.
"Kent Parkstreet, you are loved."
I understood. Trout stream this way.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Thursday, 16 June 2011
A One Word Poem.
We write the biographies of our own lives. Every day, every action, every choice is a choice of words that can describe us. A list or a poem, it's up to us.
Those who spend their time influencing others will find their tale full of feeble minded followers. Those who lead by the example of their own lives will be surrounded by vibrant characters who also strive.
The pursuit of wealth will write a ledger, the pursuit of status will write an A list, the pursuit of power will write a casualty report.
Real work will write a reference for future generations, a joyous life will leave them laughing.
A pursuit of the spirit, the essence of life, will leave a one word poem.
Love.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Warm Up, solo, improvised flute track, on iTunes, all the other sites.
Those who spend their time influencing others will find their tale full of feeble minded followers. Those who lead by the example of their own lives will be surrounded by vibrant characters who also strive.
The pursuit of wealth will write a ledger, the pursuit of status will write an A list, the pursuit of power will write a casualty report.
Real work will write a reference for future generations, a joyous life will leave them laughing.
A pursuit of the spirit, the essence of life, will leave a one word poem.
Love.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Warm Up, solo, improvised flute track, on iTunes, all the other sites.
Kisses And Promises.
It wasn't a movie kiss. There was no head rolling and roaming hands and heavy breathing, it was just a goodbye kiss between friends. It was just a kiss.
He wasn't sure if he imagined it, maybe her lips held his for a moment, almost a nibble, maybe he was just hoping? Was it a kiss or a promise? All he knew for sure was that he never knew anything about kisses and promises until it was too late. He'd never trusted his lips to tell him the truth, waited for words to confirm what he thought he'd felt. Once the words were spoken the magic of the kiss was always gone, the promise faded.
This time it would be different, he would treat his lips as a friendly witness, believe they were on his side. He wouldn't ask any silly questions, another kiss would be all the evidence he needed. This time he would hold the kiss, make the promise, there would be no doubt.
There is no such thing as a kiss that is just a kiss. Every kiss on the lips holds a promise, friendship, sex, love.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Blues, Not Art by Blute blues flute band, now available on iTunes, all the other sites..
He wasn't sure if he imagined it, maybe her lips held his for a moment, almost a nibble, maybe he was just hoping? Was it a kiss or a promise? All he knew for sure was that he never knew anything about kisses and promises until it was too late. He'd never trusted his lips to tell him the truth, waited for words to confirm what he thought he'd felt. Once the words were spoken the magic of the kiss was always gone, the promise faded.
This time it would be different, he would treat his lips as a friendly witness, believe they were on his side. He wouldn't ask any silly questions, another kiss would be all the evidence he needed. This time he would hold the kiss, make the promise, there would be no doubt.
There is no such thing as a kiss that is just a kiss. Every kiss on the lips holds a promise, friendship, sex, love.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Blues, Not Art by Blute blues flute band, now available on iTunes, all the other sites..
Wednesday, 15 June 2011
Bras And Knickers And Lock Picking.
It was a perfectly innocent conversation, about the problems with the laundry in her apartment building, how she'd had to go to a laundromat, that's why she was late. Then she told me that three sets of her underwear had been stolen, bras and knickers. She added the detail that they were some of her good ones, not her best, but good ones just the same. In my mind the innocent turned erotic as I imagined her and her good, then best underwear.
The fact that she graded her underwear meant she imagined wearing it for an audience. I suddenly very much wanted to be that audience. I started wondering what grade she had chosen to wear under those jeans and sweater when she headed out to meet me? She was tall, slender, elegant, she would have been alluring in her worst big cotton comfortables, but I hoped she'd gone for at least her good ones, just in case things went that way.
From that day I could never look at her without my imagination wandering beneath her clothes. It was just an innocent conversation about laundry, but it was the first hint of intimacy between us, the first click in the delicate process of picking her lock.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Solo, acoustic Red Brown Dust, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
The fact that she graded her underwear meant she imagined wearing it for an audience. I suddenly very much wanted to be that audience. I started wondering what grade she had chosen to wear under those jeans and sweater when she headed out to meet me? She was tall, slender, elegant, she would have been alluring in her worst big cotton comfortables, but I hoped she'd gone for at least her good ones, just in case things went that way.
From that day I could never look at her without my imagination wandering beneath her clothes. It was just an innocent conversation about laundry, but it was the first hint of intimacy between us, the first click in the delicate process of picking her lock.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Solo, acoustic Red Brown Dust, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
Ready.
It's time to bring the cattle down from the high country, they've run wild long enough. Fattened on the bounty of the mountains, it is time to face the reality of sale and slaughter, time to bring prosperity to my home.
I've let my life wander, my mind drift, my heart sit quietly in solitude. That season is ending, light is being focused through a time worn prism, it is bright and precise, sharp edged shadow defines my actions. I can see truth, burn away all that isn't truth.
The time for lament is over.
That the powerful play goes on, that I may contribute a verse. I'm ready to contribute powerful verses of myself, let them stand in the light of the stage and kill or die on their own merits.
Every word has a life, it is harvest time for my words.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Tuesday, 14 June 2011
The Piano Is A Lock, The Player Is The Key.
A man employs a key to unlock the lid of a piano, he sits. The seat is, as always, at the correct height for a child, not a man of a certain age. He has played some music on other instruments, is teaching himself to play the queen of them all.
He knows how to walk a simple bass line, plonk the odd chord, his left hand is off to a promising start. His right hand can doodle a melody, now to combine the two. A combination of repeated technical exercises and some old fashioned try, try again is required.
The same man may be learning how to combine his spiritual life with his perceived three dimensional life. Most of us can switch between the two, but they are never unified. Repeated breath in, breath out technical exercises and persistence aren't taught in the schools, these ideas don't enter our lives often.
In years to come the piano student will have to begin again, learn to seperate both hands so they can play different rhythms, truly express themselves freely. He will master the nuance of the sustain pedal. This process will be similar to the first, but will also require inspiration. He will find inspiration away from the piano, find it in the experience of living.
To become a beautiful pianist, to play without the restrictions of thought and expectation, will take time, effort, an open mind. To live a beautiful life, spiritually and on this earth, to be unified yet free to express oneself, that is the dream.
