Janis Joplin.
Bleak, but true.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Wednesday, 30 November 2011
Janis Joplin On Authenticity.
“Never compromise yourself. You are all you've got.”
Janis Joplin.
Bleak, but true.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Janis Joplin.
Bleak, but true.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Good Intentions.
So yesterday I received a visit from a lawyer who was representing the Devil. If he was offering a deal involving a wardrobe full of suits as cool as his he may have tempted me. The Devil maintains the best dressed lawyers. In fact the Devil is on close terms with most lawyers.
This lawyer insinuated his case gorgeously. Sure, I'd be giving up my sense of honesty, but for a good cause, the only possible victim of my deceit would be a bank, how could that be a bad thing? All I had to do was sign a piece of paper claiming I'm paying a lot more rent than I am, thus allowing my generous landlord a loan from the aforementioned bank.
He played the loyalty card, I'm living very cheaply due to the good grace of a family member, I should scratch back too. I could see his point, it would be repaying a favour, not lying, and even if it were a lie, it's only lying to a bank. It was a solid argument, if he had thrown in just two suits as cool as his I might have gone for it.
Am I a fool, living in a false world where the pieces of paper I sign actually matter? Doesn't everyone embellish the truth a little to help them get what they want? Doesn't everyone? Am I a victim of my own ego, thinking that my precious honesty makes a difference to anything or anyone? Possibly all of the above.
I asked the lawyer how he felt about his work? He replied that he had a lifestyle to maintain, a wife, kids, a mistress, investments, his wardrobe, he couldn't stop even if he wanted to. He couldn't stop even if it meant he could leave Hell and go to the other place. He really was in hell.
We can rationalize every lie, soak our conscience in warm milk and honey so it is easy to digest. Each lie is one step towards a personal hell. Still, for a wardrobe full of those suits, it might have been worth it.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
This lawyer insinuated his case gorgeously. Sure, I'd be giving up my sense of honesty, but for a good cause, the only possible victim of my deceit would be a bank, how could that be a bad thing? All I had to do was sign a piece of paper claiming I'm paying a lot more rent than I am, thus allowing my generous landlord a loan from the aforementioned bank.
He played the loyalty card, I'm living very cheaply due to the good grace of a family member, I should scratch back too. I could see his point, it would be repaying a favour, not lying, and even if it were a lie, it's only lying to a bank. It was a solid argument, if he had thrown in just two suits as cool as his I might have gone for it.
Am I a fool, living in a false world where the pieces of paper I sign actually matter? Doesn't everyone embellish the truth a little to help them get what they want? Doesn't everyone? Am I a victim of my own ego, thinking that my precious honesty makes a difference to anything or anyone? Possibly all of the above.
I asked the lawyer how he felt about his work? He replied that he had a lifestyle to maintain, a wife, kids, a mistress, investments, his wardrobe, he couldn't stop even if he wanted to. He couldn't stop even if it meant he could leave Hell and go to the other place. He really was in hell.
We can rationalize every lie, soak our conscience in warm milk and honey so it is easy to digest. Each lie is one step towards a personal hell. Still, for a wardrobe full of those suits, it might have been worth it.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Frank Sinatra On Rock 'N' Roll.
"Rock 'n' roll smells phony and false. It is sung, played and written, for the most part, by cretinous goons. And, by means of its almost imbecilic reiteration, and sly, lewd and in plain fact, dirty lyrics ... it manages to be the martial music of every side-burned delinquent on the face of the earth."
Frank Sinatra.
I love that Mr. Sinatra had the courage to say this. He knew he was cool, had no fear of appearing uncool by pointing out that the Emperor of Pop had no clothes, no class.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Frank Sinatra.
I love that Mr. Sinatra had the courage to say this. He knew he was cool, had no fear of appearing uncool by pointing out that the Emperor of Pop had no clothes, no class.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Talking About My Generation Of Men.
"If one can't be a great artist or a great soldier, the next best thing to be is a great criminal."
I can't recall who said this, it doesn't matter, this idea has been spoken and written in many different ways over the years. For me it harks to a time past, when men were filled with the desire to be something, have something to hang their shingle, diploma or hat on.
A social experiment was undertaken upon my generation of men. Many had no paternal influence at home, at school their innate masculinity was thwarted, frowned down on. Impulsive, assertive behaviour, the mark of young men of every generation past, was scolded out of them, the natural path to male creativity was mothered and smothered, a generation of mother's boys became mother's men, married their mothers, still do as they are told.
This generation of males, 60's and 70's babies, commit suicide much more than any other demographic group. They can't find a place in this world. They aren't men or women, have no path to adulthood. Their dreams, artist, soldier, are discounted, those who resisted the system ended up as criminals. The urge for action, intensity, authenticity found a misdirected route.
Everyone wants a man to stand up and fight when the time is deemed correct. The problem is that others decide when the time is right. Chastised for stepping on feminist rights they stand back, are chastised for not being brave. We simply have no idea how to behave, when to be protective, when to butt out, when the power of battle rage is allowed out.
By never playing at artist, soldier, cops and robbers, men never learn their own place, what they are great at. Being ordered to cooperate, think things through, behave, has snuffed out their ability to act on instinct, to lead the charge, to charge off in their own direction.
Unless they have had the courage to step on toes, push through the crowd of mediocrity, this generation of men have found their lives to be hollow, without depth, without greatness. They are boys living with their wife/mothers, never beginning their own great house, their own manhood.
I'm one of this generation of men. The experiment failed, only in my forties am I rediscovering my own masculinity. I encourage my fellows of a similar age to do the same, no matter what the price, before it is too late.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I can't recall who said this, it doesn't matter, this idea has been spoken and written in many different ways over the years. For me it harks to a time past, when men were filled with the desire to be something, have something to hang their shingle, diploma or hat on.
A social experiment was undertaken upon my generation of men. Many had no paternal influence at home, at school their innate masculinity was thwarted, frowned down on. Impulsive, assertive behaviour, the mark of young men of every generation past, was scolded out of them, the natural path to male creativity was mothered and smothered, a generation of mother's boys became mother's men, married their mothers, still do as they are told.
This generation of males, 60's and 70's babies, commit suicide much more than any other demographic group. They can't find a place in this world. They aren't men or women, have no path to adulthood. Their dreams, artist, soldier, are discounted, those who resisted the system ended up as criminals. The urge for action, intensity, authenticity found a misdirected route.
Everyone wants a man to stand up and fight when the time is deemed correct. The problem is that others decide when the time is right. Chastised for stepping on feminist rights they stand back, are chastised for not being brave. We simply have no idea how to behave, when to be protective, when to butt out, when the power of battle rage is allowed out.
By never playing at artist, soldier, cops and robbers, men never learn their own place, what they are great at. Being ordered to cooperate, think things through, behave, has snuffed out their ability to act on instinct, to lead the charge, to charge off in their own direction.
Unless they have had the courage to step on toes, push through the crowd of mediocrity, this generation of men have found their lives to be hollow, without depth, without greatness. They are boys living with their wife/mothers, never beginning their own great house, their own manhood.
I'm one of this generation of men. The experiment failed, only in my forties am I rediscovering my own masculinity. I encourage my fellows of a similar age to do the same, no matter what the price, before it is too late.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Tuesday, 29 November 2011
Duke Ellington On Jazz.
“By and large, jazz has always been like the kind of a man you wouldn't want your daughter to associate with.”
Duke Ellington.
I hope so. I hope jazz is still the music that makes good girls want to be bad.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Duke Ellington.
I hope so. I hope jazz is still the music that makes good girls want to be bad.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Santa And Innocence And Me.
A friend of mine writes a blog that has a disclaimer on the front page, click here to confirm you are over eighteen years of age. Her subject matter, and photographs, are a little more risqué than mine. I feel that this post should include a similar disclaimer, click here if you are over twelve.
My folks were always pretty half arsed in their conviction about the reality of Santa Claus. I was the last child, I think they were just over it by then. It is a hard sell to a media savvy child of the 1970's.
At seven or eight years of age I attempted to exploit the Santa myth for my own profit. My mother and I had been to the mall, disagreed on the importance of owning a cricket bat signed by my favourite player. She was convinced a lesser bat would serve just as well, I wasn't. I tried to convince her, to no avail. I heard the words "we'll see", knew full well Santa was bringing me a bat my mates would laugh at, just as they laughed at the bike I had received for my birthday that year. My folks had no understanding of peer pressure.
I wrote a letter to Santa, pleading my case for the bat I wanted, insisting that I wanted no other presents, that I would oil that bat and treat it like the treasure it was. If anyone asks when I started writing fiction I'll have to say that letter was the first, and best of my work.
I swear that if my parents were more heavily invested in the whole Santa thing that letter would have worked. It didn't work.
To this day I'm still not sure what I learned from that episode. A myth can only be exploited if all parties involved subscribe to that myth. Parents hold a monopoly on guilt trips. My folks would never understand that every social order has trappings that amount to status, even the primary school social order, that their trappings and their social order weren't the only ones. I learned that once every avenue of communication has proved a dead end there is nowhere to go, communication with those people is impossible and any attempt is a waste of energy.
Eight is probably a reasonable age to give up on Santa, too young to give up on your parents.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
My folks were always pretty half arsed in their conviction about the reality of Santa Claus. I was the last child, I think they were just over it by then. It is a hard sell to a media savvy child of the 1970's.
At seven or eight years of age I attempted to exploit the Santa myth for my own profit. My mother and I had been to the mall, disagreed on the importance of owning a cricket bat signed by my favourite player. She was convinced a lesser bat would serve just as well, I wasn't. I tried to convince her, to no avail. I heard the words "we'll see", knew full well Santa was bringing me a bat my mates would laugh at, just as they laughed at the bike I had received for my birthday that year. My folks had no understanding of peer pressure.
I wrote a letter to Santa, pleading my case for the bat I wanted, insisting that I wanted no other presents, that I would oil that bat and treat it like the treasure it was. If anyone asks when I started writing fiction I'll have to say that letter was the first, and best of my work.
I swear that if my parents were more heavily invested in the whole Santa thing that letter would have worked. It didn't work.
