Oh Well.

When someone was banging on, a self indulgent torrent, a poor me assault, my old mate Kenn would listen patiently for as long as he could, eventually shrug his shoulders and utter the words, "oh well". If he was questioned on his apparent disinterest he would ask, "whaddya' gonna' do?"

Some folks pay out a fortune for years of therapy to reach this level of understanding.

Oh well.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

William Goldman On Writing.

“Writing is finally about one thing: going into a room alone and doing it. Putting words on paper that have never been there in quite that way before. And although you are physically by yourself, the haunting Demon never leaves you, that Demon being the knowledge of your own terrible limitations, your hopeless inadequacy, the impossibility of ever getting it right. No matter how diamond-bright your ideas are dancing in your brain, on paper they are earthbound.”

William Goldman.

Author of The Princess Bride, I reckon Mr. Goldman overcame his inadequacies better than most. A complicated story made simple, so even an adult can understand it.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Harold Pinter On Cricket And Sex.

     
“I tend to think that cricket is the greatest thing that God ever created on earth - certainly greater than sex, although sex isn't too bad either”

Harold Pinter.

Apologies in advance to my girlfriend, it's nearly cricket season.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Things'll Get Better.

"It's alright mate, things'll get better, they always do."

We'd just discussed the death of the Sydney live music scene, he looked crestfallen when I told him serviced apartments for businessmen now occupies the site of The Manzil Room, the late great rock and roll venue. A drug casualty of showbiz, he couldn't follow a train of thought for long. He'd bounced between Melbourne and Sydney, like we all have, he'd just done it harder than me.

After expenses each week he earns $230, a little less than survival, he manages somehow. I dig him. He's a lost cause but fighting to the end, St. Jude holds him dear.

His guitar case was difficult to weave through the crowded tram, no one made room for him. He turned and smiled.

"It's alright mate, things'll get better, they always do."

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Adolf Hitler On Power.

"What luck for rulers that men do not think.”

Adolf Hitler.

The dude ran a commentary on his own corruption, like he felt guilty about how easy it was.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Thomas Jefferson On Freedom From Government.

"I predict future happiness for Americans if they can prevent the government from wasting the labors of the people under the pretense of taking care of them."

Thomas Jefferson.

Old words, sound and true. America stands by the words of their founding fathers, I hope they continue to do so in the face of terrorism paranoia. I hope my fellow Australians pay some attention too.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

A Sunday Thought.

If we perceive religions as human cultures that employ the fear of an imaginary deity to enforce social rules religions become much easier to understand. The imaginary deity also provides solace from poverty and despair, what a good idea, until the religion becomes a culture of poverty and despair.

In the 1970's the Australian government began dispensing flouride through the water supply. After some expressions of concern it was generally accepted, following generations have pretty amazing teeth. I suggest we dispense the latest generation of Prozac through the water supply, the following generation of humans would be born into a world free of the cultures known as religions.

Just a thought, on a Sunday of poverty and despair.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Johnny Depp On Life Skills.

“One of the greatest pieces of advice I’ve ever gotten in my life was from my mom. When I was a little kid there was a kid who was bugging me at school and she said “Okay, I’m gonna tell you what to do. If the kid’s bugging you and puts his hands on you; you pick up the nearest rock...”

Johnny Depp.

I love this. In a politically correct world where celebrities all mouth the same trite Lama speak I'm refreshed to hear an actor tell the truth. The absence of the threat of punishment explains many of the liberties the criminal class take with our lives.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Red Circle, Red Line.

You know the sign, the red circle with a red line through it, an image inside the red circle, the red line stating that whatever that image represents is forbidden. It's an international symbol, unavoidable.

The image inside the red circle is usually a cigarette, no smoking. You'll also see an image of a camera, no photography, a black P, no parking, a wine bottle, no drinking, a skateboard, a bicycle, a dog, the list of what is forbidden in some places grows daily, the number of signs ensuring we know what is forbidden grows too. It's like some old time Baptists took over the world whilst we were looking elsewhere. The red circle and red line reeks of the pious, smells like a religious symbol.

Kent, don't do this, Kent, don't do that. Yes I do take it personally.

I'm planning a logo for this blog, a red circle with a red line through it, an image of a red circle with a red line through it inside. A no forbidding anything sign. No more no. When I look back over this blog that is the common theme throughout, do what you want to do, say what you want to say, love how you want to love, be free to be yourself, do what feels natural for you, resist anyone who tries to prevent you.

Of course some will abuse freedom, the rest of us free people have to take on some responsibility, freedom is a cultural phenomena, not a word. Simple symbols are useful to teach children, us adults don't need them.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Hold The Feelings, Thank You.

What's muesli for?

Why are cats?

What do reality shows about women who are married to famous men do?

How do conversations about shoes justify themselves?

What has carrot got to do with cake? What has cake got to do with carrot?

Who is that singer, the one that sang that song?

Yes, more bacon please, and a conversation that doesn't involve feelings.

I'm a man.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Willy Wonka On Desire.

"Willy Wonka: But Charlie, don't forget what happened to the man who suddenly got everything he he always wanted.

Charlie Bucket: What happened?

Willy Wonka: He lived happily ever after."

Willy Wonka, Charlie And The Chocolate Factory.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

On Music.

"Virtue is the stem, music the flower."

Unknown.

I found this in a book of Chinese flute tunes. I like it. Real music comes from the heart. A pure heart sings purely.

http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

Melbourne Summer Girls.

Aaah, Melbourne, the first Summer days, the first Summer girls.

A laneway cafe, an excellent Melbourne coffee, the parade of women with style getting their legs and arms and most of their boobs out into the sun for the first time this year. Sundress girls, mini skirt girls, shorts and singlet girls, office girls with their jackets off. How could any man be unhappy on a day like today?

The Spring horse racing carnival is on, the girls glam up for the big events, these every day girls going about their business are much more my style, they are real. Jeans and t shirt girl just smiled at me, black dress and quirky stockings girl looks a little nervous, she's having fun with those long legs. Denim shorts and black singlet girl just dropped whatever she was eating down her front, laughter as she brushes it off.

I fall in love with all of them as they pass, the affair swiftly ends as another Summer girl takes my fancy.

Giggling skinny Asian girl speaks with a fabulously broad Aussie accent into her cell phone. Hippy girl is probably one size too big for that wrap around skirt, I don't mind a bit.