The piano is a lock, the player is the key.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
He knows how to walk a simple bass line, plonk the odd chord, his left hand is off to a promising start. His right hand can doodle a melody, now to combine the two. A combination of repeated technical exercises and some old fashioned try, try again is required.
The same man may be learning how to combine his spiritual life with his perceived three dimensional life. Most of us can switch between the two, but they are never unified. Repeated breath in, breath out technical exercises and persistence aren't taught in the schools, these ideas don't enter our lives often.
In years to come the piano student will have to begin again, learn to seperate both hands so they can play different rhythms, truly express themselves freely. He will master the nuance of the sustain pedal. This process will be similar to the first, but will also require inspiration. He will find inspiration away from the piano, find it in the experience of living.
To become a beautiful pianist, to play without the restrictions of thought and expectation, will take time, effort, an open mind. To live a beautiful life, spiritually and on this earth, to be unified yet free to express oneself, that is the dream.
The piano is a lock, the player is the key.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Precious Peace.
A man leans back on the trunk of a tree, feels the tree welcome him, offer it's branches and leaves as respite against the afternoon sun. The man is world weary, seeking a precious moment of peace.
Tiny, fragile insects begin to bite him, peace departs. Why doesn't the man depart, or swat the insects? He has vowed to live a holy life, to harm none, to give to others what he can afford to give. There are ten thousand other trees, but the man remains. To the insects the man is nothing but blood delivered in a skin bag.
There will come a moment in the man's life when he realizes he cannot afford to give away his own peace, until then he will suffer in silence.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Tiny, fragile insects begin to bite him, peace departs. Why doesn't the man depart, or swat the insects? He has vowed to live a holy life, to harm none, to give to others what he can afford to give. There are ten thousand other trees, but the man remains. To the insects the man is nothing but blood delivered in a skin bag.
There will come a moment in the man's life when he realizes he cannot afford to give away his own peace, until then he will suffer in silence.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Trains, Planes And Automobiles.
The last four days have involved two taxis, two planes, two buses, a handful of cars, a train and two trams. My mate Scott Leishman and I have done a few miles, in a few different ways.
The rooster that lives a few doors down from my Mum's new home crows to salute the mid morning, some mornings around ten o'clock, others half past ten. A few days in a sleepy town where even nature keeps gentlemen's hours has been a tonic. And the internet hadn't been connected yet, we were working during the day when the only cafe with wi fi was open. Compulsory time offline meant rest without guilt.
I've just arrived back in town, back to writing, back to saxophone rehearsal for a show on Saturday night, back to what I try to pass off as real life.
Only three weeks until the next fantasy trip to Portland Oregon begins, and the serious writing begins along with it.
It's travelling season and life is sweet.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The rooster that lives a few doors down from my Mum's new home crows to salute the mid morning, some mornings around ten o'clock, others half past ten. A few days in a sleepy town where even nature keeps gentlemen's hours has been a tonic. And the internet hadn't been connected yet, we were working during the day when the only cafe with wi fi was open. Compulsory time offline meant rest without guilt.
I've just arrived back in town, back to writing, back to saxophone rehearsal for a show on Saturday night, back to what I try to pass off as real life.
Only three weeks until the next fantasy trip to Portland Oregon begins, and the serious writing begins along with it.
It's travelling season and life is sweet.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Friday, 10 June 2011
Hard Miles.
Tom Waits once assesssed his level of horniness as being "harder than Chinese algebra". That's pretty hard, and pretty funny. The same man claimed that the crack of dawn wasn't safe with him around.
I'm trying to think of something akin to how I feel about travelling. It's not actually sexual arousal, but it's damned close. I feel frisky and edgy and excited, this feeling could easily be redirected into horniness given Miss Right being sat beside me on the plane.
Today I'm flying south, here in the southern hemisphere winter it's a dumb decision but it is where the work is. This trip is a little like foreplay for a longer flight to the north and the west later this year, just in time for a North American summer. I must confess, the idea of this trip really does excite me, physically.
Mothers lock up your daughters, I'm in a travelling mood. Right now Chinese algebra doesn't seem so hard.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I'm trying to think of something akin to how I feel about travelling. It's not actually sexual arousal, but it's damned close. I feel frisky and edgy and excited, this feeling could easily be redirected into horniness given Miss Right being sat beside me on the plane.
Today I'm flying south, here in the southern hemisphere winter it's a dumb decision but it is where the work is. This trip is a little like foreplay for a longer flight to the north and the west later this year, just in time for a North American summer. I must confess, the idea of this trip really does excite me, physically.
Mothers lock up your daughters, I'm in a travelling mood. Right now Chinese algebra doesn't seem so hard.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Immune To Fear.
We all have experiences that seem to immunize us to fear. Mine involved sitting in the chair of an opthalmologist and watching as he employed a tiny scalpel to make tiny incisions in my cornea. My eye was numbed, the rest of me was so very wide awake. I had to trust him, he had to trust me not to flinch. I could actually see the scalpel coming towards me, feel it tugging at the front of my eye a little. After facing up to that there aren't many experiences in every day life that frighten me.
Squirming in your seat yet?
There was a reason we decided to perform this surgery while I was awake, that way he could do a little at a time, see how my eye responded, achieve the best result. A general anesthetic would have required some guess work, possibly a second surgery. We discussed both options, decided that me controlling my fear was the only impediment to the option that promised the best result.
Fear is mostly anticipation. The actual procedure itself was unsettling but manageable. The day leading up to it was a nervous, scary day. What if he slipped? What if?
What if is always the question that allows fear to win, action to lose. It's a fair question, well asked, usually the risks are obvious enough. Usually the fear is in our own minds, an excellent surgeon is very unlikely to slip, I was unlikely to flinch. what the hell?
I'm afraid of a few things coming up this weekend. The fears are in my own mind, nothing bad will really happen. At times like this I can think back to a tiny scalpel in my precious eye and know that I can be immune to fear if I want to be.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Squirming in your seat yet?
There was a reason we decided to perform this surgery while I was awake, that way he could do a little at a time, see how my eye responded, achieve the best result. A general anesthetic would have required some guess work, possibly a second surgery. We discussed both options, decided that me controlling my fear was the only impediment to the option that promised the best result.