To this day I'm still not sure what I learned from that episode. A myth can only be exploited if all parties involved subscribe to that myth. Parents hold a monopoly on guilt trips. My folks would never understand that every social order has trappings that amount to status, even the primary school social order, that their trappings and their social order weren't the only ones. I learned that once every avenue of communication has proved a dead end there is nowhere to go, communication with those people is impossible and any attempt is a waste of energy.
Eight is probably a reasonable age to give up on Santa, too young to give up on your parents.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Cookie Monster On Self Knowledge.
"C is for cookie and cookie is for me, C is for cookie and cookie is for me."
Cookie Monster.
He truly is a great sage, his simple wisdom is a shining light when all around is dark.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Cookie Monster.
He truly is a great sage, his simple wisdom is a shining light when all around is dark.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Count Basie On Individuality.
“It's the way you play that makes it . . . Play like you play. Play like you think, and then you got it, if you're going to get it. And whatever you get, that's you, so that's your story.”
Count Basie.
If you're going to get it. You might not get it, that's O.K. too. Better to not play than spend a life playing someone else's sound.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Count Basie.
If you're going to get it. You might not get it, that's O.K. too. Better to not play than spend a life playing someone else's sound.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Monday, 28 November 2011
The Smelly Woman.
She smelled like a disturbing combination of dog with mange, bachelor's futon and that towel you tied up in a plastic bag and forgot about. Her back was to mine, she defined the very nature of public transport, it must be shared with the public.
I consoled myself that I was only travelling a few stops, thought she might guess why if I stood up and moved. Before I could decide she stood up, moved to the front of the tram, struck up a conversation with an elderly lady. I could hear the old girl trying to speak without breathing in, it truly was a world record bad smell. The Japanese couple opposite were less gentle with the smelly woman's feelings, a handkerchief over the nose each, then, exasperated, furious, loud criticism in Japanese, they changed seats, moved well away. The Japanese don't tolerate poor personal hygiene.
It has been a hot, muggy week. This smelly woman had bravely faced it without a shower or a bath. She was completely unaware of her own aroma. Perhaps I should have told her, didn't want to get so close.
Later, hours later, I spied her again, on a bench on the street, the middle of the nightlife area of Melbourne. She was blissfully smiling at folks who stared at her. One guy stopped and checked the bottom of his shoes for dog shit. Again I was too much of a coward to confront her.
I'm sitting at an outdoor cafe now, fortunately upwind of the smelly woman. I know it's wrong but watching the reactions of the passing public is making me laugh. People are looking at me as if I'm mad, and I smell like watermelon sugar and angel farts. There is no justice in this world.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I consoled myself that I was only travelling a few stops, thought she might guess why if I stood up and moved. Before I could decide she stood up, moved to the front of the tram, struck up a conversation with an elderly lady. I could hear the old girl trying to speak without breathing in, it truly was a world record bad smell. The Japanese couple opposite were less gentle with the smelly woman's feelings, a handkerchief over the nose each, then, exasperated, furious, loud criticism in Japanese, they changed seats, moved well away. The Japanese don't tolerate poor personal hygiene.
It has been a hot, muggy week. This smelly woman had bravely faced it without a shower or a bath. She was completely unaware of her own aroma. Perhaps I should have told her, didn't want to get so close.
Later, hours later, I spied her again, on a bench on the street, the middle of the nightlife area of Melbourne. She was blissfully smiling at folks who stared at her. One guy stopped and checked the bottom of his shoes for dog shit. Again I was too much of a coward to confront her.
I'm sitting at an outdoor cafe now, fortunately upwind of the smelly woman. I know it's wrong but watching the reactions of the passing public is making me laugh. People are looking at me as if I'm mad, and I smell like watermelon sugar and angel farts. There is no justice in this world.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe On Creativity.
"There is nothing more dreadful than imagination without taste."
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.
I recall a high school music teacher telling an over enthusiastic teenage jazzhound to "always be tasteful", that playing a million notes was fine if it could be done tastefully. That same teacher took his long service leave in New York, sat in with a band while he was there, "have you heard of the Count Basie band boys?". We all took his advice a little more seriously from then on.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.
I recall a high school music teacher telling an over enthusiastic teenage jazzhound to "always be tasteful", that playing a million notes was fine if it could be done tastefully. That same teacher took his long service leave in New York, sat in with a band while he was there, "have you heard of the Count Basie band boys?". We all took his advice a little more seriously from then on.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Physician, Fuck Thyself.
A second opinion from an eye surgeon, my regular specialist had suggested gathering the edges of the iris of my permanently dilated pupil, stitching it into place. The second opinion was, "I was young once". I was glad I thought twice about my original surgeon.
The new guy then started writing some notes, his pen ran out of ink, he searched for another, picked up the original pen again, discovered it was out of ink, searched for another pen, returned to the original pen, need I go on? He also hit on me.
I went in search of a third opinion. My new man was a laser surgery buff, was very enthusiastic about what he could do for me. I became excited, asked him what the chances were that I'd be able to drive a car again. He mumbled, I pressed, he mumbled, I demanded, he replied, "less than thirty percent".
"And?"
"Sixty percent chance of no improvement or a slight deterioration of your vision."
"And the other ten percent?"
"Ten percent chance of disaster."
These three men were three of the highest rated dudes in the eye cutting business. I was able to see them because my eyes are a curiosity, something for them to study. Last weekend I saw a humble optometrist, young, thoughtful, empathetic. She answered my questions before I asked them, assured me I'm handling everything correctly, that waiting a couple of years for the right procedure to become available was really my only option.
When searching for advice the first step is to find a human with no axe, or scalpel, to grind. A person with good ears, a clear mind, with your interests at heart. I walked out of that consultation feeling at ease for the first time in three years.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The new guy then started writing some notes, his pen ran out of ink, he searched for another, picked up the original pen again, discovered it was out of ink, searched for another pen, returned to the original pen, need I go on? He also hit on me.
I went in search of a third opinion. My new man was a laser surgery buff, was very enthusiastic about what he could do for me. I became excited, asked him what the chances were that I'd be able to drive a car again. He mumbled, I pressed, he mumbled, I demanded, he replied, "less than thirty percent".
"And?"
"Sixty percent chance of no improvement or a slight deterioration of your vision."
"And the other ten percent?"
"Ten percent chance of disaster."
These three men were three of the highest rated dudes in the eye cutting business. I was able to see them because my eyes are a curiosity, something for them to study. Last weekend I saw a humble optometrist, young, thoughtful, empathetic. She answered my questions before I asked them, assured me I'm handling everything correctly, that waiting a couple of years for the right procedure to become available was really my only option.
When searching for advice the first step is to find a human with no axe, or scalpel, to grind. A person with good ears, a clear mind, with your interests at heart. I walked out of that consultation feeling at ease for the first time in three years.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Sunday, 27 November 2011
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe On Denial.
“A person hears only what they understand.”
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.
Have you ever found yourself speaking words to someone who apparently hears completely different words to the ones you are speaking?
Denial is a popular psychobabble buzzword. Denial is basically denying the existence of anything outside previous knowledge or experience. If I don't understand it can't be real. Denial is a guaranteed method to achieving a small life.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.
Have you ever found yourself speaking words to someone who apparently hears completely different words to the ones you are speaking?
Denial is a popular psychobabble buzzword. Denial is basically denying the existence of anything outside previous knowledge or experience. If I don't understand it can't be real. Denial is a guaranteed method to achieving a small life.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I Miss The Lebowskis, For Asher.
I miss the Lebowskis, the large bellied, jolly men who do just enough to keep body and soul together, no more, no less. I miss the company of those happy, hairy hippy guys who laugh a lot, enjoy donuts after the gig without even considering guilt, who take most things lightly, know what is worth taking seriously. They appear thoughtless, careless, they have thought more than most, care for everyone, know exactly how they want to live and why. Those who judge them have rarely come so far. They don't just love music, they shag it's brains out. They don't just love people, they express their love with every word and action. The Lebowskis want a peaceful life, and peace for all. I miss hanging out with them, eating donuts with them, shooting the shit with them, playing balls and all music with them.
I miss the Lebowskis.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I miss the Lebowskis.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
You Have Been Approved.
My theory is that parents deliberately, if they know it or not, get their kids hooked on approval. Children are easy to manipulate when they need a fix of approval. As long as the parent is the only dealer in town the kid has no choice, they'll do anything if it leads to a mainline of "good job".
We move on, find approval in all it's forms, from anyone who will give it up. We are like captive seals turning tricks for fish. We all desire approval from our lovers. They are supposed to give it free, rarely do.
Occasionally we meet someone who is free of the approval habit, they seem so free. They are free. We all tell ourselves that we don't give a crap what other folks think of us. We do give a crap.
Approval is the monkey our parents place on our backs. Shake it.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
We move on, find approval in all it's forms, from anyone who will give it up. We are like captive seals turning tricks for fish. We all desire approval from our lovers. They are supposed to give it free, rarely do.
Occasionally we meet someone who is free of the approval habit, they seem so free. They are free. We all tell ourselves that we don't give a crap what other folks think of us. We do give a crap.
Approval is the monkey our parents place on our backs. Shake it.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Saturday, 26 November 2011
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe On Talent And Happiness.
“The person born with a talent they are meant to use will find their greatest happiness in using it. ”
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.
I'm guessing it kinda' sucks to be in love with someone who is happier doing their thing than doing you.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.
I'm guessing it kinda' sucks to be in love with someone who is happier doing their thing than doing you.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Christmas Musings.
So someone brought a Christmas tree home today, the elevator smelled of pine needles. A strange form of necrophilia, dusting a dead tree with faux snow, trying to make it look alive for a month in the Australian summer heat.
December is a bad time to be a prawn here. Too hot for a roasted bird, fishing boats are already harvesting billions of crustaceans, packing them on ice so they can be sold as fresh on Christmas Eve. The Australian baby Jesus is no friend to shellfish.
The shopping mall Santas get skinnier each year. Fat and jovial is a forbidden message for the obese generation. Like Cookie monster eating salad, even fictional characters are politically correct now.