My Melbourne Summer girl is at work, I'll meet up with her in an hour or two. I'm sure she wouldn't mind my window shopping as I take coffee. What else can a man do in a groovy Melbourne laneway when Summer is in the air?

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Milan Kundera On The Courage To Love.

"Perhaps the reason we are unable to love is that we yearn to be loved, that is, we demand something (love) from our partner instead of delivering ourselves up to him demand-free and asking for nothing but his company."   

Milan Kundera.

It takes courage to be happy, to honestly say what we want. To say, "I just want your company", risks placing a responsibility on the other person if they don't feel the same way. The risk is worth it.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Thank God I'm A City Boy.

So, I'll try to explain this a best I can, my understanding is limited.

You know how there are cities, places where most modern people in industrialized nations live? Well, apparently, in the spaces between those cities there is other stuff. You must have seen it whizzing past as you've driven from one city to another, it's called the country, the countryside, rural areas, all sorts of different names.

I have it on good authority, from people who've been there, that these places that aren't the city contain all sorts of wonders, lakes, beaches, forests, pasture, deserts, even something called mountains, like really big hills. And there are animals out there too, some domesticated which they kill to make food, others that are actually wild, dangerous. It's all true I tell you, my friend has been there, he wouldn't lie to me.

There are also places called towns out there. Towns are like smaller versions of cities, just a few people live in them, everything closes early, the coffee is terrible and there is only one or two taxis. I've been to some of the bigger towns on my way between cities, long enough to sleep one night, I can't tell you too much more about them. I'm not sure what towns are for, certainly not for living a life with any style in.

I'm glad there are people out there raising meat animals for our restaurants, I'm grateful to them, who knows what horrors they face daily? Imagine the quiet, nature pushing right up against one's door, the complete absence of another million humans to interact with. Can you imagine? The horror! I'm happy that city people who lose the plot have somewhere to run away to, somewhere they can slow down and watch the world go by without getting in my way. I think it's terrific that wild animals can enjoy their own habitat, just as I enjoy mine.

I know you'll think I'm making this stuff up, but it's true. There are even mountains, really big hills, with snow on them all year 'round, and beaches without road access, or cafes, or other people on them. There really are. Go and see for yourself if you don't believe me, you can take your car most of the way.

I start sneezing when I reach the last grassy suburbs of any city. Born in a city, I'll die in one, preferably San Francisco, maybe Marseille. I keep talking about loading up on anti histamines and venturing outside the city one day, having a look around, I probably never will.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

A. A. Milne On True Love.

"If you live to be a hundred, I want to live to be a hundred minus one day so I never have to live without you."

A.A. Milne.

It's been a while but I'm pretty sure Christopher Robin says this to Pooh when he takes him up to the forest to talk about important things. Christopher Robin was about to start school, had to explain that he wasn't going to be around as much.

I still tear up when I think of this scene, it reminds me of a moment in my own life. Do you love someone so much you want to die before them?

http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

You Didn't Have To Be There.

So I was showing off to a couple of friends, explained to them that I'd sung all three vocal parts in the harmony on a demo that was playing. One friend wasn't so impressed.

"I'd like to see you do that live, that would be impressive."

I performed a little mime for her, opened my mouth like I was singing, blocked one nostril like I was singing another note from my nose, then lifted one leg like the third harmony part was coming out my arse. She was right, it would be impressive to be able to do that live on stage.

It was one of those "had to be there" moments. Physical comedy so often is. How to employ words to explain Charlie Chaplin, Rowan Atkinson? For me humourists are often the cleverest writers, those who can portray a lifted eyebrow and make us laugh, see what's funny. As always the skill is mostly in the words they don't write, in what they allow us to imagine.

Writing humour is mostly about character. If we know the character, how he or she thinks, we can imagine their physical presence, their reactions to situations. If you knew my character, a man who rarely stoops to bottom jokes, the idea of me singing out my arse becomes funnier. That I take myself and my music fairly seriously makes it funnier again. That I was possibly a little affronted that my friend wasn't impressed, told her the note coming out of my arse was specially for her, you begin to see a subplot based on the flaws of my character.

I haven't written many characters yet, it's my next challenge. It's harder than it looks. I have a comic detective coming together in my mind, and a slightly autobiographical hippy jazzhead saxophonist who takes himself and his music a little too seriously and can't understand why no one else does, a fellow who somehow gets by on love and air, luck and the kindness of strangers. The step after that is writing a female character, wish me luck with that one gentlemen.

Humour is even more subjective than beauty, we all laugh at different stuff. The key is turning a situation from "you had to be there" to "I felt like I was there".

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Philip K. Dick On Manufactured Reality.

“Because today we live in a society in which spurious realities are manufactured by the media, by governments, by big corporations, by religious groups, political groups...So I ask, in my writing, What is real? Because unceasingly we are bombarded with pseudo-realities manufactured by very sophisticated people using very sophisticated electronic mechanisms. I do not distrust their motives; I distrust their power. They have a lot of it. And it is an astonishing power: that of creating whole universes, universes of the mind. I ought to know. I do the same thing.”

Philip K. Dick.

Dick wrote this before so many lives were dominated by online social media. Genius.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Garage Door Wisdom.

So when machinery breaks down folks like me call a man, today it was an automatic garage door.

The man talked me through the entire process. When the door was converted from hand operated to remote controlled automatic the old lock wasn't adjusted correctly so the engine was pulling too hard, the fixed pulley above the door had been pulled loose from it's housing, the door was pushing harder on the moving parts on one side than the other, finally one of those parts had jammed. The man explained it succinctly, in terms an arty wanker like me could comprehend.

This man had a way of looking at the world. Instead of seeing one part, identifying what was wrong, he saw the system as a whole, fixed the problem as well as preventing it's reoccurrence. This is a wisdom of sorts.

Nearly all problems, mechanical or human, begin at one point, became apparent at another. A quick repair, replacing a part, won't fix any problem for long, viewing the problem in the context of it's system will always lead to a more satisfactory solution.

An angry man, spoiling for a fight is like the moving part from the garage door. He is broken, the system of his family and culture provided the pressure that caused the wear and tear. We are all part of someone else's system, we can all look at how our actions are passed on down the line.

Occasionally we encounter a great sage, a teacher, someone who can explain the system, help us see the world differently. When machinery breaks down we call a man who understands the system. Who do we call when a human breaks down?