Fear is mostly anticipation. The actual procedure itself was unsettling but manageable. The day leading up to it was a nervous, scary day. What if he slipped? What if?
What if is always the question that allows fear to win, action to lose. It's a fair question, well asked, usually the risks are obvious enough. Usually the fear is in our own minds, an excellent surgeon is very unlikely to slip, I was unlikely to flinch. what the hell?
I'm afraid of a few things coming up this weekend. The fears are in my own mind, nothing bad will really happen. At times like this I can think back to a tiny scalpel in my precious eye and know that I can be immune to fear if I want to be.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Thursday, 9 June 2011
The Mamby Pamby Left.
Political debate in Australia is largely controlled by the mamby pamby left, a political philosophy that can be summed up as "wouldn't it be nice if everything were nice". These people focus on feelgood, not results, they don't serve causes, causes serve them.
Recently the government funded broadcaster screened a documentary about the horrific and brutal way cattle are slaughtered in Indonesia. Some of these cattle are bred in Australia, exported across the short strait between our nations. Because this doco was on the government station almost no one was watching, but a furore ensued, very little real investigation. Out of seven hundred Indonesian abattoirs how many are inhumane? Nobody stopped to ask, the government suspended the live cattle trade, everyone cheered. Our dinky di Aussie cows were safe.
Without reliable electricity and refrigeration Indonesia requires imported live cattle to slaughter on demand. They will now accept these cattle from India and South American countries, a longer journey in less humane ships. The same number of cows will be beaten and bled to death cruelly, but now Australia isn't a player in the game we can't do anything to change the situation. It's a crap result for cows, a fine result for those who want to feel good while their latte is being prepared.
Our government plans to tax carbon dioxide by the metric tonne. Apparently we will all use less fossil fuels because of the increased cost. Bullshit we will. People will just have to wear the cost, their kids will still need to get to school, to ballet, to tennis, folks with crap public transport will have to drive to work. Electricity is already stupidly expensive in this country, the countries we sell our coal to sell electricity cheaper than we do. Business uses as little as possible, of course it does.
Base load power is the minimum the grid can support without being overwhelmed at peak points. Even if we reduce our average usage the peaks will still be as high, after work, dinner time, they won't change, the base load won't change. This tax will achieve nothing, except the feelgood buzz that we are "leading the world" in climate change policy. What we will really be doing is moving industry to countries without such taxes, countries that are less efficient in energy usage than we are.
And so go the mamby pamby left, skipping from latte to latte, bending over and kissing their own bleached arses for being so preciously perfect and saving everyone and everything. They use the ideals that most of us share to promote themselves. They don't serve us. They twist everything we believe out of shape, achieve nothing, the price is paid by those without a voice.
Third world cows won't thank them, Australian people are beginning to see through them. As long as they feel good the mamby pamby won't notice until the swing to the right that they caused has come and gone.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Recently the government funded broadcaster screened a documentary about the horrific and brutal way cattle are slaughtered in Indonesia. Some of these cattle are bred in Australia, exported across the short strait between our nations. Because this doco was on the government station almost no one was watching, but a furore ensued, very little real investigation. Out of seven hundred Indonesian abattoirs how many are inhumane? Nobody stopped to ask, the government suspended the live cattle trade, everyone cheered. Our dinky di Aussie cows were safe.
Without reliable electricity and refrigeration Indonesia requires imported live cattle to slaughter on demand. They will now accept these cattle from India and South American countries, a longer journey in less humane ships. The same number of cows will be beaten and bled to death cruelly, but now Australia isn't a player in the game we can't do anything to change the situation. It's a crap result for cows, a fine result for those who want to feel good while their latte is being prepared.
Our government plans to tax carbon dioxide by the metric tonne. Apparently we will all use less fossil fuels because of the increased cost. Bullshit we will. People will just have to wear the cost, their kids will still need to get to school, to ballet, to tennis, folks with crap public transport will have to drive to work. Electricity is already stupidly expensive in this country, the countries we sell our coal to sell electricity cheaper than we do. Business uses as little as possible, of course it does.
Base load power is the minimum the grid can support without being overwhelmed at peak points. Even if we reduce our average usage the peaks will still be as high, after work, dinner time, they won't change, the base load won't change. This tax will achieve nothing, except the feelgood buzz that we are "leading the world" in climate change policy. What we will really be doing is moving industry to countries without such taxes, countries that are less efficient in energy usage than we are.
And so go the mamby pamby left, skipping from latte to latte, bending over and kissing their own bleached arses for being so preciously perfect and saving everyone and everything. They use the ideals that most of us share to promote themselves. They don't serve us. They twist everything we believe out of shape, achieve nothing, the price is paid by those without a voice.
Third world cows won't thank them, Australian people are beginning to see through them. As long as they feel good the mamby pamby won't notice until the swing to the right that they caused has come and gone.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Blog One Thousand.
I've just noticed, yesterday I posted blog number one thousand. I'm pretty sure this is only of interest to me, but it is a milestone in a way. I must be enjoying myself to have averaged two pieces a day for eighteen months.
Very few ideas or jobs hold my interest for more than a week, once I've learned the basics I can see how the pattern works, want to learn the next. Playing music has held my interest for twenty years now because it is never ending, the learning never stops, most of it learning about the self. I have the same feeling about writing. I'm just starting out, learning what I can do, what is in me and what can come out of me. That anyone reads is a bonus, that many people read may turn this blogging lark into an income too.
Thanks to all who read, I love hitting my stats button and seeing hits from all over the world. I've no doubt I'll post blog number two thousand some time in the future, I'm having too much fun to stop now.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Very few ideas or jobs hold my interest for more than a week, once I've learned the basics I can see how the pattern works, want to learn the next. Playing music has held my interest for twenty years now because it is never ending, the learning never stops, most of it learning about the self. I have the same feeling about writing. I'm just starting out, learning what I can do, what is in me and what can come out of me. That anyone reads is a bonus, that many people read may turn this blogging lark into an income too.
Thanks to all who read, I love hitting my stats button and seeing hits from all over the world. I've no doubt I'll post blog number two thousand some time in the future, I'm having too much fun to stop now.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Ego Is Not A Dirty Word.