Bless us all, each and every one.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
December is a bad time to be a prawn here. Too hot for a roasted bird, fishing boats are already harvesting billions of crustaceans, packing them on ice so they can be sold as fresh on Christmas Eve. The Australian baby Jesus is no friend to shellfish.
The shopping mall Santas get skinnier each year. Fat and jovial is a forbidden message for the obese generation. Like Cookie monster eating salad, even fictional characters are politically correct now.
Bless us all, each and every one.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Friday, 25 November 2011
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe On Love.
“If I love you, what business is it of yours?”
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.
What a fascinating thing to say. We are all a little hooked on approval, require reciprocation of our feelings. Perhaps this is one of the problems with human relationships, the hangover from the desire for parental approval?
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.
What a fascinating thing to say. We are all a little hooked on approval, require reciprocation of our feelings. Perhaps this is one of the problems with human relationships, the hangover from the desire for parental approval?
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Do You See What I See?
Today I visited an optometrist. She had to fill out a form for me, reassure some bureaucrat that no miracles had occurred in the last year, that my eyes hadn't cured themselves. The optometrist was beautiful, soft.
Her voice was self assured but gentle, a man could wake up to a "good morning" from that voice any day. Her firm thigh pressed against mine, her soft blonde hair draped against my nose as she shone little lights in my eyes, her hair smelled of nothing but femininity. After all the bright, shiny tests I could still see enough to recognize a well formed figure. The soft skin of her hand felt like the first touch of a lover.
Who needs to be able to see with so much beauty and charm all around?
The form was completed, ensuring one happy bureaucrat and one happy, officially, legally blind guy.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Her voice was self assured but gentle, a man could wake up to a "good morning" from that voice any day. Her firm thigh pressed against mine, her soft blonde hair draped against my nose as she shone little lights in my eyes, her hair smelled of nothing but femininity. After all the bright, shiny tests I could still see enough to recognize a well formed figure. The soft skin of her hand felt like the first touch of a lover.
Who needs to be able to see with so much beauty and charm all around?
The form was completed, ensuring one happy bureaucrat and one happy, officially, legally blind guy.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe On Brutality.
“There is nothing worse than aggressive stupidity.”
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.
I believe the next ten quotations will be from Goethe. In this sentence he predicted the prevalent culture of my society. He said a thousand very cool things in succinct phrases, I'll try to pick out a bunch of gooduns.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.
I believe the next ten quotations will be from Goethe. In this sentence he predicted the prevalent culture of my society. He said a thousand very cool things in succinct phrases, I'll try to pick out a bunch of gooduns.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Thursday, 24 November 2011
Energy Equals Genius Genius Equals Energy.
It was a 1970's film, I think Rollerball, I have a vague memory of a 70's image of a futuristic computer screen, a computer going crazy, playing and replaying the message, "energy equals genius genius equals energy". That image has stuck in my mind since I saw it, I can't even remember when I saw it. Must be a good message.
I'm pretty certain that computer wasn't talking about the modern cult of being busy, frenetic activity and a constant commentary on just how busy I am. That nonsense is a parody of energy, a sham. There is no genius there. I believe the energy that equates to genius is something one tunes into, feels, flows with.
Genius is difficult to quantify, like pornography, you know it when you see it. Genius is an expression, whatever form it comes in we feel it when we witness it. It would seem to me that learning to tune into the vital energy that is genius would be a good thing to do. Even if we only gain a glimpse our lives would be better for it.
The improvising musician attempts to achieve this state every time he plays, sometimes he reaches it, sometimes he doesn't. The audience feels it when that rare state is in front of them. For the musician it opens a new universe. Knowledge of a different universe you can't explain in words is a difficult way to live, energy equals genius genius equals energy comes close enough for me.
You can rephrase this statement any way you like, plenty of schools of thought have done so over the years. God, Jah, Light, Love, Krishna, The Force, Zen, they all amount to the same thing, unfortunately they all end up cluttered with humanity and it's words, lose the original idea. I contend that genius is the natural state of the human, that we are distracted from that state by all the words and confusion, the mind numbing school lessons, the busy business. The energy that genius creates is dissipated, we have to search for it, rediscover what we were born with, what was taken from us.
Write it on the blackboard in schoolrooms, make it the screensaver on your computer, repeat it like a mantra, energy equals genius genius equals energy.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I'm pretty certain that computer wasn't talking about the modern cult of being busy, frenetic activity and a constant commentary on just how busy I am. That nonsense is a parody of energy, a sham. There is no genius there. I believe the energy that equates to genius is something one tunes into, feels, flows with.
Genius is difficult to quantify, like pornography, you know it when you see it. Genius is an expression, whatever form it comes in we feel it when we witness it. It would seem to me that learning to tune into the vital energy that is genius would be a good thing to do. Even if we only gain a glimpse our lives would be better for it.
The improvising musician attempts to achieve this state every time he plays, sometimes he reaches it, sometimes he doesn't. The audience feels it when that rare state is in front of them. For the musician it opens a new universe. Knowledge of a different universe you can't explain in words is a difficult way to live, energy equals genius genius equals energy comes close enough for me.
You can rephrase this statement any way you like, plenty of schools of thought have done so over the years. God, Jah, Light, Love, Krishna, The Force, Zen, they all amount to the same thing, unfortunately they all end up cluttered with humanity and it's words, lose the original idea. I contend that genius is the natural state of the human, that we are distracted from that state by all the words and confusion, the mind numbing school lessons, the busy business. The energy that genius creates is dissipated, we have to search for it, rediscover what we were born with, what was taken from us.
Write it on the blackboard in schoolrooms, make it the screensaver on your computer, repeat it like a mantra, energy equals genius genius equals energy.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Location:Fitzroy St,St Kilda,Australia
Humphrey Bogart On Fame.
“You're not a star until they can spell your name in Karachi.”
Humphrey Bogart.
Pakistan must have seemed a long way from anywhere back then. You can bet everyone in Karachi can now spell George W. Bush.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Wednesday, 23 November 2011
Step Out Like A New Suit.
If you feel as creased as your shirts when you are living out of a suitcase, if you feel as worn as your shoe leather, as frayed as your only tie, suspect your soul has taken on the aroma of your socks, that holes in your lining are letting in the cold, if you feel as grumpy as an old suit, chances are you have the blues.
Hitch up your courageous pants, straighten up your fearless tie, polish your seven league boots and step out, step out like a new man, like a new suit, a new coat of paint. Write the song first, then step out like a new suit.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Hitch up your courageous pants, straighten up your fearless tie, polish your seven league boots and step out, step out like a new man, like a new suit, a new coat of paint. Write the song first, then step out like a new suit.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
You Are Getting Sleepy.
"I guarantee, with my help, you will kick your habit."
She dialed the hypnotist's number, listened to his answering machine message, put down the telephone, went to her desk, wrote a cheque, placed it in an envelope, addressed it to a post office box, walked down the street and posted it. She came home, lit a cigarette, wondered who it was she was intending to call?
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
She dialed the hypnotist's number, listened to his answering machine message, put down the telephone, went to her desk, wrote a cheque, placed it in an envelope, addressed it to a post office box, walked down the street and posted it. She came home, lit a cigarette, wondered who it was she was intending to call?
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Tuesday, 22 November 2011
Jack Lord On Conformity.
“There is a terrible tendency to conform today. It's choking this country. It's particularly sad because all great men and women have had one quality in common, they have dared to be different, dared to speak their minds, dared to espouse the unpopular cause.”
Jack Lord.
Hear hear.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Jack Lord.
Hear hear.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
It Was The Bunny Or Me.
A glimpse of sunrise on the horizon, my two older cousins and twelve year old me lined up across the bench seat, the aluminium tray behind us rattling with guns and other blokey stuff. An hour out of town a farmer gave permission to eradicate rabbits on his property, an introduced species in New Zealand, a pest to crops and native habitat.
As we stepped out of the truck I was handed a blue, raw wool hunters jacket, coated in lanolin to keep it waterproof and warm. We headed into the long native grass, towards a steep hill, potentially dead rabbits hopping innocently about on it's crest. Twenty years later when I undertook allergy tests I discovered the two things I'm most allergic to are lanolin and native grasses. As I fought for each breath my wheezing was loud enough to frighten off any wildlife with any sense.
I couldn't tell my cousins how badly I was faring, a skinny city boy, determined to prove myself. At the top of the hill they could tell I was in trouble, I heard one of them suggest we bag one bunny then head home, not return empty handed. Somehow they wrangled me into a position where I could wait for a really stupid rabbit. Amazingly one appeared, just in time, I was dizzy, an hour and a half from a hospital, genuinely wondering if I was going to die on a freezing cold New Zealand hilltop, the only victim of the hunting party.
I took aim, remembered what I'd been told in the truck on the way, breathe in, release half the breath, squeeze gently as the second half of the breath is released, let the gun do the work. It seemed hours, days ago I'd heard these instructions, I couldn't recall where I was, how I'd arrived there, just that I had to shoot this rabbit before I could go home. The calm of imminent death stilled my hands, I hit the rabbit in the neck, just where I was told to, after the report of the rifle the rabbit stood for a second, I heard it fall softly into the grass, fell into the grass myself, sleepy, happy to let go if it meant I could stop fighting for every breath.
My cousins took the gun from my hands, one claimed my prize, the other put my arm across his shoulders and helped me down the hill. They took the jacket off me, we drove away from the long grass, twenty minutes later and I felt fine. As we drove through the suburbs, concrete and bricks, into the heart of town, steel and glass, I was returning to my natural habitat, we agreed not to tell my mother how sick I'd been, entered the house quietly.
I still remember that cute little furry bunny looking at me down the sight of that rifle, blissfully ignorant, Christ like, giving his life for mine. By getting sick I probably saved about forty bunnies that day, my cousins were good at killing bunnies.
They gave me the foot, for good luck. I had to forfeit it at the airport, Australian quarantine laws are strict. I didn't mind. That stupid rabbit had saved my life, it doesn't get much luckier than that.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
As we stepped out of the truck I was handed a blue, raw wool hunters jacket, coated in lanolin to keep it waterproof and warm. We headed into the long native grass, towards a steep hill, potentially dead rabbits hopping innocently about on it's crest. Twenty years later when I undertook allergy tests I discovered the two things I'm most allergic to are lanolin and native grasses. As I fought for each breath my wheezing was loud enough to frighten off any wildlife with any sense.