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Epicurus On Life And Death.

“I was not, I was, I am not, I care not. (Non fui, fui, non sum, non curo)”

Epicurus.

This is a deceptively positive quotation. You gotta' be while you are.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Frederic Chopin On Simplicity.

“Simplicity is the final achievement. After one has played a vast quantity of notes and more notes, it is simplicity that emerges as the crowning reward of art.”

Frederic Chopin.

Simplicity. So far there are around a dozen quotations from great artists about simplicity on this site. There will be dozens more, it can't be said enough times.

The current culture is hooked on complexity, bells, whistles, smoke, mirrors. You have to be good to pull off simplicity, really good, not just a pretty celebrity with good technology.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Constable Walker's Ghost.

Sitting around a table late at night, two of the guests were military collectors, one produced an object he had located and purchased that day. Made in the 1850's by Colt, a handmade leather gun belt, little loops for ammunition, a spring loaded holster for a swifter draw, it was a beautiful thing. We were warned about the spring action, one hundred and sixty years later it was still as fierce as an angry doberman.

This gun belt was standard issue for colonial policemen at the time. If the American west was wild the Australian colonies were chaos, less than a million people, mostly men, mostly ex convicts, on a continent nearly as big as the United States. It was easy for a criminal to disappear, go bush, reappear hundreds of miles away. A policeman would have been comforted by the idea of a fast drawing, spring loaded holster.




The owner's name, Walker, was etched inside the belt. I could see Constable Walker in front of his mirror, drawing his revolver repeatedly, perfecting the action of flicking the spring release in the same motion as gripping his weapon. He had to break the old habit of lifting his gun up and out, instead swing straight from the open holster, hopefully gaining a fraction of a second on his foe. I imagined Constable Walker wondering how he would stand up in such a situation, would he be cool, would he freeze, would he work his entire career as a policeman and never have to find out?

The chances are Walker was no saint himself. Colonial policeman was not the career of choice, leaving home for the other side of the world to chase desperate men around the dry, dusty bush was a job for men who needed a new life because the old one wasn't going so well. He probably wasn't so different from the men he pursued, unlike a criminal his career had a retirement date, a pension plan.

Chances are he had to enforce the white man's law even when the indigenous people didn't understand it. With no concept of ownership in Australian aboriginal culture there was always going to be conflict with settlers who came with nothing but ownership on their minds. I wonder how Walker viewed these people, I wonder how he treated them? The letters and diaries of many working class troopers display a remarkable affinity with the original Australians, a fraternity of folks accustomed to being on the incorrect side of the law, often through no fault of their own. Despite the fact that enforcing that law was his job Walker could probably see it wasn't always fair.

The gun belt was handed around, the two collectors discussed possible resale value, who might desire such an object, the conversation returned to the usual late night jokes and chatter. In a spare chair, just away from the table, Walker's ghost sat and chuckled, the fuss made over his old work tool, yet quietly proud as he remembered himself as a young man, practicing his quick draw in front of the mirror. Only he knew how he'd faced up to employing that belt in the heat of battle, the other guests at the table would never know.


www.kentparkstreetblog.com
www.parkstreetprose.blogspot.com

Epicurus On God.

“Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able? Then he is not omnipotent. Is he able, but not willing? Then he is malevolent. Is he both able and willing? Then whence cometh evil? Is he neither able nor willing? Then why call him God?”

Epicurus.

Applying logic to god is discounted by believers, they refer to faith. Epicurus took a step back, questioned what people have faith in.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Orthodoxy Of Dylan.

The answer is blowing in the wind? Really? That's the best you could come up with?

You've probably witnessed a smoker lighting the wrong end of a cigarette? The look on his face when he receives a lung full of noxious fumes from a burning filter instead of the addiction soothing tobacco smoke he was expecting, that is the look I receive when I say I don't rate Dylan.

"You don't rate Bob Dylan? What is wrong with you?"

"Crap vocals, sham poetry, standard instrumentation and production, yeah, it's definitely me who has it wrong."

I reckon the giant status of many acts is a result of time and place as much as any intrinsic musical or artistic value. Dylan wrote some cool stuff, wrote some nonsense trash, there were and are much more interesting writers and performers to my ears. I don't mind that folks dig him, live and let and all that, I become annoyed when he is honoured as a creative god. He just ain't.

I object to being told what is cool, being told I'm a fool for disagreeing with the majority. I object to any culturally enforced orthodoxy. I find it hilarious when Dylan fans, fanatics become offended at my humble opinion, look at me like I've crapped in their Cornflakes. I admit to a certain perverse pleasure at their discomfort.

Any orthodoxy that can't accept a differing opinion is a tyranny. Even if I liked Dylan I'd enjoy rocking the compulsory boat by saying I don't. I just don't rate Dylan. You heard right, I don't rate Dylan.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Dr. McCoy On Bureaucracy.

"The bureaucratic mentality is the only constant in the universe."

 Dr. McCoy, Star Trek.

I never liked the McCoy character, but now I discover this Kafka moment and wonder if I was missing something?

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

A More Honest Man You'll Never Meet.

He was a classic conman, a smooth talking angle worker. I met him when he brought some paintings to Australia, the work of some serial killer or other, he was selling prints, riding the serial killer fashion of the day. Yep, serial killers were in fashion, he noticed and sold stuff off the back of it.

He exhibited the quite probably fake pictures in a gallery attached to a restaurant and bar I played in regularly, stayed in the hotel upstairs, I got to know him quite well. He knew I wasn't buying any of his nonsense so we spoke honestly to each other, then he turned on the bullshit when anyone else was around.

He told me that ignorance was his friend. People in one place knew what a product was worth, people in another place thought that product was worth ten times that price. He paid attention, moved that product from the knowledgeable place to the ignorant place. He told me that a product he called "smut" was cheap in the U.S., expensive in Mexico, so he moved smut from the U.S. to Mexico. He told me that hand made sandals were worn by peasants in some South American countries, he moved the same sandals to Europe and sold them as indigenous handcrafted excellence.

Then when someone was listening he told stories of escaping South American militia, crapping in a plastic bag for three days so the dogs couldn't track him, enough ugly detail to sound pithy and real. The folks lapped it up, wanted in on whatever deal he had going. The idea of a fast buck always guarantees an audience.