The rehearsal studio I use has seven rooms, lettered rather than numbered, A through G, a natural minor scale of rooms. Each has a nickname painted on the door, room A is naturally the Acker Dacker room, followed by Bananarama to Feargul Sharkey. Room G is seperate from all the others, rarely used, it still hasn't been named. I think it should be named "Anyone But Kenny".
When I practise saxophone during the day I usually end up in Dwight Yokem. The other day the rock chick behind the counter sent me to Ego Is Not A Dirty Word, a title that won't make any sense to anyone born after 1980 and outside Australia. It was a song by 1970's pop stars Skyhooks, a huge hit down here. As a pop song it fulfilled it's purpose perfectly, it rocked along, sing alongable, and it was all about me.
At that time in Australia the social norm was to be shy, self depreciating, not to assume above one's station. A popular cliche was the "tall poppy syndrome", anyone who raised their head would have it cut off by ridicule. For a young, happy, vibrant rock band to say that having an ego was cool, that without an ego no one would do anything, was nothing short of brilliant. It took the zeitgeist and gave it a good shagging on the suburban kitchen table.
We haven't come all that far since the 70's. We are still embarrassed by success, play it down. It's a charming trait, positive in some ways, but a bitch for those of us in the show off business. Playing the media game here is like trying to appear graceful whilst waltzing in the minefield. One false step and the wanker bomb will explode beneath you, scar your public image for life.
Many find refuge overseas, others go with a philosophy that can be summed up in two words, "fuck you". Most of us would profit from practising in the Ego Is Not A Dirty Word room each day, stand up like tall poppies, let the ridicule fly by ignored like the petulant child it is.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
When I practise saxophone during the day I usually end up in Dwight Yokem. The other day the rock chick behind the counter sent me to Ego Is Not A Dirty Word, a title that won't make any sense to anyone born after 1980 and outside Australia. It was a song by 1970's pop stars Skyhooks, a huge hit down here. As a pop song it fulfilled it's purpose perfectly, it rocked along, sing alongable, and it was all about me.
At that time in Australia the social norm was to be shy, self depreciating, not to assume above one's station. A popular cliche was the "tall poppy syndrome", anyone who raised their head would have it cut off by ridicule. For a young, happy, vibrant rock band to say that having an ego was cool, that without an ego no one would do anything, was nothing short of brilliant. It took the zeitgeist and gave it a good shagging on the suburban kitchen table.
We haven't come all that far since the 70's. We are still embarrassed by success, play it down. It's a charming trait, positive in some ways, but a bitch for those of us in the show off business. Playing the media game here is like trying to appear graceful whilst waltzing in the minefield. One false step and the wanker bomb will explode beneath you, scar your public image for life.
Many find refuge overseas, others go with a philosophy that can be summed up in two words, "fuck you". Most of us would profit from practising in the Ego Is Not A Dirty Word room each day, stand up like tall poppies, let the ridicule fly by ignored like the petulant child it is.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Wednesday, 8 June 2011
Another Day, Another Soul.
Another day, another sunrise, sunset, breath in, breath out, the powerful play goes on. A mathematical series of points in space and time, the daily activity, a flat line on the graph for sleep. Another day of change, tomorrow a different person will live a different day, sleep is the only connection between me and yesterday's man.
I feel a constant, an essence, an identity, a self. Without it I am nothing. Without it each day would be chaos. Even if this idea of a soul is nothing but illusion I must feel it to make sense of each day.
Allowing this soul to flow with the universe, to let it change each day, be free, is the most frightening thing I know, the illusion is safe. To face this fear and accept reality is the highest achievemen, the point of trying again each day.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I feel a constant, an essence, an identity, a self. Without it I am nothing. Without it each day would be chaos. Even if this idea of a soul is nothing but illusion I must feel it to make sense of each day.
Allowing this soul to flow with the universe, to let it change each day, be free, is the most frightening thing I know, the illusion is safe. To face this fear and accept reality is the highest achievemen, the point of trying again each day.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
So I'm White Bread?
So you reckon I'm white bread? Me?
O.K., I can accept that.
If being white bread means being crusty on the ourside, fluffy on the inside, bathed to saturation point in luscious extra virgin olive oil and sweet tart balsamic vinegar, I'm O.K. with that. If it means being the baguette phallus that stands for a nation of lovers I can wear that label. If it means being broken by one clean hand and introduced to all the spices of the silk route, being present at the end of every happy buddha belly filling curry, then white bread I will be.
To be blessed and shared wherever simple, honest folk gather, that is a way to spend a life.
The square, characterless, plastic packaged, use by dated nonsense you are thinking of is bought and sold from the supermarket shelves of your mind. When you say white bread you only know the perversely literal, the culrurally bereft.
I wear your attempted insult with pride.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
O.K., I can accept that.
If being white bread means being crusty on the ourside, fluffy on the inside, bathed to saturation point in luscious extra virgin olive oil and sweet tart balsamic vinegar, I'm O.K. with that. If it means being the baguette phallus that stands for a nation of lovers I can wear that label. If it means being broken by one clean hand and introduced to all the spices of the silk route, being present at the end of every happy buddha belly filling curry, then white bread I will be.
To be blessed and shared wherever simple, honest folk gather, that is a way to spend a life.
The square, characterless, plastic packaged, use by dated nonsense you are thinking of is bought and sold from the supermarket shelves of your mind. When you say white bread you only know the perversely literal, the culrurally bereft.
I wear your attempted insult with pride.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Drunk People Run Funny.
Last night was the first really cold snap of winter in Sydney. On these nights some of the local homeless folk go a little berzerk, and who can blame them? There for the grace of a big old heater go I.
At around four this morning I got out of bed, went out onto my balcony to look down on the 1970's urban planning debacle of a brick paved mall outside my building. A man was screaming maniacally, turning over wheelie bins, picking them up and throwing them around. It's not the sort of area where the police are called lightly, he wasn't doing any real harm apart from preventing sleep for me.
Three young English backpackers approached the mall, stopped, wondered how to get to their hostel on the other side. They considered the back lane, too dark and scary at that time of night, decided to make a dash for it. They clearly had a skin full of lager, ran very slowly, wobbled, giggled, made nearly as much noise as the man they were afraid of. In the poshest, plummest accent I've ever heard one girl announced, "I'm going to barf up my hamburger."