I couldn't tell my cousins how badly I was faring, a skinny city boy, determined to prove myself. At the top of the hill they could tell I was in trouble, I heard one of them suggest we bag one bunny then head home, not return empty handed. Somehow they wrangled me into a position where I could wait for a really stupid rabbit. Amazingly one appeared, just in time, I was dizzy, an hour and a half from a hospital, genuinely wondering if I was going to die on a freezing cold New Zealand hilltop, the only victim of the hunting party.
I took aim, remembered what I'd been told in the truck on the way, breathe in, release half the breath, squeeze gently as the second half of the breath is released, let the gun do the work. It seemed hours, days ago I'd heard these instructions, I couldn't recall where I was, how I'd arrived there, just that I had to shoot this rabbit before I could go home. The calm of imminent death stilled my hands, I hit the rabbit in the neck, just where I was told to, after the report of the rifle the rabbit stood for a second, I heard it fall softly into the grass, fell into the grass myself, sleepy, happy to let go if it meant I could stop fighting for every breath.
My cousins took the gun from my hands, one claimed my prize, the other put my arm across his shoulders and helped me down the hill. They took the jacket off me, we drove away from the long grass, twenty minutes later and I felt fine. As we drove through the suburbs, concrete and bricks, into the heart of town, steel and glass, I was returning to my natural habitat, we agreed not to tell my mother how sick I'd been, entered the house quietly.
I still remember that cute little furry bunny looking at me down the sight of that rifle, blissfully ignorant, Christ like, giving his life for mine. By getting sick I probably saved about forty bunnies that day, my cousins were good at killing bunnies.
They gave me the foot, for good luck. I had to forfeit it at the airport, Australian quarantine laws are strict. I didn't mind. That stupid rabbit had saved my life, it doesn't get much luckier than that.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Captain James T. Kirk On Women.
"Worlds are conquered, galaxies destroyed...but a woman is always a woman."
Captain James T. Kirk in 'Conscience of the King'.
The fundamental things apply as time goes by.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Captain James T. Kirk in 'Conscience of the King'.
The fundamental things apply as time goes by.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Monday, 21 November 2011
Wheelhouse Blues.
When I played music on a restaurant boat I'd often hide from the throng of over excited tourists by sitting up in the captain's wheelhouse. It was a masculine room, oak panelling, a big wheel, a throttle, a big noisy horn, a radio one could say "over" into. There was a fair chance I was the least masculine object in the wheelhouse.
Occasionally I'm inclined to employ the old phrase "that's right in my wheelhouse". Folks often look at me funny when I do. Most recently I said it when I found an advertisement seeking a saxophonist for a 60's/70's jazz funk band. My wheelhouse was built around music of that style, I'll be staying up late watching classic Blacksploitation flicks all week.
I like the idea of a room a man can feel comfortable in, a real room or a place inside his head. There is a lot of talk about getting out of one's comfort zone, I reckon we'd be well served to spend more time within our comfort zone, it's comfortable there. Men are already horribly confused about their place in modern western culture, why shouldn't we retreat to a blokey wheelhouse once in a while?
When I'm surrounded by talk of shoes, diets, chocolate, colours, patterns, I retreat to the wheelhouse in my mind, a place where I can pretend I have some control over the direction of my own ship, where I can place my feet on the furniture, blow a fabulously flatulent horn at anyone in my way. Men are so rarely captains of their own ship nowadays, most of us can only resort to fantasy.
Gentlemen, it is time we reclaimed our right to a room of our own, a den, a shed, a wheelhouse, somewhere to play the music we want to play, watch the sport we want to watch, fart at will and laugh at crass jokes. The most refined of us still like this stuff, have been made to feel embarrassed and guilty about it. Men feeling free to be men, that's in my wheelhouse.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Occasionally I'm inclined to employ the old phrase "that's right in my wheelhouse". Folks often look at me funny when I do. Most recently I said it when I found an advertisement seeking a saxophonist for a 60's/70's jazz funk band. My wheelhouse was built around music of that style, I'll be staying up late watching classic Blacksploitation flicks all week.
I like the idea of a room a man can feel comfortable in, a real room or a place inside his head. There is a lot of talk about getting out of one's comfort zone, I reckon we'd be well served to spend more time within our comfort zone, it's comfortable there. Men are already horribly confused about their place in modern western culture, why shouldn't we retreat to a blokey wheelhouse once in a while?
When I'm surrounded by talk of shoes, diets, chocolate, colours, patterns, I retreat to the wheelhouse in my mind, a place where I can pretend I have some control over the direction of my own ship, where I can place my feet on the furniture, blow a fabulously flatulent horn at anyone in my way. Men are so rarely captains of their own ship nowadays, most of us can only resort to fantasy.
Gentlemen, it is time we reclaimed our right to a room of our own, a den, a shed, a wheelhouse, somewhere to play the music we want to play, watch the sport we want to watch, fart at will and laugh at crass jokes. The most refined of us still like this stuff, have been made to feel embarrassed and guilty about it. Men feeling free to be men, that's in my wheelhouse.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Bruce Lee On Education.
“Adapt what is useful, reject what is useless, and add what is specifically your own.”
Bruce Lee.
This should be written in large letters at the top of every schoolroom blackboard, inside the front cover of every book.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Bruce Lee.
This should be written in large letters at the top of every schoolroom blackboard, inside the front cover of every book.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Like Any Other Job.
Every job has it's ups and downs, elements we like, elements we don't. Are musicians being precious wankers when they won't play music they don't like just for the money? Why should the job of musician be any different to any other? Why? Because if playing music were the same as any other job there'd be no point doing it, the entire point is that the musician is expressing his heart and soul, that's different to most other jobs.
Right now I'm caught between pro players who won't start the car without the promise of three hundred dollars cash and beautiful dreamers who happily play on the street for tips and fun. The professionals can play, really play, but so what? Who cares? If you want to be technically clever become a physicist and be technically clever at the super collider, not on my stage. Play three chords with soul and you are welcome. The question is what is a fair price for playing soulfully, creatively?
The beautiful dreamers like to eat too, sleep in a comfortable bed, some of them would quite like a dishwasher in their kitchen. They are at home with the fact they'll never own a large appliance, by refusing to play music they don't feel they are guaranteeing it. I love those guys. We'll all muck in and wash the dishes, have a laugh, know we are being honest with ourselves.
It isn't a normal job. Comparing it to a normal job is a common, annoying habit. It has to be different to be any good, to truly express something, to add to the culture that everyone else consumes.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Right now I'm caught between pro players who won't start the car without the promise of three hundred dollars cash and beautiful dreamers who happily play on the street for tips and fun. The professionals can play, really play, but so what? Who cares? If you want to be technically clever become a physicist and be technically clever at the super collider, not on my stage. Play three chords with soul and you are welcome. The question is what is a fair price for playing soulfully, creatively?
The beautiful dreamers like to eat too, sleep in a comfortable bed, some of them would quite like a dishwasher in their kitchen. They are at home with the fact they'll never own a large appliance, by refusing to play music they don't feel they are guaranteeing it. I love those guys. We'll all muck in and wash the dishes, have a laugh, know we are being honest with ourselves.
It isn't a normal job. Comparing it to a normal job is a common, annoying habit. It has to be different to be any good, to truly express something, to add to the culture that everyone else consumes.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Sunday, 20 November 2011
Milan Kundera On Fifteen Minutes Of Fame.
“Once the writer in every individual comes to life (and that time is not far off), we are in for an age of universal deafness and lack of understanding.”
Milan Kundera, The Book of Laughter and Forgetting.
I would contend that this has already occurred in the art of music. Any fool with a laptop can produce a broadcast quality disc, and most of them do. There is so much music, so little genuine music, we now look at music videos and lamb chop costumes, we've become deaf to the music.
Of course this blog is part of the problem, some schmo from Sydney playing at writer, adding to the cacophony of written words. Some days I feel I should shut up, go and play my saxophone to no one under a railway bridge, at least until I've found some words that really matter?
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Milan Kundera, The Book of Laughter and Forgetting.
I would contend that this has already occurred in the art of music. Any fool with a laptop can produce a broadcast quality disc, and most of them do. There is so much music, so little genuine music, we now look at music videos and lamb chop costumes, we've become deaf to the music.
Of course this blog is part of the problem, some schmo from Sydney playing at writer, adding to the cacophony of written words. Some days I feel I should shut up, go and play my saxophone to no one under a railway bridge, at least until I've found some words that really matter?
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Easy Answers Are Like Easy Money.
There is an old tale about a father and daughter walking a deserted beach, they come across twenty five thousand starfish washed up on the sand. The little girl immediately starts picking up starfish and carrying them to the water, one by one. At first the father is delighted by his daughter's humanity, he soon gets bored.
"You can't help them all darling."
"I helped that one!"
The naive response of the little girl is supposed to remind us to be kind, that every small kindness helps. It's a lovely story. It's also a childish story.
An adult response to a mass starfish stranding would be to perform a little research. Do starfish become too numerous for their habitat in some seasons? Does some other species survive on the back of this natural occurrence? Has some human activity caused this disaster, can that cause be stopped from occurring again, can we organize five thousand volunteers to get down here and pick up five starfish each, carry them to salvation?
Every day I hear inane "get green quick" stories, easy answers to complex problems. Easy answers are like easy money, it rarely works out well for anyone except the guy selling the how to book.
I love the heart of the little girl with an instinct to help, we often lose that instinct as we age and harden. At present the green debate is being managed by innocent children. Ineffective, well meaning children. The idea of living sustainably, playing guardian to our planet, is new in this incarnation of western culture, the idea is an infant. We will find complex solutions, difficult answers, but not until we stop listening to trite parables and start doing the hard, adult work.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
"You can't help them all darling."
"I helped that one!"
The naive response of the little girl is supposed to remind us to be kind, that every small kindness helps. It's a lovely story. It's also a childish story.