He departed before dawn a couple of days before he was due to check out. Of course he hadn't paid for his hotel room, bar tab, restaurant tab, he hadn't paid for anything. No one seemed too upset, he'd left us all with some hilarious and unlikely stories, and a little education. The man was an entertainer, he'd paid his bills with his twenty four hour a day live show. The man was an artist, his entire life on exhibition, even if all the works were probably fakes.

I loved his show, his performance, his con. A more honest man you'll never meet.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Evil Knieval On World Politics.

"I foresee the Chinese ruling the world. What are you going to do to stop it? No president of the United States will ever have enough power to stop the Chinese when they want to take over the world."

Evil Knieval.

Who knew Mr. Knieval was a political commentator and a prophet?

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

She Wouldn't Believe Me.

I stop myself before I regale the pretty young waitress with a tale of the good old days. I used to play here you see, another life, back when this area was a bit tougher, a bit cooler. She doesn't want to know, for her this place has always been this way, for her Wham are old school rock.

I recall a raid on the office upstairs. The weird thing is that office was the home of the local police vice squad, other police went thundering up the stairs and marched their comrades out in handcuffs, the locals cheered, they were sick of having to buy their drugs back from those guys. I recall a nude protest, about fifteen naked lunatics on the street, life was fun before every phone had a camera, before anyone even had a phone in their pocket. I remember fondly another random nudity occasion, a stripper's birthday party, an impromptu show, I didn't mind that folks paid more attention to the girls than the music, so did I.

There was sex with eager young backpackers in the small apartment upstairs, dancing on tables, free beer and pizza, music, always music, jam bands of whoever was in the house that night. Glory days and nights, learning days and nights, so much fun, it was like being a hot dog and having fun squeezed between my buns.

I stop myself before I begin to speak. This pretty young waitress thinks having her lip pierced puts her out on the edge. If she does anything wild it will go via a cell phone to the net, she doesn't need a future employer seeing anything like that.

She probably wouldn't believe me anyway.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Albert Camus On The Struggle For The Weird.

"Nobody realizes that some people expend tremendous energy merely to be normal."

Albert Camus

I have a couple of friends who know this idea well. One divorced and ran away to join the jazz circus, she uses the energy she used to put into appearing normal into the music now. Another friend still struggles, puts on a tie to go to work and wonders why every day. I'm lucky, acting normal comes easily to me, no one ever needs know just how strange I am.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Iko Iko And Me.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JESFMO1Hl4M&feature=youtube_gdata_player


Every musician experiences times of doubt, a feeling of stepping forward, having no idea where the front foot should land, suspension between the last step and the next. I'm in a new city, rather back in an old one, no idea how to approach a new canvass.

The only sensible response is to pick up a guitar and learn to play and sing Iko Iko. What else would you do? If that tune doesn't get the juices flowing what else can?

I've no idea what the song is about. I've played saxophone on it and sung the "hey now" backing vocal on it a few times, never really stopped to think what the lyric means. I don't think it matters, it's just an infectious bastard of a song, exactly what I need right now to infect me with the groove again. An obsession with playing music is an illness, incurable, all you can do is decide which brand of illness suits you right now, find a groove and stick your tongue in it's mouth until you're sure you have the bug.

I've googled the lyrics, all nine hundred variations, read what the music boffins have to say, they have no idea what the song is about either. Perfect. A song that feels good food it's own sake is exactly what I need. I've looked up a version by Dr. John, seeing a doctor to get sick makes about as much sense as anything else in the music world.

So, an hour of public transport to pick up my guitar, an hour back, then to drive my girlfriend insane with playing Iko Iko in every way I can imagine until one settles in as mine. Bass line, two chords, lyrics, groove, should only be about fifteen hours of noodling, if she survives that she can put up with all my other bad habits. The other option is that I get bored and really put my bad habits on display. It's for her own good, even if she doesn't know it yet.

Finding ways to keep the music rolling is one of the skills a lifelong musician requires. Today it is a guitar and Iko Iko, in six months it might be locking myself in a room with a saxophone and playing scales for hours. A musician can walk away from playing at any time, too easily, I consider it every time I hit a dry patch like this one. All it takes is one real friend to say, "don't do it", and a new plan, the musical adventure rolls on.

Gotta' go, a train to catch, a guitar to fetch, a song to learn, a love of music to save.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

On Decadence.

"A good dinner is a rare thing today. Gastronomy is like poetry: it has fallen into a complete decadence...
The causes of this decadence are well known: thoughtlessness, fatuity, overweening ambition are only small and ordinary sins; the most complete self-abandonment, the absence of convictions, greed, these are what have troubled the limpid sources from which gastronomic delights should flow with an enchanted murmur.     
The present generation eats and knows not how to eat . . . It is the enemy of that grande cuisine which was France's glory. The chefs are the cause of this indifference which is blamed on us. They have muddled everything, spoilt everything, exhausted everything."

‘Courrier de Paris’, 3/27/1858
(As quoted in ‘Larousse Gastronomique’, 1961)

Quoted in Larousse fifty years ago, to show how nothing really changes, and nothing really changes.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

I Love That Gaddafi Is Dead.

I love it that Gaddafi was found alone, hiding, his fingers in his ears, saying, "lalalalalala I'm not listening". I think it's hilarious. Saddam Hussein went the same way, deserted by all his sycophants. The same individual power that attracted followers repelled them when that power attracted many angry men with guns.



I love that a man who stole billions of dollars from his countrymen didn't stop to think to spend a few million on an escape plan, he never thought he'd need one. Even an alpha gorilla knows when his time is up, knows when to retreat with a bunch of happy memories. I love that twenty years ago Gaddafi claimed he would die as a martyr. I wonder if he predicted his own people would pull him from a drainage pipe and take turns to shoot him in the legs?

Gaddafi died too quickly. He was placed in an ambulance, taken to hospital, there was an attempt to make him suffer longer. It's important that tyrants and despots die slowly and painfully, ensure that anyone taking up that career path knows that it usually ends badly.

I love that Gaddafi's blood line has been wiped out, that all traces of his corruption will pass in years, not decades.

I just love that Gaddafi is dead. That prick deserved it.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
www.parkstreetprose.blogspot.com

David St. Hubbins On The Nature Of Infinity.