The crazed homeless fellow fell on his back laughing, touched by the display of cultural diversity. As they passed he tried to speak to them, but his voice was still in crazy mode, came out a hoarse scream.
"Thank you my friends, thank you."
Even more scared the backpackers zig zagged across the road to the safety of their front door. Their nemesis picked himself up, set a wheelie bin back on it's wheels, stuck his hands in his dirty pockets and wandered off whistling happily.
I went back to my warm bed.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
At around four this morning I got out of bed, went out onto my balcony to look down on the 1970's urban planning debacle of a brick paved mall outside my building. A man was screaming maniacally, turning over wheelie bins, picking them up and throwing them around. It's not the sort of area where the police are called lightly, he wasn't doing any real harm apart from preventing sleep for me.
Three young English backpackers approached the mall, stopped, wondered how to get to their hostel on the other side. They considered the back lane, too dark and scary at that time of night, decided to make a dash for it. They clearly had a skin full of lager, ran very slowly, wobbled, giggled, made nearly as much noise as the man they were afraid of. In the poshest, plummest accent I've ever heard one girl announced, "I'm going to barf up my hamburger."
The crazed homeless fellow fell on his back laughing, touched by the display of cultural diversity. As they passed he tried to speak to them, but his voice was still in crazy mode, came out a hoarse scream.
"Thank you my friends, thank you."
Even more scared the backpackers zig zagged across the road to the safety of their front door. Their nemesis picked himself up, set a wheelie bin back on it's wheels, stuck his hands in his dirty pockets and wandered off whistling happily.
I went back to my warm bed.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Tuesday, 7 June 2011
The Girl Is A Photograph.
The girl is a photograph, she is black and white, she is art.
The top button of her jeans is undone. It isn't undone because her slender waist requires it, the button is undone for effect. The effect is mighty effective. The magic seal is broken, stout heart and nimble fingers could discover the treasure. The look in her eye is enigmatic, I can't tell if that undone button is an invitation to bliss or the blues, send my R.S.V.P. as "attending" just the same.
Her shirt is a flag, a banner of desire, an eclipse of two perfect crescent moons. Something tells me she swims and sleeps naked, that she dresses with purpose and style.
Her eyes know me. Even if I wanted to lie to her it would be pointless. She knows me as a boy, showing off for her, look at me, look at me, but needing her cuddle. She knows me as a brother and friend, where my shoulder would meet and remain with hers when required. She knows me as a cranky, judgemental old man, someone who has seen and done and understands. Her eyes know me and within one minute of meeting she would know if we were to be lovers. She'd allow and enjoy my slow horse and carriage ride of courtship, slip her hook out of my lip without me noticing.
Her lips are the detail that raise the work from photograph to art. Those lips would glance tenderly, teasingly, they would always keep their promises. How can two lips be the image of womanhood?
We've never met. The girl is a photograph, she is art.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Warm Up, solo, improvised flute track, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
The top button of her jeans is undone. It isn't undone because her slender waist requires it, the button is undone for effect. The effect is mighty effective. The magic seal is broken, stout heart and nimble fingers could discover the treasure. The look in her eye is enigmatic, I can't tell if that undone button is an invitation to bliss or the blues, send my R.S.V.P. as "attending" just the same.
Her shirt is a flag, a banner of desire, an eclipse of two perfect crescent moons. Something tells me she swims and sleeps naked, that she dresses with purpose and style.
Her eyes know me. Even if I wanted to lie to her it would be pointless. She knows me as a boy, showing off for her, look at me, look at me, but needing her cuddle. She knows me as a brother and friend, where my shoulder would meet and remain with hers when required. She knows me as a cranky, judgemental old man, someone who has seen and done and understands. Her eyes know me and within one minute of meeting she would know if we were to be lovers. She'd allow and enjoy my slow horse and carriage ride of courtship, slip her hook out of my lip without me noticing.
Her lips are the detail that raise the work from photograph to art. Those lips would glance tenderly, teasingly, they would always keep their promises. How can two lips be the image of womanhood?
We've never met. The girl is a photograph, she is art.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Warm Up, solo, improvised flute track, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.
Desire Confuses Me.
When I consider desire I become confused. Some schools of thought dictate that heeding and pursuing our desires is a duty to ourselves, other schools say that conquering desire is essential to finding inner peace. Desire can lead to greatness, desire can lead to madness, no wonder I'm confused.
In the music business I have seen the desire for fame and fortune turn sour, success can feel hollow when it is earned with smoke and mirrors. I've seen good men destroy themselves due to the desire for an unattainable woman. On the other hand I have seen musicians desire to play the greatest music they can and find joy, I have seen men persist and win the girl.
So how do I know which desire I should pursue and which I should deny? I've been that guy driving himself completely mad over a woman who will never come around. My love for her was real enough, yet it was a foolish pursuit, she was always going to love drugs more than she loved me. That desire hurt me. Should I have denied my feeling for her, not given it the old college try, died wondering if I could have won her over? Maybe sucking up the pain and spitting it out is part of the nature of desire?
I was never suckered by the whole fame and fortune fiasco. My musical work has always been relatively pure yet my desire to play what I love has left me exhausted. Am I a fool to ignore the market and play what I desire to play? That desire has left me middle aged and poor, no one desires that.
One of the most difficult questions to answer is, "what do I want?" We are swayed by what we should want, what we were trained to want, what everyone else wants. I believe that getting to the heart of our own heart's desire is essential to understanding desire. Once we know what we truly want we can pursue it fully, knowing that any consequences are worth the prize.
I believe I'm finally accepting what I want from my life, what I desire. I can't pretend I'm beyond confusion, but I do know that I'm willing to take risks to pursue what I want. I can ignore all the distractions of what I am expected to want, conquer the foolish desires of immaturity, hopefully live more fully.
Or maybe I should be defeating my desire, be seeking peace instead?
I'm confused.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
In the music business I have seen the desire for fame and fortune turn sour, success can feel hollow when it is earned with smoke and mirrors. I've seen good men destroy themselves due to the desire for an unattainable woman. On the other hand I have seen musicians desire to play the greatest music they can and find joy, I have seen men persist and win the girl.