An adult response to a mass starfish stranding would be to perform a little research. Do starfish become too numerous for their habitat in some seasons? Does some other species survive on the back of this natural occurrence? Has some human activity caused this disaster, can that cause be stopped from occurring again, can we organize five thousand volunteers to get down here and pick up five starfish each, carry them to salvation?
Every day I hear inane "get green quick" stories, easy answers to complex problems. Easy answers are like easy money, it rarely works out well for anyone except the guy selling the how to book.
I love the heart of the little girl with an instinct to help, we often lose that instinct as we age and harden. At present the green debate is being managed by innocent children. Ineffective, well meaning children. The idea of living sustainably, playing guardian to our planet, is new in this incarnation of western culture, the idea is an infant. We will find complex solutions, difficult answers, but not until we stop listening to trite parables and start doing the hard, adult work.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Holly On The Meaning Of Life.
"As the days go by, we face the increasing inevitability that we are alone in a godless, uninhabited, hostile and meaningless universe. Still, you've got to laugh, haven't you?"
Holly.
Yep, you have to laugh.
Holly was the personality of the computer on Red Dwarf, the eponymous ship from the B.B.C. science fiction television series. Her view of humanity was just as dispassionate as a computer should be, which allowed her to make dry observations about those humans, and cruel jokes at their expense.
Where does life begin? If a personality can be programmed, one with very similar characteristics to mine, how do we differ from computers? If this universe is godless and meaningless, does it matter?
You have to laugh.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Holly.
Yep, you have to laugh.
Holly was the personality of the computer on Red Dwarf, the eponymous ship from the B.B.C. science fiction television series. Her view of humanity was just as dispassionate as a computer should be, which allowed her to make dry observations about those humans, and cruel jokes at their expense.
Where does life begin? If a personality can be programmed, one with very similar characteristics to mine, how do we differ from computers? If this universe is godless and meaningless, does it matter?
You have to laugh.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Saturday, 19 November 2011
Chipotle, Columbus And Me.
I discovered chipotle last year, much in the same way as Columbus discovered America. I came across it accidentally, without really knowing what it was, thought it was good and claimed it as my own.
A lot of Mexican food hasn't made it to Australia yet, certainly not the street food that American students live on. I often had to explain my lack of knowledge to Mexican cooks, there ain't a whole lot of Mexicans down under, just a couple of sham chain stores selling soggy burritos for three times what they're worth. The idea of a dried, smoked chilli is just hitting the restaurant biz now, allowing me a certain smugness, oh yeah, chipotle, that old chestnut.
I used to cook for a living, still enjoy watching the way food travels along with humans, a flag bearer for culture. Australian cities are famous for containing restaurants from nearly every nation on earth, it's how we met and accepted each new wave of immigrants from after the last world war to now. We've raced from spaghetti to chipotle in sixty five years, from an English to a world culture in the same time.
Today immigrants sometimes follow the food. I'm betting some clever Mexicans will notice our new interest in their food and come on down to cook for us. The language, music, way of life all follow the food, in twenty years from now May fifth will be a great night out in Sydney.
As long as we all keep following Mr. Columbus, enjoying happy accidents, thriving on what we discover for ourselves, we'll keep meeting new cultures, sharing their tables.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
A lot of Mexican food hasn't made it to Australia yet, certainly not the street food that American students live on. I often had to explain my lack of knowledge to Mexican cooks, there ain't a whole lot of Mexicans down under, just a couple of sham chain stores selling soggy burritos for three times what they're worth. The idea of a dried, smoked chilli is just hitting the restaurant biz now, allowing me a certain smugness, oh yeah, chipotle, that old chestnut.
I used to cook for a living, still enjoy watching the way food travels along with humans, a flag bearer for culture. Australian cities are famous for containing restaurants from nearly every nation on earth, it's how we met and accepted each new wave of immigrants from after the last world war to now. We've raced from spaghetti to chipotle in sixty five years, from an English to a world culture in the same time.
Today immigrants sometimes follow the food. I'm betting some clever Mexicans will notice our new interest in their food and come on down to cook for us. The language, music, way of life all follow the food, in twenty years from now May fifth will be a great night out in Sydney.
As long as we all keep following Mr. Columbus, enjoying happy accidents, thriving on what we discover for ourselves, we'll keep meeting new cultures, sharing their tables.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
H. G. Wells On Foppery.
“Only people who are well off can be - complex.”
H.G. Wells, Love and Mr. Lewisham.
I believe this may have been meant as a criticism of the idle rich, a suggestion that too much time on one's hands leads to foppery.
I see it as one of the few good reasons for becoming well off.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
H.G. Wells, Love and Mr. Lewisham.
I believe this may have been meant as a criticism of the idle rich, a suggestion that too much time on one's hands leads to foppery.
I see it as one of the few good reasons for becoming well off.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Friday, 18 November 2011
Good Sleeping Rain.
Let gardens grow, ducks play, let gentlemen of refinement drift back under the covers and sleep until midday. This is good sleeping rain, why would anyone choose to go out in it?
Let those with a Christian work ethic force themselves out of bed, they thrive on discomfort, I don't.
Let me snooze, doze blissfully for all those who cannot, the parents of young children, the milkers of cows, the bakers of bread. I sleep in their name, slumber as a statement, occupy a bed for all those who would but can't. If everyone just chilled, slept in occasionally, hid from the world, freed themselves from the guilt of desiring solitude, we'd all be easier to get along with, and get more done. Being relaxed and happy is a productive state, sleeping in once a week is an investment in productivity, putting something aside for a sunny day. As I lie in a warm bed I am striking a blow for freedom, for the human right to a warm bed on a wet morning.
I'm happy for the gardens and the ducks, happy for those who enjoy enduring discomfort to feel holy, let them grow and play and suffer joyously and joylessly, good on them. My body and mind are growing and playing, enjoying the good sleeping rain, standing up, lying down for what I know is right.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Let those with a Christian work ethic force themselves out of bed, they thrive on discomfort, I don't.
Let me snooze, doze blissfully for all those who cannot, the parents of young children, the milkers of cows, the bakers of bread. I sleep in their name, slumber as a statement, occupy a bed for all those who would but can't. If everyone just chilled, slept in occasionally, hid from the world, freed themselves from the guilt of desiring solitude, we'd all be easier to get along with, and get more done. Being relaxed and happy is a productive state, sleeping in once a week is an investment in productivity, putting something aside for a sunny day. As I lie in a warm bed I am striking a blow for freedom, for the human right to a warm bed on a wet morning.
I'm happy for the gardens and the ducks, happy for those who enjoy enduring discomfort to feel holy, let them grow and play and suffer joyously and joylessly, good on them. My body and mind are growing and playing, enjoying the good sleeping rain, standing up, lying down for what I know is right.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Agatha Christie On The Creative Process.
“The best time for planning a book is while you're doing the dishes. ”
Agatha Christie.
The word "meditation" has become a meaningless modern buzzword. Achieving a state of no thought is a form of bliss. Any manual worker who enjoys his work knows the feeling. Finding a place where one can not think and think at the same time is a classic zen riddle as well as an essential part of creating stuff, making stuff up. The feeling that the ideas are flowing through, not being created, comes in this state. It isn't some spiritual miracle, just doing the dishes and letting your brain do it's thing.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Agatha Christie.
The word "meditation" has become a meaningless modern buzzword. Achieving a state of no thought is a form of bliss. Any manual worker who enjoys his work knows the feeling. Finding a place where one can not think and think at the same time is a classic zen riddle as well as an essential part of creating stuff, making stuff up. The feeling that the ideas are flowing through, not being created, comes in this state. It isn't some spiritual miracle, just doing the dishes and letting your brain do it's thing.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Thursday, 17 November 2011
Plato On Love.
"Every heart sings a song, incomplete, until another heart whispers back. Those who wish to sing always find a song. At the touch of a lover, everyone becomes a poet.”
Plato.
The words of Plato haven't survived for no reason. I'm not convinced every lover is a poet, some lovers are just as angry and fearful as they were before they fell in love, stifle the poetry within them. Expressing a feeling makes it real for us, with music, poetry, a poetic gesture.
Does your lover make you feel like a poet?
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Plato.
The words of Plato haven't survived for no reason. I'm not convinced every lover is a poet, some lovers are just as angry and fearful as they were before they fell in love, stifle the poetry within them. Expressing a feeling makes it real for us, with music, poetry, a poetic gesture.
Does your lover make you feel like a poet?
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Senses And Gut All Over Again.
So I recently wrote about the difference between trusting physical senses and trusting instinct, I feel I missed the point a little. I'll try again.
Light is directed into your eye by your cornea, the clear window at the front. In my case the corneas are like a crinkle cut potato chip, all over the shop, directing light inaccurately into my eye. I have good reason not to trust what I see. As an example, as a passenger in a car I have to constantly resist the urge to grab the wheel and steer around objects that I see as being in front of the car. Those huge portable yellow signs with orange flashing lights, "ROAD WORK AHEAD", those suckers jump out at me, if I trusted my eyes I'd believe the car was headed directly into them. Instead I have to trust the driver, bite my tongue and trust the driver. It's not easy in some cases.
Instinct is just absorbed information, subconsciously collated, available to the conscious mind on demand. Can instinct be trusted? It depends on how accurately your information is absorbed. Do you have some sort of crinkle cut filter between you and the world? Are your heart and mind free and clear or distorted by fear, anger, greed, all the usual suspects?
In some cases a misshapen cornea can be corrected with lenses or surgery. Correcting how you feel the world isn't so easy. For me the main thing is being aware of the problem. I know the information I receive through my eyes can't be trusted because I know what the problem is. If I know myself well enough to know I feel the world through anger I know my instinct can't be trusted, not until the anger is corrected. How to correct fear, anger, greed? Hey, I'm a blogger, go and ask a professional about that stuff, you wouldn't ask me to perform surgery on your eyes, why would you trust your subconscious mind with me?
I've spent years opening my mind to the point that I can happily trust my instinct. When I last wrote on this subject I was furious that I had stepped back from it. Being in tune, feeling the world through a tight, clear cornea, takes a little vigilance.