"Well, I don't really think that the end can be assessed as of itself as being the end because what does the end feel like? It's like saying when you try to extrapolate the end of the universe, you say, if the universe is indeed infinite, then how - what does that mean? How far is all the way, and then if it stops, what's stopping it, and what's behind what's stopping it? So, what's the end, you know, is my question to you."

David St. Hubbins.

The thing with This Is Spinal Tap is the nonsense and genius become entwined, he's so right and so wrong.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

And No Fucking Nick Cave.

"I wouldn't go in there if I were you."

The idea of a hairy, smelly bass player running this gag past me every morning as he departs the shared bathroom is putting me off the idea of living in a shared house. I've lived alone for many years, or shared with one civilized woman who I was romantically involved with, despite the social and financial advantages I'm not sure I can return to sharing.

I'm a non drinker, I mostly like to eat healthy food, I know what will happen if I responded to a classified advertisement with those criteria. I'll find myself living with pseudo hippies who make their dog be vegetarian and bully him for being masculine and not being like the fourteen cats who have the run of the house, eventually I'll end up like The Chief in One Flew, having to smother the poor mutt with a pillow to end the misery. I just know that is how it will go down. And they'll all listen to fucking Nick Cave constantly and rave about his fucking pointless novel, then all go through a Dylan stage in unison. And even the men will claim their cycle has fallen into sync with everyone else's and they'll all force themselves to behave all zany and whacky every full moon. And they'll all complain about their student loans which their middle class parents paid off for them and all just be killing time until they paired off to live in the 'burbs exactly the same as their parents, except they'd play fucking Nick Cave to their kids when they were drunk instead of Neil Diamond or Dexy's Midnight Runners.

I just know that would all happen if I answered an ad for a non drinking health conscious housemate, it just would.

I guess I could place my own ad. "Seeking shared house where everyone shuts the fuck up until midday, and most of the rest of the day, and no one plays any fucking Nick Cave, talks about their menstrual cycle, owns cats or hates men."

It may be best if I continue to live alone for a while.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Norm Peterson On Women.

"Women. You can't live with 'em. Pass the beernuts."

Norm Peterson, Cheers.

The Norm character spoke to the Everyman in all of us. Drink a beer, talk some crap, think about the hard stuff later.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Yearning For Portland Oregon.

I find myself yearning to be in Portland Oregon. That city is just nuts enough, just civilized enough to feel like a home for me.

I miss the goodwill, old fashioned goodwill, the feeling that everyone wants nothing but the best for me, for everyone. I miss the innate enthusiasm of the American folks, their naturally positive approach to every moment, the opposite of my natural state, it rubs off on me. I miss their love for and understanding of music and story telling, not driven by fashion, driven by genuine feeling.

Life still happens on the street there, as well as online. I can wander N.E. Alberta any time of the day or night and find a kindred soul with time for coffee and chat, and a lead on where to play. I love the one hour friendships I've known there, as well as those that last from one visit to the next a year later.

I miss the essential groove of the place, everyone simply getting along, it doesn't sound like much until you leave it. I miss the crazy art, the crazy people, the civilized art, the civilized people. I just miss Portland.

There are plans in place, one day I'll live there for a year or two, for now it will be annual visits to top up my tank, new memories to carry me along on days like this one.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Daria On Choice.

"That's the road to happiness and personal satisfaction. That's why they don't want you to take it."

Daria.

I dig old fashioned cynicism, it can point out the obvious when it needs pointing out.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

How To Be A Writer.

People say that all it takes to be a writer is imagination and confidence. This is true, perhaps not in the way you'd imagine.

Imagine, if you will, that your friends, who you love so much, imagine they would actually shut their big yapping mouths long enough for you to start and finish a story without interruption. Imagine that.

If you were confident you could tell your story without having to rush, with the freedom to express it exactly as you wish, how would you tell that story? You'd pace it, state the required background knowledge succinctly, drop a teasing idea, introduce the humour and twists at the right time to maintain interest, add some clever word play, the story teller's garnish. Then you'd return to that teasing idea you floated at the start, let the conclusion echo the introduction like a bell in a valley. That's how you'd tell your story, given the time and space.

A blank page is as much time and space as you desire, short and sweet, long and winding, as the story desires. We all have a story, at least one, just imagine having the opportunity to tell it, the confidence you can start and finish in your own time. That's how to be a writer.

Parkstreet.

Charles Spurgeon On Pacifist Violence.

"We shall soon have to handle the truth, not with kid gloves, but with gauntlets - the gauntlets of holy courage and integrity. Go on ye warriors of the Cross for the King is at the head of you."

Charles Spurgeon.

Spurgeon was an old fashioned Baptist preacher. He came to my attention because he preached at a place called The New Park Street Pulpit, possibly the name of my next band. I kind of admire his aggression, modern churches are so wishy washy considering they believe they are saving actual souls. On the other hand I do wonder what Jesus, a largely peaceful fellow, might have thought about warriors in his name.

http://www.kentparkstreetblog.com/

Everything He Ever Wanted.

If you go out seeking offence you'll find it.

A lady just came into my local bakery, decided the range of pies available wasn't up to her desires, didn't listen when the lady behind the counter informed her that more would be ready in just one minute. In her defence the customer did look like she desired a lot of pies, could eat a lot of pies, had already eaten a lot of pies today. One doesn't need to be an F.B.I. profiler to know that her problem is her own self image. A fat chick entering a shop to purchase a large number of meat pies is always going to feel self conscious. So offence was sought and taken.

Do I need to state the obvious cliche? We find what we seek. If that lady had sought a happy refuge, a place where all her desires were catered to by people who loved creating luxuriously fat food she would have found that.

What are you seeking? What do you want? When you leave home each morning what do want from your fellow man? What do you want from the day? I'm in no way suggesting we should all leave home seeking butterflies and moonbeams, I enjoy a good offence taking as much as the next man. Conflict can be fun, but only if we know that is what we like. Identifying what we truly want then seeking it seems a simple path to happiness.

Willy Wonka said that the man who got everything he ever wanted lived happily ever after. That man must have known what he truly wanted.

Parkstreet.

Patrick White On The Australian Identity.

"Australians will never acquire a national identity until individual Australians acquire identities of their own."

Patrick White.

Australia is a very young nation. I return to it and notice the lack of an essential culture. We will find and feel our own identity over time, hopefully, but not unless we go looking for it, stop comparing ourselves to every other nation. Our tradition of working class self depreciation doesn't serve us well. Feeling free to fully express ourselves is the first step, a step we haven't taken yet.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

We Don't Change Our Ways.