So how do I know which desire I should pursue and which I should deny? I've been that guy driving himself completely mad over a woman who will never come around. My love for her was real enough, yet it was a foolish pursuit, she was always going to love drugs more than she loved me. That desire hurt me. Should I have denied my feeling for her, not given it the old college try, died wondering if I could have won her over? Maybe sucking up the pain and spitting it out is part of the nature of desire?
I was never suckered by the whole fame and fortune fiasco. My musical work has always been relatively pure yet my desire to play what I love has left me exhausted. Am I a fool to ignore the market and play what I desire to play? That desire has left me middle aged and poor, no one desires that.
One of the most difficult questions to answer is, "what do I want?" We are swayed by what we should want, what we were trained to want, what everyone else wants. I believe that getting to the heart of our own heart's desire is essential to understanding desire. Once we know what we truly want we can pursue it fully, knowing that any consequences are worth the prize.
I believe I'm finally accepting what I want from my life, what I desire. I can't pretend I'm beyond confusion, but I do know that I'm willing to take risks to pursue what I want. I can ignore all the distractions of what I am expected to want, conquer the foolish desires of immaturity, hopefully live more fully.
Or maybe I should be defeating my desire, be seeking peace instead?
I'm confused.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Monday, 6 June 2011
Bath Towels And Humans.
No matter how wet your bath towel, place it in sunlight, fresh air, it will soon return to it's natural state of being dry, ready to fulfill it's purpose. Leave that wet bath towel on the floor of a dark, damp bathroom and it will remain wet until it rots.
The natural state for a human is to be confident and free. Sunlight and fresh air are helpful, but to maintain this state we need to look at the company we keep, choose people who bring us sunlight and fresh air. We can soak up a lot of old bath water, become weighed down by the endless everyday. In this heavy state we are unable to fulfill our purpose. Surrounded by the right people at work and play we shed the weight of the world with laughter and recognition of our worth, surrounded by the dark and miserable we rot from the inside, achieve nothing.
A warm, dry, fluffy towel each morning is one of the simple joys of life. A free and confident human is also a simple joy, our natural state.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com . .
The natural state for a human is to be confident and free. Sunlight and fresh air are helpful, but to maintain this state we need to look at the company we keep, choose people who bring us sunlight and fresh air. We can soak up a lot of old bath water, become weighed down by the endless everyday. In this heavy state we are unable to fulfill our purpose. Surrounded by the right people at work and play we shed the weight of the world with laughter and recognition of our worth, surrounded by the dark and miserable we rot from the inside, achieve nothing.
A warm, dry, fluffy towel each morning is one of the simple joys of life. A free and confident human is also a simple joy, our natural state.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com . .
Sunday, 5 June 2011
Nothing Happens For A Reason.
Nothing happens for a reason. It is all random, everything, every moment happens because it does and for no other reason.
The human brain interprets chaos as order to make us feel safe. It's a con trick for the conscious mind, a small kindness for the unsophisticated mind that would disintegrate given the truth. Meanwhile the subconscious mind screams voicelessly, it knows the random nature of life. It knows that we are born, pushed painfully and improbably from a vagina, wrinkled and crying, that we spend a random amount of time doing random things while random things happen around us then we are pushed painfully and predictably into death, calling God a cunt for putting us through it. The two parts of our mind are divided and must remain so while we maintain faith in order, deny chaos.
We believe in the concept of money because it is useful to do so. Order is the currency of sanity that allows us to interact easily with the universe. Those who believe in money for it's own sake become mad, because the belief in order is universal we share the madness and no one notices. To be split in two is indeed madness, to subconsciously know chaos then consciously deny it can only lead to the explosions of violence and misery we accept as normal.
The great artists and thinkers of the twentieth century tried to talk to us about chaos. They understood it before the rest of us. They weren't suggesting we give up the concept of order, just that we accept it as a concept, a tool that helps us, not as reality. They asked that we listen to our subconscious, give it voice, allow it to play it's chaotic part in our lives. They asked that we unify both parts of our minds, live wholly, not as a duality that constantly fights with itself.
The revolution of lowered expectations at the end of last century resulted in the dumbing down of intellectual and artistic conversation. There is very little audience for this way of thinking now, the idea may be lost for another thousand years.
All I can tell you is that nothing happens for a reason, it is all random.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The human brain interprets chaos as order to make us feel safe. It's a con trick for the conscious mind, a small kindness for the unsophisticated mind that would disintegrate given the truth. Meanwhile the subconscious mind screams voicelessly, it knows the random nature of life. It knows that we are born, pushed painfully and improbably from a vagina, wrinkled and crying, that we spend a random amount of time doing random things while random things happen around us then we are pushed painfully and predictably into death, calling God a cunt for putting us through it. The two parts of our mind are divided and must remain so while we maintain faith in order, deny chaos.
We believe in the concept of money because it is useful to do so. Order is the currency of sanity that allows us to interact easily with the universe. Those who believe in money for it's own sake become mad, because the belief in order is universal we share the madness and no one notices. To be split in two is indeed madness, to subconsciously know chaos then consciously deny it can only lead to the explosions of violence and misery we accept as normal.
The great artists and thinkers of the twentieth century tried to talk to us about chaos. They understood it before the rest of us. They weren't suggesting we give up the concept of order, just that we accept it as a concept, a tool that helps us, not as reality. They asked that we listen to our subconscious, give it voice, allow it to play it's chaotic part in our lives. They asked that we unify both parts of our minds, live wholly, not as a duality that constantly fights with itself.
The revolution of lowered expectations at the end of last century resulted in the dumbing down of intellectual and artistic conversation. There is very little audience for this way of thinking now, the idea may be lost for another thousand years.
All I can tell you is that nothing happens for a reason, it is all random.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Romance And Buses.
We all know how it works, we pays our money, we takes our chances.
When we ride a bus we shell out a few dollars, receive a ticket as receipt, get on board in one place, alight at another. If the place we end up in isn't to our satisfaction we don't blame the bus. When we get on board with romance the price isn't tangible, there is no receipt for honesty. We go on the ride, we can't ride forever, we have to get off some time. When we step off there is no point blaming romance if we don't like where we've ended up.