I'm still not convinced I've nailed this subject, I'm pretty sure I'll be back to it soon.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Light is directed into your eye by your cornea, the clear window at the front. In my case the corneas are like a crinkle cut potato chip, all over the shop, directing light inaccurately into my eye. I have good reason not to trust what I see. As an example, as a passenger in a car I have to constantly resist the urge to grab the wheel and steer around objects that I see as being in front of the car. Those huge portable yellow signs with orange flashing lights, "ROAD WORK AHEAD", those suckers jump out at me, if I trusted my eyes I'd believe the car was headed directly into them. Instead I have to trust the driver, bite my tongue and trust the driver. It's not easy in some cases.
Instinct is just absorbed information, subconsciously collated, available to the conscious mind on demand. Can instinct be trusted? It depends on how accurately your information is absorbed. Do you have some sort of crinkle cut filter between you and the world? Are your heart and mind free and clear or distorted by fear, anger, greed, all the usual suspects?
In some cases a misshapen cornea can be corrected with lenses or surgery. Correcting how you feel the world isn't so easy. For me the main thing is being aware of the problem. I know the information I receive through my eyes can't be trusted because I know what the problem is. If I know myself well enough to know I feel the world through anger I know my instinct can't be trusted, not until the anger is corrected. How to correct fear, anger, greed? Hey, I'm a blogger, go and ask a professional about that stuff, you wouldn't ask me to perform surgery on your eyes, why would you trust your subconscious mind with me?
I've spent years opening my mind to the point that I can happily trust my instinct. When I last wrote on this subject I was furious that I had stepped back from it. Being in tune, feeling the world through a tight, clear cornea, takes a little vigilance.
I'm still not convinced I've nailed this subject, I'm pretty sure I'll be back to it soon.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Wednesday, 16 November 2011
Plato On Education.
“Do not train a child to learn by force or harshness; but direct them to it by what amuses their minds, so that you may be better able to discover with accuracy the peculiar bent of the genius of each.”
Plato.
I'm spending a little time with a seven year old autistic lad right now. I believe his mother has reached the same conclusion as Plato. I wonder if his advice came from experience, if he would possess her patience in real life?
I see many people working five hundred hours per week, they make it sound like five hundred hours, just to provide a better life for their children. I admire these people, they've chosen a cause and they are fighting for it, more than I've ever done with my life. I do find myself wondering if less money, more time might provide a better life for everyone?
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Plato.
I'm spending a little time with a seven year old autistic lad right now. I believe his mother has reached the same conclusion as Plato. I wonder if his advice came from experience, if he would possess her patience in real life?
I see many people working five hundred hours per week, they make it sound like five hundred hours, just to provide a better life for their children. I admire these people, they've chosen a cause and they are fighting for it, more than I've ever done with my life. I do find myself wondering if less money, more time might provide a better life for everyone?
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Tram Stop Maestro.
" . . . and . . . five six seven eight."
He has sewn button eyes onto socks, he is teaching them to dance. The red sock, which he found in his bag when he picked it up from the laundromat, is named Daimantina, the black sock, the bereaved partner of a pair of his own, is named Roger. Astor Piazzola is playing on a cassette, he has swung his bedside lamp around to spotlight the performance.
"Eyes and teeth Daimantina, eyes and teeth!" She is concentrating too hard on the steps, it is showing on her face.
"A wider stance Roger, give me some machismo, give it to me!" Intimidated by Daimantina's beauty Roger is dancing like a schoolboy.
The back window of a dance studio faces my regular tram stop, at least it sounds like a dance studio. While I'm waiting for my tram I try to imagine what is really going on in there? Are dancers sweating away in there, cursing their director every time he shouts at them? Is there some eccentric lunatic dossing in the back room of his father's warehouse, believing he is in Buenos Aires, choreographer to a famous Tango Nuevo troupe?
Either way the real performer is the shouting man, cajoling dancers, sock or human, to lift above the ordinary, give all they've got. I just know he has picked which actor should play him in the movie of his life, probably Emillio Estevez. Every day there is a matinee in the early afternoon, an evening show, an audience of between one and fifteen people, for ten or fifteen minutes as they wait for a tram.
"Look away Daimantina, look away, make him work for your eyes!"
" . . . and again . . . five six seven eight."
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
He has sewn button eyes onto socks, he is teaching them to dance. The red sock, which he found in his bag when he picked it up from the laundromat, is named Daimantina, the black sock, the bereaved partner of a pair of his own, is named Roger. Astor Piazzola is playing on a cassette, he has swung his bedside lamp around to spotlight the performance.
"Eyes and teeth Daimantina, eyes and teeth!" She is concentrating too hard on the steps, it is showing on her face.
"A wider stance Roger, give me some machismo, give it to me!" Intimidated by Daimantina's beauty Roger is dancing like a schoolboy.
The back window of a dance studio faces my regular tram stop, at least it sounds like a dance studio. While I'm waiting for my tram I try to imagine what is really going on in there? Are dancers sweating away in there, cursing their director every time he shouts at them? Is there some eccentric lunatic dossing in the back room of his father's warehouse, believing he is in Buenos Aires, choreographer to a famous Tango Nuevo troupe?
Either way the real performer is the shouting man, cajoling dancers, sock or human, to lift above the ordinary, give all they've got. I just know he has picked which actor should play him in the movie of his life, probably Emillio Estevez. Every day there is a matinee in the early afternoon, an evening show, an audience of between one and fifteen people, for ten or fifteen minutes as they wait for a tram.
"Look away Daimantina, look away, make him work for your eyes!"
" . . . and again . . . five six seven eight."
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Etta James On American Music.
"I wanna show that gospel, country, blues, rhythm and blues, jazz, rock 'n' roll are all just really one thing. Those are the American music and that is the American culture."
Etta James.
As an Australian player of these styles I have to agree, it wasn't until I stood on American soil that the music really made sense to me, became more than an imitation. Part of the American culture is it's acceptance of new flavors from other places, I hope I repay that musical acceptance with a sweet new taste.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Etta James.
As an Australian player of these styles I have to agree, it wasn't until I stood on American soil that the music really made sense to me, became more than an imitation. Part of the American culture is it's acceptance of new flavors from other places, I hope I repay that musical acceptance with a sweet new taste.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Tuesday, 15 November 2011
e. e. cummings on individuality
“To be nobody but
yourself in a world
which is doing its best day and night to make you like
everybody else means to fight the hardest battle
which any human being can fight and never stop fighting.”
e. e. cummings
testify my lower case brother
yourself in a world
which is doing its best day and night to make you like
everybody else means to fight the hardest battle
which any human being can fight and never stop fighting.”
e. e. cummings
testify my lower case brother
Cupid And Falling.
Before Spring sprung and the fern fronds stretched out over this little Cupid he was just kind of annoying, manufactured cuteness, twee, looking down to see where his mythical arrow landed. Now he has some age, mystique, charm, now I wonder what's going on in there?
Perhaps he is cruel, some blighted Romeo is yearning for the sweetheart he can never have, maybe his arrow struck true, he feels that if his protective gaze is averted the spell may be broken? Now the Cupid himself is a romantic character I care where his arrow landed, I feel for the lovers below.
Over time that pedestal will subside into rain softened earth, the fern will topple my little friend on a windy day, one wing will be broken, small chips will fly off, he will become infirm and earthbound like the lovers he has stung . He will know what it is to be imperfect, know imperfect love. Cupid will receive no sympathy from the humans, not the older ones anyway, those who long ago accepted they know nothing of love, who have been toppled by age and nature.
When he is broken and sad I will pick up my cherubic mate, hold him in my arms, tell him that it's only when we have fallen that we truly learn to love, that the feeling from his little round belly is the one he can trust, not some foolish notions of arrows and destiny. For now he has to sit and wait, it could be tomorrow, a decade, he will fall. We all do.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Location:Highett Rd,Highett,Australia
Socrates On Marriage.
“By all means marry; if you get a good wife, you’ll become happy; if you get a bad one, you’ll become a philosopher.”
Socrates.
I love that Socrates had a sense of humour, about himself, the universe and the subject he cherished. We tend to see him as a serious old weather worn marble bust. I bet he did great mother in law gags too.
It is also interesting that he saw happiness as an antidote to philosophy. May I never become happy.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Socrates.
I love that Socrates had a sense of humour, about himself, the universe and the subject he cherished. We tend to see him as a serious old weather worn marble bust. I bet he did great mother in law gags too.
It is also interesting that he saw happiness as an antidote to philosophy. May I never become happy.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Because It Feels Good.
Sharpen a pencil and write with it. Take a new toothbrush from it's package and clean your teeth with it. Order an espresso coffee, stir it then smell it.
Wake up with a new life and apply it to the world around you. It feels good.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Wake up with a new life and apply it to the world around you. It feels good.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Eartha Kitt On Maturity.
"Darling, nobody is twenty two any more."
Eartha Kitt.
Upon being upstaged by a young starlet at a dinner party, Miss Kitt asked the girl her age. I know this quote is accurate because I was there. Oops, pardon me, I believe I just dropped a name.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Eartha Kitt.
Upon being upstaged by a young starlet at a dinner party, Miss Kitt asked the girl her age. I know this quote is accurate because I was there. Oops, pardon me, I believe I just dropped a name.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Monday, 14 November 2011
Sarah Vaughan On Nuance.
“There are notes between notes, you know.”
Sarah Vaughan.
Subtlety and nuance are old fashioned notions. For me they sum up the difference between the blunt, thoughtlessness of rock and roll and the beauty of a real singer. Sarah Vaughan was a real singer, if she says there are notes between notes I for one am going looking for them.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Be A Clown.
So my job was to play the clown, and play some music. Each day I'd don a flamboyant Hawaiian shirt, something floral and ludicrous, add a beaten up straw hat, then make with the funny for two hundred Chinese tourists. The pay off was that my office was a floating restaurant on Sydney Harbour, and that I worked for less than two hours a day.
One afternoon a genuine tough guy boarded the boat. Surrounded by minions, younger, apprentice tough guys, he ignored the buffet lunch, took a table on the back deck, allowed minions to light his cigarettes, bring him lunch. A handful of black and dark blue suits watched his every move, and all around. The other guests observed a perimeter, they knew he was the real deal, no one stepped within two metres of his table.