Traveling interstate recently, a small town radio station played a comic country song titled We Don't Change Our Ways, We Change Our Women. That about sums it up.

We try, we compromise, we act, eventually we revert.

Today I was chatting with a fellow art nomad. He is facing a dilemma, the stability of his work and the desire to move on. One pays for the other, one inspires the other. He'll be working that decision all his life. Guys like him can live under a railway bridge if the work is going well, need to keep moving in one way or another to keep working.

He doesn't change his ways, he changes mindset, location, muse. If his ways involved a stable home, a steady income, life would be simple. Artists are lonely seagulls, landing only for nutrition and sleep.

My friend and I aren't so different. We both dream of finding a woman who can live with our ways. Dreams can come true.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Pablo Picasso On War And Art.

"What do you think an artist is? An imbecile who has only eyes if he is a painter, or ears if he is a musician, or a lyre in every chamber of his heart if he is a poet, or even, if he is a boxer, just his muscles? Far, far from it: at the same time, he is also a political being, constantly aware of the heartbreaking, passionate, or delightful things that happen in the world, shaping himself completely in their image. How could it be possible to feel no interest in other people, and with a cool indifference to detach yourself from the very life which they bring to you so abundantly? No, painting is not done to decorate apartments. It is an instrument of war."

Pablo Picasso.

This is simply brilliant. What a brilliant thing to say. Brilliant!

That being an artist is more than producing art is generally accepted, for a while Warhol and his imitators, a funny concept in itself, forgot about the producing art part of the deal. Picasso had the credibility to say stuff like this because of his work.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Train Disconnection.

In the decade I was away from Melbourne someone came along and rebuilt the central railway station in Spencer Street. A modern architectural masterpiece, high ceilings, natural light, not a single straight line in the joint, a people's palace. Some smart bastard also changed the name to Southern Cross Station, obviously naming a station after the street it is on isn't as impressive as naming it after a constellation.

The information signage is all at ceiling height. Anyone with low vision can't find anything. The television screens on the platforms are too small and too high too. I have to ask friendly looking strangers for information, Melbourne folks are always helpful. The designers have also created bottlenecks on the way in and out of the station, despite having so much space to play with they've made the place feel crowded.

The old Spencer Street Station was an ugly old bitch but it worked. Signs were painted large, passengers flowed in and out easily, it was a village beneath the city where folks would drop and pick up dry cleaning, pick up coffee and snacks. Franchised American hamburger restaurants hold prime positions at Southern Cross.

I love that Melbourne has become a confident city, proud of it's individual architectural style, renewing itself. There is no point hanging onto old bathwater, the city must change. I wonder how many old people can't use the train station they paid for, the one they've used all their lives? I'll bet they use it once then never return. Things as simple as large signs, a larger screen, how could the great minds that reached for the stars in the title forget these things? How stupid are they?

The politicians and public servants who design and build for us never have to travel on the train. They never will. This new station is symbolic of their disconnection from the people they are supposed to serve. I'll only return to the station on Spencer Street if I have to.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Errol Flynn On Greed.

"Any man who dies with more than $10000 to his name is a failure."   

Errol Flynn.

The most famous Tasmanian lived a life. He had the right to speak about money, he made and spent plenty.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Not Much Changes.

So I'm sitting at the bar at Pellegrini's, the guy beside me asks how long I've been coming here? One of my first jobs was located around the corner, twenty seven years ago I'd come in daily for a long machiato, a soft packet of strong cigarettes and a Pellegrini's match book folded into an A shape on a little tray.

"Has much changed?"

I think of my belly, my muscle tone, my jaw line, realize he is talking about the cafe.

"Nah, not much."

I drift off into memories of working in a dungeon kitchen at Tikki And John's Theatre Restaurant around the corner, discovering there were things I wasn't very good at, that cutting up large pumpkins for soup for one hundred people was hard work, learning that showbiz folks are mostly drunken children. I recalled making a choice, moving on from a job that was happy, easy enough after a few weeks, but not teaching me enough to keep me content. I recall feeling bad for leaving even though the boss didn't really care so much. I recall walking out the door at midnight after the Saturday night show, wondering what the hell I was going to do next?

"Nah, not much has changed at all."

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Gabriel Garcia Marquez On Dreams And Age.

“It is not true that people stop pursuing dreams because they grow old, they grow old because they stop pursuing dreams.”

Gabriel García Márquez.

I hope I die before I get old.

We all know this idea is true, yet all forget it at times. "I should" is a horrible motivation we all succumb to.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

A Reminder Call.

"Simple man, you'll just have to wear the cost of getting your own place, risk going hungry, and being hungry will make you hungry, you know that."

All my close mates are in different states or countries, phone calls become short and direct, we don't discuss the weather. My current Catch 22, I need an apartment near the city so I can work late nights, I need work to pay for the apartment, simply summed up by an old friend in Sydney. I know he is right, good to hear what I was thinking confirmed by a fellow old rock dog.

Old friends can talk this way. We've both lived lives driven by work, creating stuff, the usual motivations of security and wealth have never made sense to us. Occasionally the middle class side of The Force tempts me, I need an old master to bring me back to the bohemian side. The middle class side leads only to unfulfilled dreams, a living death for guys like us.

A five minute phone call has cleared my mind, all will fall into place as it always does, I'm quite possibly the luckiest man on Earth. Conventional wisdom is wisdom for the conventional, have those conventions ever served me well?

So I'll find a shoebox with a bed and a shower in it, crash there after walking home from the late ones, the sort of place you never want your Mum to see because you know she will worry. And going hungry to pay for it will indeed make me hungry to work, I know that.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Charlie Parker On Nerves.

"Don't be afraid, just play the music."

Charlie Parker.

Like any wild animals doubt and fear will attack and eat the weakest in the herd. Look and sound strong, play the music, let doubt and fear attack and eat someone else.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Man In The Attic Making Goldfish.

I read One Hundred Years Of Solitude many years ago, all I can recall of it is a retired soldier in an attic room painstakingly constructing tiny, intricate goldfish. I can't remember if the goldfish were made of silver or gold, why the man made goldfish, just that he was content making goldfish, it seemed as good a thing to do as any other thing. I know a lot of other things happened in that book, generations passed, magic intervened, war, love, I know these things because others have talked about them, I only really recall the man who made the goldfish.