Who is to say that one place is better than any other, that one state of mind is preferable to another? The feeling of being in love transports us, that's what it's for. Think of romance as a means of transport, not a destination and suddenly it isn't so scary, as easy as riding a bus.
We pays our money, we takes our chances.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Studio single, Drum, available on iTunes, all the other sites.
When we ride a bus we shell out a few dollars, receive a ticket as receipt, get on board in one place, alight at another. If the place we end up in isn't to our satisfaction we don't blame the bus. When we get on board with romance the price isn't tangible, there is no receipt for honesty. We go on the ride, we can't ride forever, we have to get off some time. When we step off there is no point blaming romance if we don't like where we've ended up.
Who is to say that one place is better than any other, that one state of mind is preferable to another? The feeling of being in love transports us, that's what it's for. Think of romance as a means of transport, not a destination and suddenly it isn't so scary, as easy as riding a bus.
We pays our money, we takes our chances.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Studio single, Drum, available on iTunes, all the other sites.
What Else Is There To Do?
Some days I feel that everything is crap and is always going to be crap and then I'll die. I'm not exaggerating, some days I really do feel that way. Strangely it is the idea that I will die that makes everything alright. Death. Life completed, life over. Given the known beginning of birth, the known ending of death, all the rest is just the middle. How can it be crap or not crap, wonderful or not wonderful? It's just the stuff that happens in between the beginning and the end.
Then I get over the feeling that everything is crap and try to make the middle poetry. What else is there to do?
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Saturday, 4 June 2011
The Love Supreme.
The saxophonist opens his case, assembles the three parts of his instrument, the body, the mouthpiece, the gooseneck that connects the two. He may appear careless, not really paying attention, but he loves his saxophone, knows it is fragile, follows a familiar routine that is part of the meditation that prepares him to play. He installs a cane reed, warms up, he is on.
Every saxophone player begins every gig the same way. What they do with the instrument once it is whole is different for every player. Some play to impress girls, others go in search of the timeless place that only their saxophone can transport them to. Some want easy loving, others want Coltrane's love supreme, the physical or the spiritual. One uses the music to serve him, the other serves the music.
The real saxophonist tunes into the band. He listens to the singer, plays around him not over him. He feels the drive of the drums, the solid foundation of the bass, the nuance of the chord player, guitar or piano. He attains a state of no thought, he feels everything, allows all to flow through his body. His own instrument expresses his soul, the middle man of the self disappears, the exterior universe and the inner soul connect through music.
At the end of the night the saxophonist cleans and disassembles his instrument, places it back in it's case. He returns to real life. Every saxophone player finishes a gig the same way, some having set up some easy loving, some feeling the love supreme.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The Boys In The Band.
I was a little edgy about my gig tonight. I've hardly played saxophone this year, the boys in the band were all jazz gentry, quality players, the original songs were a tough play. I wasn't being a drama queen, I was right to be a little edgy.
Faith. All musicians need faith, in themselves and their talent. I should have had faith in me and mine. I played just fine, felt good on my way home. What made it easy was the guys I was lucky enough to play with. They were convivial, confident, competent, cool. They made me feel the same way.
The real musicians, the guys who play to serve the music, are a brotherhood. They don't always like each other, but their shared love of the music makes them connected in a way that is beyond liking or disliking. It is an honest feeling that is of itself. I adore that feeling.
The few gigs like this make everything worthwhile, they are the pay off. Thank you to the boys in the band for allowing me to coast on their talent, surf on their sound. It was a joy.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Faith. All musicians need faith, in themselves and their talent. I should have had faith in me and mine. I played just fine, felt good on my way home. What made it easy was the guys I was lucky enough to play with. They were convivial, confident, competent, cool. They made me feel the same way.
The real musicians, the guys who play to serve the music, are a brotherhood. They don't always like each other, but their shared love of the music makes them connected in a way that is beyond liking or disliking. It is an honest feeling that is of itself. I adore that feeling.
The few gigs like this make everything worthwhile, they are the pay off. Thank you to the boys in the band for allowing me to coast on their talent, surf on their sound. It was a joy.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Friday, 3 June 2011
Jealousy.
Jealousy is an act of self obsession, not obsession with another person. Just as the alcoholic craves the hangover, the gambler craves the loss, a jealous person wants to know that you will cheat because they are not attractive enough, that you will leave because they aren't good enough. They need a subject, a fetish object to fixate on, to harrass and punish, but jealousy is just self flagellation and masturbation.
When someone makes you their jealousy object you are nothing but ballast on their ship. That's the part that hurts. Get off the ship and walk away.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
When someone makes you their jealousy object you are nothing but ballast on their ship. That's the part that hurts. Get off the ship and walk away.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
She Wanted A Bike.
She wanted a bike. I'd just moved into her apartment, thought it was the perfect opportunity to do the man thing, started secretly saving money to buy her a really good bike.
A friend turned up with a thirty dollar, second hand piece of crap bike. She loved it. Turned out it was exactly the sort of bike she wanted, one she could leave outside a shop without having to chain it up, who'd want to steal it anyway? It also turned out she had told me this more than once, that I hadn't heard because I wanted to be a man and buy her a good bike.
I was in the kitchen, looking around the back of the cupboard under the sink, pulling out rags and a can of spray oil when she walked in.
"What are you doing?" I'd never been known to go in search of such items or work before.
"I'm getting some stuff together to . . . for you to clean up your bike with."
My friends, that was a good save. It was a great save. It was sticking out one foot to save a penalty in the last minute of the F.A. Cup Final great. It was a world class save.
She took the stuff out of my hands silently, disappeared downstairs to where her bike wasn't chained up. An hour later I thought it safe to go down and take a look.
"Whaddya' think?"
"It's beautiful."
"No it isn't, it's a piece of shit, but thank you."
Just three weeks later she left the bike unchained outside a shop, it turned out there was someone who wanted to steal it. She really loved that bike, it was the one she never had as a kid, yet she seemed accepting of it being stolen. I offered to buy her another thirty dollar, second hand piece of crap, I had enough saved for that. She didn't want it.
Turned out me understanding about the bike was more important than the bike.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
A friend turned up with a thirty dollar, second hand piece of crap bike. She loved it. Turned out it was exactly the sort of bike she wanted, one she could leave outside a shop without having to chain it up, who'd want to steal it anyway? It also turned out she had told me this more than once, that I hadn't heard because I wanted to be a man and buy her a good bike.