I came out to play on the back deck. He beckoned me over, waved his hand at the guitar, gestured for me to sit instead. He glanced at a henchman who immediately offered, lit a cigarette. I dutifully smoked. I was a little afraid but mostly curious, how would this King's Court interview me?
The boss man gestured at the harbour, his comment was translated as "beautiful". I replied my thank you in Mandarin, one of the few words I knew, the effort was appreciated, first by the tough guy, then by the rest. I was asked if I'd been to China? I replied that I hadn't, that I'd met many Chinese friends in this job and would love to visit. He was at a loss, I was outside his range of experience, he didn't know what to ask me next. I added that I love the food and I love the girls. Much mirth ensued, every nation likes to think they have the best food and the prettiest girls.
He reached over and felt my shirt, pure cotton, he nodded his approval. I took a chance, leant over, the minions came in closer, reached out and felt his tie, pure silk. I held my hand in the air, wavered it in a just so so gesture. Even if he'd had me killed on the spot that moment of shocked hush would have been worth it. The tough guy laughed, he knew how beautiful his tie was, that I was playing my role as clown. He laughed loudly, the minions laughed loudly, he stood up, pulled me roughly beside him, demanded a photograph with me. Cameras came out of every suit pocket, twenty shots were taken, me giving a silly thumbs up, the tough guy joining in the routine. His crew then lined up, each wanting exactly the same photograph.
I bowed and said thank you again, wandered off to entertain the civilians. I played again on the dock as the passengers alighted. The tough guy bowed briefly as he walked off first, the last of his crew shoved one hundred American dollars in my shirt pocket.
I'm still half expecting a visit from the Chinese secret police, a folio of photographs, asking me how I knew this man, how I got so close to him. All I could reply is that the whole world loves a clown.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One afternoon a genuine tough guy boarded the boat. Surrounded by minions, younger, apprentice tough guys, he ignored the buffet lunch, took a table on the back deck, allowed minions to light his cigarettes, bring him lunch. A handful of black and dark blue suits watched his every move, and all around. The other guests observed a perimeter, they knew he was the real deal, no one stepped within two metres of his table.
I came out to play on the back deck. He beckoned me over, waved his hand at the guitar, gestured for me to sit instead. He glanced at a henchman who immediately offered, lit a cigarette. I dutifully smoked. I was a little afraid but mostly curious, how would this King's Court interview me?
The boss man gestured at the harbour, his comment was translated as "beautiful". I replied my thank you in Mandarin, one of the few words I knew, the effort was appreciated, first by the tough guy, then by the rest. I was asked if I'd been to China? I replied that I hadn't, that I'd met many Chinese friends in this job and would love to visit. He was at a loss, I was outside his range of experience, he didn't know what to ask me next. I added that I love the food and I love the girls. Much mirth ensued, every nation likes to think they have the best food and the prettiest girls.
He reached over and felt my shirt, pure cotton, he nodded his approval. I took a chance, leant over, the minions came in closer, reached out and felt his tie, pure silk. I held my hand in the air, wavered it in a just so so gesture. Even if he'd had me killed on the spot that moment of shocked hush would have been worth it. The tough guy laughed, he knew how beautiful his tie was, that I was playing my role as clown. He laughed loudly, the minions laughed loudly, he stood up, pulled me roughly beside him, demanded a photograph with me. Cameras came out of every suit pocket, twenty shots were taken, me giving a silly thumbs up, the tough guy joining in the routine. His crew then lined up, each wanting exactly the same photograph.
I bowed and said thank you again, wandered off to entertain the civilians. I played again on the dock as the passengers alighted. The tough guy bowed briefly as he walked off first, the last of his crew shoved one hundred American dollars in my shirt pocket.
I'm still half expecting a visit from the Chinese secret police, a folio of photographs, asking me how I knew this man, how I got so close to him. All I could reply is that the whole world loves a clown.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Louis Armstrong On Memory And Jazz.
"The memory of things gone is important to a jazz musician."
Louis Armstrong.
Memory, sweet bitter memory, our own telling of our own story. Cultural memory, an understanding of the spirit of the times and how we arrived here and now. The nature of memory, a deep knowledge of humanity, how we perceive ourselves, how we are perceived. The jazz musician is pure improvization, muscle memory, a connection between mind, memory, body. The memory of every moment up to this moment, now, expressed now, jazz.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Louis Armstrong.
Memory, sweet bitter memory, our own telling of our own story. Cultural memory, an understanding of the spirit of the times and how we arrived here and now. The nature of memory, a deep knowledge of humanity, how we perceive ourselves, how we are perceived. The jazz musician is pure improvization, muscle memory, a connection between mind, memory, body. The memory of every moment up to this moment, now, expressed now, jazz.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Sunday, 13 November 2011
Bob Marley On Living.
“Some people feel the rain. Others just get wet.”
Bob Marley.
Bob Marley makes me smile. He continually reminds me to pay attention to what I already know. Stuck on a tram stop late at night, in winter, in the rain, Mr. Marley reminds me to live the experience instead of bitching about it. Then I smile.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Bob Marley.
Bob Marley makes me smile. He continually reminds me to pay attention to what I already know. Stuck on a tram stop late at night, in winter, in the rain, Mr. Marley reminds me to live the experience instead of bitching about it. Then I smile.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Billie Holiday On Advice.
“You've got to have something to eat, and a little love in your life before you can hold still for any damn body's sermon on how to behave.”
Billie Holiday.
We will never run short of people who enjoy telling other people how to behave. Sometimes they are right, sometimes they are wrong. Either way, it's none of their damn business. Feed someone, love someone, then they might be interested in listening to you, if you feel you must tell them how to behave. Once they are fed and loved you'll find they know perfectly well how to behave.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Billie Holiday.
We will never run short of people who enjoy telling other people how to behave. Sometimes they are right, sometimes they are wrong. Either way, it's none of their damn business. Feed someone, love someone, then they might be interested in listening to you, if you feel you must tell them how to behave. Once they are fed and loved you'll find they know perfectly well how to behave.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Equal Rights For The Easily Bored.
Folks are forever dividing the world into two types of people, for me it comes down to those who are easily bored, those who aren't easily bored. Radical or conservative, classical or romantic, the old divisions come back to those who require new stimulus, those who are satisfied with the old.
Some folks are happy to go out and find the activities and people they enjoy, repeat those experiences for the rest of their lives. Other folks will leave situations that bring them joy, purely because they become bored, they need to try something new. They aren't headed towards something better, just new.
The point of conflict here is obvious. Take a close look at why relationships dissolve even though both parties still love each other. Business and creative partnerships go the same way. One partner has found what they like and want, the other needs something new. Knowing which type you are before you link your life with someone else's, asking them which type they are, would prevent future pain.
Those who are easily bored often struggle to justify their decisions. If nothing is wrong, if everything is sweet, why do they have to move on? They usually resort to self destructive behaviour, destroy the good thing so they can rationalize leaving it. If they just accepted that they are easily bored, require the new, rejected the Christian work ethic that tells them to be ashamed of being easily bored, they would leave much less trouble in their wake. It's hard to say, "everything is great, I'm bored, bye now".
I know a couple, happily married for over six decades, their beach house where they take vacations is exactly like their home in the city. I know another couple who have rented their homes for years, from one to the next, one country to the next, happily moving on together for twenty years. In both cases people of the same type, easily bored, not easily bored, have found each other.
In music some can create a sound then play it all their lives. Others have to try a new sound, even when the old one is paying off. Both types are valid, they just shouldn't work together, or accept that working together is a short term arrangement. In business some need to keep on expanding, others let the business tick over and go fishing.
Those who are easily bored are often seen as the bad guys, the ones who abandon everyone and everything. Occasionally they are the heroes who change the world. Steve Jobs was easily bored. Yes, I'm one of those who is easily bored, in case you haven't already guessed. I wish I could be the other type but I can't. Accepting who and what I am does make it easier to move on, I'm less inclined to destroy stuff so I can leave it. Those who aren't easily bored are seen as the good guys, solid, deep. Fair enough, they are good qualities, we'd still be living in caves and rejecting that new fire thing if they were the only type. We need both.
I'm bored with dividing the world into two types of people.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Some folks are happy to go out and find the activities and people they enjoy, repeat those experiences for the rest of their lives. Other folks will leave situations that bring them joy, purely because they become bored, they need to try something new. They aren't headed towards something better, just new.
The point of conflict here is obvious. Take a close look at why relationships dissolve even though both parties still love each other. Business and creative partnerships go the same way. One partner has found what they like and want, the other needs something new. Knowing which type you are before you link your life with someone else's, asking them which type they are, would prevent future pain.
Those who are easily bored often struggle to justify their decisions. If nothing is wrong, if everything is sweet, why do they have to move on? They usually resort to self destructive behaviour, destroy the good thing so they can rationalize leaving it. If they just accepted that they are easily bored, require the new, rejected the Christian work ethic that tells them to be ashamed of being easily bored, they would leave much less trouble in their wake. It's hard to say, "everything is great, I'm bored, bye now".
I know a couple, happily married for over six decades, their beach house where they take vacations is exactly like their home in the city. I know another couple who have rented their homes for years, from one to the next, one country to the next, happily moving on together for twenty years. In both cases people of the same type, easily bored, not easily bored, have found each other.
In music some can create a sound then play it all their lives. Others have to try a new sound, even when the old one is paying off. Both types are valid, they just shouldn't work together, or accept that working together is a short term arrangement. In business some need to keep on expanding, others let the business tick over and go fishing.
Those who are easily bored are often seen as the bad guys, the ones who abandon everyone and everything. Occasionally they are the heroes who change the world. Steve Jobs was easily bored. Yes, I'm one of those who is easily bored, in case you haven't already guessed. I wish I could be the other type but I can't. Accepting who and what I am does make it easier to move on, I'm less inclined to destroy stuff so I can leave it. Those who aren't easily bored are seen as the good guys, solid, deep. Fair enough, they are good qualities, we'd still be living in caves and rejecting that new fire thing if they were the only type. We need both.
I'm bored with dividing the world into two types of people.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Peter Roebuck's Father On Peter Roebuck.