I think of the man in the attic making goldfish quite often. I really do. At the moment I am, as we say in the music business, between engagements. Frankly I have no idea what I want to do, how to find the energy to start anew in a new city when I do decide. I find myself wondering what is worth doing? Most jobs need doing, what does it matter which one I do? Clean the toilets or play the tunes, does it matter? Or sit in an attic making goldfish?

I remember the goldfish were beautiful.

I feel like I should apologize to Gabriel Garcia Marquez. He wrote a masterpiece and all I recall is the man in the attic making goldfish. I guess if I ever write a book and someone recalls one detail, contemplates that detail, for twenty years, I guess I'll be content. Right now I feel like a retired soldier, perhaps this blog is my attic, each post a tiny goldfish?

Parkstreet.

Don McLean On Today's Popular Music.

"I think music is deader than hell. I think it's become music to watch fashion by, background music for videos... The essence of great songwriting has been eviscerated by the video culture. Now we have something else which doesn't include Don McLean - well, actually it does, but not because I want to be there - but I'm not interested in the background music for videos. I'm interested in what I would call beautiful, important songs. And I don't think they're being written ... You look at some of the stuff on MTV and you shut your eyes and you think, `what the fuck does this guy think he's doing?!'"

Don McLean.

Testify brother. Mr. McLean has the credibility to speak about popular music, he is right, I love him for risking sounding out of touch and having the courage to say this.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

This Photo.

Photograph by Deanna Tworivers.

This photo. I love this photo. After hundreds, possibly thousands taken over a twenty year musical career I finally see one where I look a tiny bit cool.

I love that Facho, the big dude beside me, lived in Paris at the same time I visited a couple of times, lived in Sydney for years at the same time I did, that we didn't meet until we both turned up in Portland Oregon. Portland is like that. I think it's hilarious that we shared experiences of self obsessed, daddy issue, mindfucking women in Sydney, that we were both glad to see the back of those girls. I love that we are both being gentlemen, watching the act before us on an outdoor stage, leading the applause. I love that Facho is a large, imposing guy, that he employs his presence to give others space to shine.

That coffee cost me two dollars and four cents due to some poorly managed sales tax in Vancouver Washington, the site of the gig. Back across the river in Portland it would have been a buck fifty. These quirks of the American Union amuse me, as much as the fact that one cent pieces still exist in the world's largest economy. All the details of that day come back to me when I look at this photo.

I love that my brand new vintage denim jacket looks like I've worn it for years. Blue denim, an American icon, worn by two guys who couldn't be more foreign.

More than anything I love this photo because I look a tiny bit cool for a change.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Tom Waits On Cheap Hotels.

"The rooms, they smell like diesel, and you take on the dreams of the ones that have slept there"

Tom Waits.

I've lived in cheap hotels, you've no right singing the blues until you have.

All places, atmospheres, affect us, who knows why? There is no shortage of theories why. As I age I'm seeking out places that feed me peace, I've done my time in the four walls, crap framed prints cell.

Cheap hotels are a prison for those who have convicted themselves.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Wassily Kandinsky On Appreciation.

" . . . lend your ears to music, open your eyes to painting, and . . . stop thinking! Just ask yourself whether the work has enabled you to “walk about” into a hitherto unknown world. If the answer is yes, what more do you want?”

Wassily Kandinsky.

What more do you want? Analysis? Academics make money, build empires out of telling us to want more, don't fall for that shit.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Kandinsky's Bedroom.

I saw this painting in real life once, such works rarely make it to Australia. The blocks of colour appeared bigger than they can in a reproduction like this. I'm guessing it was in some way an homage to Van Gogh. It is a beautiful thing.

I don't know why it has stuck in my mind for so many years. I'd heard the name Wassily Kandinsky in a very funny Monty Python skit years before, maybe familiarity attracted me. Perhaps it's just a beautiful painting, a brilliant use of colour and light, a depiction of the grandeur of the every day.

Occasionally I enter a room that gives me the same feeling, rarely in a modern building. Some rooms are suitable for creating beauty in, some aren't. I imagine impoverished, happy lovers spending naked days drinking cheap wine from a bottle and sharing the single bed of this bedroom. I imagine myself sitting on the bed alone, writing, smoking, putting off going out for coffee until the work is done.

I guess this piece stays in my mind because it altered my relationship with the world around me. It won't come to Australia again in my life time, a rare comet, seeing it once was enough, it's in me now.

Parkstreet.

The Kid's Got Groove.

I'm in the process of getting to know my girlfriend's autistic son, and him getting to know me. This morning I was being grumpy in bed, it was far too early for a gentleman to rise, the kid was marching around singing his own song.

"Doo be doo be wee . . . doo."

And repeat.

His marching was in perfect time, his singing beautifully pitched. If I could find a drummer or a singer with these fundamental skills I'd be a happy musician indeed. More than that the kid's got groove, the melody and the beat were in the pocket, infectious, a funk creation. There is a natural groove that some have and some don't, a relationship with the song that turns a simple beat into dance rhythm. The kid's got it.

It's funny what little things make us like a fellow human. I like the kid.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

T. S. Eliot On Keeping It Real.

"Whatever you think, be sure it is what you think; whatever you want, be sure that is what you want; whatever you feel, be sure that is what you feel."

T.S. Eliot.

The world is littered with the half arsed. Better to sit silently, idly, wait in faith for what is real.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Until It Stops Spinning.

Lying on his back in Washington Park he can feel Earth spinning below him, spinning him and everyone else, he feels connected. The girl lying beside him doesn't love him, he knows his main attraction is that he is leaving in a few weeks. The slow moving grey overhead doesn't care, Earth doesn't care, he knows he really doesn't care either.

It's early February, the ground is dry but he can feel months of Oregon rain seeping up into his back, it will take two weeks in the Sydney sun before he feels truly warm again. He recalls the first time he felt Earth spinning like this, the same time of year, a few days before the end of Summer school holidays in Australia, lying on the warm concrete of a suburban driveway, watching the first clouds he'd seen in months float across the sky as it turned from blue to grey. He felt connected then too, not really sure what to. It wasn't until years later, flying towards an American west coast sunrise, realizing that same sunrise would hit his home in a few hours, just a few weeks before he met the girl lying beside him, not until then did he understand how small this planet is.