I was in the kitchen, looking around the back of the cupboard under the sink, pulling out rags and a can of spray oil when she walked in.
"What are you doing?" I'd never been known to go in search of such items or work before.
"I'm getting some stuff together to . . . for you to clean up your bike with."
My friends, that was a good save. It was a great save. It was sticking out one foot to save a penalty in the last minute of the F.A. Cup Final great. It was a world class save.
She took the stuff out of my hands silently, disappeared downstairs to where her bike wasn't chained up. An hour later I thought it safe to go down and take a look.
"Whaddya' think?"
"It's beautiful."
"No it isn't, it's a piece of shit, but thank you."
Just three weeks later she left the bike unchained outside a shop, it turned out there was someone who wanted to steal it. She really loved that bike, it was the one she never had as a kid, yet she seemed accepting of it being stolen. I offered to buy her another thirty dollar, second hand piece of crap, I had enough saved for that. She didn't want it.
Turned out me understanding about the bike was more important than the bike.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Thursday, 2 June 2011
Orange.
Shiny blue vinyl, the long bench seat on the train, this one is new, not worn, still a deep rich blue and free of graffiti. At some time today someone ate an orange while they sat on that bench, left the entire peel in pieces large and small, some inner white, others outer orange, left as they fell. It is art, the colours work perfectly, an artist sat on this blue bench and left his mark. Like rose petals on a lover's bed the orange peel speaks to the passengers as they arrive. No one has swept the work onto the floor, one man stands rather than disturb it. It's a sand painting, time will blow it away, it will only exist in the memory of those who were lucky enough to meet the correct time and place.
I can taste the orange as I alight the train.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I can taste the orange as I alight the train.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Spending Stories.
Tom Waits depicts one of his characters as spending the stories of his life like small change on a stranger. Stories are precious, shared with a lover they are indeed large currency.
I once told a lover about sitting on the wall of a marina while I waited for a plane, I was running away from a terrible job on an island, didn't want to be seen or heard. A solitary gull was trawling then diving, time and time again, I felt it was telling me to keep trying, keep trawling until a fish appeared. It was a sweet, lonely moment of my life, there was no reason behind my telling of it.
She went searching for the meaning in the story, was she the fish or another unsuccessful dive? It seemed important to her, what I said mattered. The truth was that the story wasn't about her, it was just a story, an atmosphere of intimacy and here I am. I'm the kind of old fashioned idiot who believes that honesty is important in a relationship.
Now that story is about her. She was another unsuccessful dive.
I spent that one like small change.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I once told a lover about sitting on the wall of a marina while I waited for a plane, I was running away from a terrible job on an island, didn't want to be seen or heard. A solitary gull was trawling then diving, time and time again, I felt it was telling me to keep trying, keep trawling until a fish appeared. It was a sweet, lonely moment of my life, there was no reason behind my telling of it.
She went searching for the meaning in the story, was she the fish or another unsuccessful dive? It seemed important to her, what I said mattered. The truth was that the story wasn't about her, it was just a story, an atmosphere of intimacy and here I am. I'm the kind of old fashioned idiot who believes that honesty is important in a relationship.
Now that story is about her. She was another unsuccessful dive.
I spent that one like small change.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Wednesday, 1 June 2011
Scars.
He stands behind her, nestles naked into her, leans her back onto his chest. The only sound is the slightly too hot shower, his own voice is loud in his ears as he places her hand around his.
"Scars."
She moves his fingertips around her body, gives him the briefest of biographies.
"Surgery . . . boyfriend . . . car accident."
Her hand tenses as she reaches the underside of her left breast.
"You probably can't feel this one, it's barely visible now, I'll tell you about this one another time."
His hand slips from hers, takes hers, holds it on her breast.
"It's yours. While I'm holding you I'm holding it too. I love your scars too."
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
"Scars."
She moves his fingertips around her body, gives him the briefest of biographies.
"Surgery . . . boyfriend . . . car accident."
Her hand tenses as she reaches the underside of her left breast.
"You probably can't feel this one, it's barely visible now, I'll tell you about this one another time."
His hand slips from hers, takes hers, holds it on her breast.
"It's yours. While I'm holding you I'm holding it too. I love your scars too."
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Humility.
As if this fifteen year old lad isn't full enough of bad manners and rich kid arrogance, tonight he has just completed his first martial arts grading and he knows he nailed it. by next week he'll have a coloured belt wrapped around his skinny waist. The kid is walking tall.
He crosses the road to where his father picks him up. He always tells his Dad that the class finishes fifteen minutes later than it does so he has time for a smoke. He lights up, feels like a man, yellow belted legend. A couple of older kids approach, ask for a cigarette, after a refusal demand a cigarette. The kid stares them down, takes a step forward, not back. He holds the field. Does life get any better than this?
He steps under a tree when a light rain drifts over, a leaf falls on his head, seems to be stuck in his hair. As he brushes it off all eight legs of the leaf wrap around his finger, long, hairy, arachnid legs. As he instinctively flicks the spider off he involuntarily emits the whimper of a small girl, tries to turn it into the cry of a warrior. He's not even fooling himself, for a moment there he was close to pissing in his own pants, a yellow belt he could do without.
One word that his karate master had said to him a week earlier suddenly made sense.
Humility.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
He crosses the road to where his father picks him up. He always tells his Dad that the class finishes fifteen minutes later than it does so he has time for a smoke. He lights up, feels like a man, yellow belted legend. A couple of older kids approach, ask for a cigarette, after a refusal demand a cigarette. The kid stares them down, takes a step forward, not back. He holds the field. Does life get any better than this?
He steps under a tree when a light rain drifts over, a leaf falls on his head, seems to be stuck in his hair. As he brushes it off all eight legs of the leaf wrap around his finger, long, hairy, arachnid legs. As he instinctively flicks the spider off he involuntarily emits the whimper of a small girl, tries to turn it into the cry of a warrior. He's not even fooling himself, for a moment there he was close to pissing in his own pants, a yellow belt he could do without.
One word that his karate master had said to him a week earlier suddenly made sense.
Humility.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
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