Back home there is a girl, she lives in his street, he is still hopelessly in love with her. He could easily fall for the girl next to him right now but knows better. They are both the same, just humans standing on the same planet. It doesn't make any difference who loves who, who doesn't, Earth will continue spinning, until, like a faded love affair, it stops.

Parkstreet.

Citizen Sheep.

Today on the tram I overheard a man with a strong Middle Eastern accent talking proudly about gaining his Australian "citizensheep" at a ceremony over the weekend. I glanced around at my fellow commuters, decided he was pronouncing it correctly.

Parkstreet.

Yogi Berra On Keeping It Real.

"In theory there is no difference between theory and practice. In practice there is."

Yogi Berra.

All bow to the great man, I love his work.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

www.parkstreetprose.blogspot.com

I've begun collecting all the best bits from this blog, the actual writing, on a new blog, www.parkstreetprose.blogspot.com . I plan to keep adding new writing to it as I go, use that site as a portfolio to help find some work in the writing business as well as improve my fiction and feature writing skills. Basically the new site is all the stuff I like.

As always your help is welcome. If you feel the urge to share the new blog around, to send me photographs to write about, to suggest topics or people to send a link to, if any of these ideas pop into your head my comments section is open and my e mail address is at the top of the page.

This blog will continue, possibly a little less regularly as my personal life becomes involved with other people. Perhaps a married man has more need of fiction and whimsy than real life? Thanks again for reading and being involved, I always enjoy posting on here and your reactions to it.

Parkstreet.

Charles Dickens On Chocolate And Friendship.

"There is nothing better than a friend, unless it is a friend with chocolate."

Charles Dickens.

Posting personal injokes on a blog is so uncool, but perhaps I'm not the only one who thinks someone loves chocolate more than them.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Man Hell.

Last night I visited Man Hell. I never knew there was any such thing as a party where women drank champagne and perused jewelry and fashion accessories, apparently such pasties exist, are quite common. The conversation quickly degenerated to the topic of shoes, a subject no man wants to contemplate.

You see I thought the man of the house was going to be home, that we'd retreat to another room, the back yard, with a stolen cache of raspberry and white chocolate cup cakes, there to drink coffee and talk of man things. It turned out he was working a night shift, departed smiling after half an hour, with a stash of banana cake, work never looked so good to him.

So I'm told this is how a lot of business is being done in big cities now, mixing a social occasion with a retail occasion. It makes sense, all the ladies lived close by, all knew and liked each other, they had fun. Men don't shop this way. If I laid out tables full of power tools, served up beer and ribs, men still wouldn't buy anything. We buy stuff when we need it, identify the object then hunt and purchase. For a man shopping is an equation, least dollars and energy spent in order to obtain the desired result. There is no party involved. We like our parties to be parties, shopping to be shopping.

I'd rather set fire to my head than host such a party, but I am trying to work out how to convince my girlfriend to put on a spread of cakes and pies for me and my mates without having to discuss shoes. I don't think it can be done. Maybe I'll float the power tool idea?

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Michael Torke On Bach.

"Why waste money on psychotherapy when you can listen to the B Minor Mass?"

Michael Torke.

Bach said that his music was for the glory of god and the refreshment of the soul. Whatever your interpretation of god the idea of restoring emotional balance through music simply makes sense, we know it works, we just forget occasionally.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Sonny Rollins On The Future Of Jazz.

"It's all about creation and surprise. It just needs to be appreciated and watered like flowers. You have to water flowers. These peaks will come again."

Sonny Rollins.

I'm picturing a crazy old hermit, with a yellow plastic watering can, his self appointed mission to water and nurture a forgotten flower until the world is ready for it's peculiar beauty again.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Poke A Crocodile With A Stick.

If you are seeking excitement, a new experience, why not poke a crocodile with a stick? Despite surviving millions of years the crocodile isn't the sharpest blade in the dinosaur drawer, most of them will bite the stick, provide you with an exhilarating tale to tell. Occasionally you will encounter a smarter than average crocodile, or a hungrier than average crocodile, these crocodiles will most likely bite you on the arm, but if crocodiles didn't have large teeth and a propensity for biting it would be no fun to poke one with a stick, would it?

If you are lucky your arm will be bitten clean off. Crocodiles are fast on land, but only over short distances, if you can maintain your cool, and your balance with your new number of limbs, you should get out with a tale to tell and evidence to back it up. If the crocodile successfully gains a grip on your arm it will employ it's superior body weight to drag you into, then under the water, where it will continue rolling you over until you cease struggling. The size off the breath you take before going under will determine how long you get to think about how much fun it was to poke a crocodile with a stick.

Most dangerous, thrill seeking activities are equivalent to poking a crocodile with a stick, acts of bravado. It takes courage to build something, create something, love someone, it takes courage to be yourself and be happy. If you tell the tale of poking a crocodile with a stick you are telling the tale of a fool who doesn't know himself, who doesn't have the courage to be himself.

Parkstreet.
www.parkstreetprose.blogspot.com

Yoda On The Importance Of Being Earnest.

"A Jedi must have the deepest commitment, the most serious mind." 

Yoda.

Being of a serious mind is horribly out of fashion, smile at all costs is the modern mantra. There is joy in a serious mind too.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

A Blues Saint.

A neon beer sign halo, the blues saint saxophonist takes the stage, his miracle to turn vibrating air into love. If you ask him he'll tell you he plays blues because he doesn't know how to do anything else. Like any other saint a blues saint doesn't lie, despite resisting his calling all his life he has found himself equipped for no other work. What else would he do? He's been heartbroken, evicted, sacked, ripped off and deserted, like an honest woman the blues has been there for courage and solace, every time. He's wobbled and dabbled, sold out his talent and his soul, like a messiah the blues has redeemed him, every time.

Now he has put his faith in the blues, spends his days and nights turning vibrating air into love, a stage pulpit preacher, testifying the way, singing of the soul. He doesn't know how to do anything else.

Parkstreet.
www.parkstreetprose.blogspot.com

Yoda On Fear And Loss.

"The fear of loss is a path to the Dark Side."

Yoda.

Yoda got all the good lines.

Losing something is so often the result of fearing the loss, self fulfilling. Denial of the possibility, the reality of loss leads to another blindly dark path. Acceptance that people and other loves will pass is the only way I can see. It ain't easy but it is.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com