"In orthodox spheres Peter might be regarded as odd, whereas he is merely obscure and oblique. He is an unconventional loner, with an independent outlook on life, an irreverent sense of humour and sometimes a withering tongue."
This is from Peter Roebucks autobiography, he quoted his father as saying this about him. Peter Roebuck died today. Anyone who loves cricket loved Mr. Roebuck. He loved cricket. He communicated that love, well, like a lover, with poetry, with every emotion.
I loved his work, deeply sad to hear of his death.
www,kentparkstreetblog.com
This is from Peter Roebucks autobiography, he quoted his father as saying this about him. Peter Roebuck died today. Anyone who loves cricket loved Mr. Roebuck. He loved cricket. He communicated that love, well, like a lover, with poetry, with every emotion.
I loved his work, deeply sad to hear of his death.
www,kentparkstreetblog.com
As Long As It Looks Right.
Many years ago I lived in the apartment above this shop. The duct from the exhaust fans above the deep fryers went through my lounge room. The rent was cheap, that duct made an annoying whirring sound for ten or twelve hours each day, the smell of fried food leaked out, it was a fair deal.
Did that smell put me off fish and chips? Absolutely not. If anything the constant aroma reminded me how much I desired them. The contract for my regular Sunday night gig insisted I consume my body weight in vodka and make an arse of myself. I fulfilled that contract with zeal every week, woke up every Monday wishing I were dead. I'd call my landlord, Harold, in the shop downstairs, "the usual", ten minutes later go out to the back stairs to find a white paper package of deep fried gorgeousness and an icy cold can of Coca Cola. This is what God has for breakfast when he has drunk too much the night before, there is no better cure, heaven or earth.
Beneath those stairs Harold stored massive hessian sacks filled with dirt clad potatoes. He would wash and peel those spuds, run them through a hand operated chipper. He'd then blanch those chips, cook them through, let them cool in a vast, stainless steel three sided box. Those chips were ready to hit hot oil, crisp up, turn golden, become truly delicious in just a few minutes.
I've been away ten years, I have visited, Harold and then his friend who took over the shop. Tonight I'm disturbed to see a new owner, he is advertising traditional, crispy fish and chips so I hold some hope. I check the box, full of blanched chips, all looks promising. I order, watch each oily basket, hope it's mine, a little more excited than a grown man should be. He runs out of chips, goes out the back, returns with a plastic bag, cuts the top off, pours mass produced, packaged chips into the box. The horror, the horror. They look like chip shop chips, maybe they're o.k.?
I walk away with my white paper package, tear off a corner, ease out a hot chip. It tastes like cardboard. I try a few more, throw the rest out in disgust. The fish too is watery, frozen garbage.
The point is that someone bothered to produce pre blanched chips that look right, didn't bother to make them taste right. Like everything else in my culture the appearance is all that matters. One of the great, simple joys of life, the freshly cooked chip, is as close to extinction as honour in politics. I'll probably have to wait until the day after I go boozing with God before I'll find the real thing again.
Wherever you are Harold, I hope you're frying chips, real chips. A fried golden moment of my life feels tainted, I feel like I've lived past a time and place, that I shouldn't have tried to come home.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Did that smell put me off fish and chips? Absolutely not. If anything the constant aroma reminded me how much I desired them. The contract for my regular Sunday night gig insisted I consume my body weight in vodka and make an arse of myself. I fulfilled that contract with zeal every week, woke up every Monday wishing I were dead. I'd call my landlord, Harold, in the shop downstairs, "the usual", ten minutes later go out to the back stairs to find a white paper package of deep fried gorgeousness and an icy cold can of Coca Cola. This is what God has for breakfast when he has drunk too much the night before, there is no better cure, heaven or earth.
Beneath those stairs Harold stored massive hessian sacks filled with dirt clad potatoes. He would wash and peel those spuds, run them through a hand operated chipper. He'd then blanch those chips, cook them through, let them cool in a vast, stainless steel three sided box. Those chips were ready to hit hot oil, crisp up, turn golden, become truly delicious in just a few minutes.
I've been away ten years, I have visited, Harold and then his friend who took over the shop. Tonight I'm disturbed to see a new owner, he is advertising traditional, crispy fish and chips so I hold some hope. I check the box, full of blanched chips, all looks promising. I order, watch each oily basket, hope it's mine, a little more excited than a grown man should be. He runs out of chips, goes out the back, returns with a plastic bag, cuts the top off, pours mass produced, packaged chips into the box. The horror, the horror. They look like chip shop chips, maybe they're o.k.?
I walk away with my white paper package, tear off a corner, ease out a hot chip. It tastes like cardboard. I try a few more, throw the rest out in disgust. The fish too is watery, frozen garbage.
The point is that someone bothered to produce pre blanched chips that look right, didn't bother to make them taste right. Like everything else in my culture the appearance is all that matters. One of the great, simple joys of life, the freshly cooked chip, is as close to extinction as honour in politics. I'll probably have to wait until the day after I go boozing with God before I'll find the real thing again.
Wherever you are Harold, I hope you're frying chips, real chips. A fried golden moment of my life feels tainted, I feel like I've lived past a time and place, that I shouldn't have tried to come home.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Saturday, 12 November 2011
Alternate Universes And Me.
So I'm standing outside a shop named Bach Dang. I wish this shop sold Baroque/Hillbilly fusion music but I know it's just another gorgeous anglicization of a Vietnamese name. This street, Victoria Street, Richmond, in Melbourne, is full of these wonderful names, nearly every shop is Viet owned.
I've stepped around the corner from the tram stop, shelter from the wind and rain. It seems I've stepped into an open air heroin market. A kid who looks like Jackie Chan's assignment, a sweet faced teenage demon, steps fearlessly up to me. He is wearing a dark blue baggy suit, matching pork pie hat, matching t shirt with a white dragon painted on it. He is a B movie Chinatown cliche. A broad Australian accent, "ya' chasin' mate?". If his accent was an Asian American mix I would have called Central Casting myself, set myself up as his agent. When I ignore him he walks away, seeks another mark.
Another Central Casting type, the ex con, tries his luck. He is a seriously tough looking dude, I consider buying some heroin just to keep him happy. In exactly the same tone and accent, "ya' chasin' mate?" I know how these guys think, look straight through him as if he doesn't exist. He looks back at me the same way. If he can't sell to it, shoot it up or fuck it the object in front of him doesn't exist. As long as I'm not between him and a target I'm safe.
I hear the tram approaching, step back onto the main street. It's like a video game, in five steps I've left the heroin market, returned to the busy ethnic street scene. Folks are hustling towards restaurants, buying bok choy from Bach Dang, chatting in Vietnamese. Just five steps away are people living in a different universe, they step in and out of this universe, live a million miles from it.
The tram carries me away, worlds within worlds disappear behind me. Looking around, my fellow passengers, travelling together through time and space. I wonder which universe each will step into when they alight the tram? Which one do I belong in?
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I've stepped around the corner from the tram stop, shelter from the wind and rain. It seems I've stepped into an open air heroin market. A kid who looks like Jackie Chan's assignment, a sweet faced teenage demon, steps fearlessly up to me. He is wearing a dark blue baggy suit, matching pork pie hat, matching t shirt with a white dragon painted on it. He is a B movie Chinatown cliche. A broad Australian accent, "ya' chasin' mate?". If his accent was an Asian American mix I would have called Central Casting myself, set myself up as his agent. When I ignore him he walks away, seeks another mark.
Another Central Casting type, the ex con, tries his luck. He is a seriously tough looking dude, I consider buying some heroin just to keep him happy. In exactly the same tone and accent, "ya' chasin' mate?" I know how these guys think, look straight through him as if he doesn't exist. He looks back at me the same way. If he can't sell to it, shoot it up or fuck it the object in front of him doesn't exist. As long as I'm not between him and a target I'm safe.
I hear the tram approaching, step back onto the main street. It's like a video game, in five steps I've left the heroin market, returned to the busy ethnic street scene. Folks are hustling towards restaurants, buying bok choy from Bach Dang, chatting in Vietnamese. Just five steps away are people living in a different universe, they step in and out of this universe, live a million miles from it.
The tram carries me away, worlds within worlds disappear behind me. Looking around, my fellow passengers, travelling together through time and space. I wonder which universe each will step into when they alight the tram? Which one do I belong in?
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Ella Fitzgerald On Singing.
"I sing like I feel."
Ella Fitzgerald.
All the singing lessons you need.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Ella Fitzgerald.
All the singing lessons you need.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Get On Up And Shake It About A Little.
You'd call them a handsome couple, not pretty. Well rounded bottoms and tummies, folks who like to eat, like to dance, do both well. They dance for the romance of it, not a hint of showing off, they dance like a handsome couple.
He speaks enough Spanish to thank the South American singer, his partner smiles her appreciation, just as fluent. We thank them, they have changed the tone of the afternoon, bridged the gap between band and audience. By getting on up and shaking it about a little they have given everyone an occasion, there was music and dancing, that makes it an occasion, an event.
They depart smiling, arm in arm, one hand resting on ample, well shaken butt. They ate, they danced, they spread joy, their work here is done.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
He speaks enough Spanish to thank the South American singer, his partner smiles her appreciation, just as fluent. We thank them, they have changed the tone of the afternoon, bridged the gap between band and audience. By getting on up and shaking it about a little they have given everyone an occasion, there was music and dancing, that makes it an occasion, an event.
They depart smiling, arm in arm, one hand resting on ample, well shaken butt. They ate, they danced, they spread joy, their work here is done.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Lao Tzu On Music.
"Music in the soul can be heard by the universe."
Lao Tzu.
Musicians take note. Popular music will gain you a large audience, your popularity will pass. Imagine waking up, your soul singing, the universe listening?
When what you do makes you feel music in your soul you know you've found a true path. Laying bricks, playing tuba, teaching school, whatever gives you that feeling.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Lao Tzu.
Musicians take note. Popular music will gain you a large audience, your popularity will pass. Imagine waking up, your soul singing, the universe listening?
When what you do makes you feel music in your soul you know you've found a true path. Laying bricks, playing tuba, teaching school, whatever gives you that feeling.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Backpacker Tragedy.
Like any serpent she has shed a skin, a middle class suburban skin. When she left Manchester it was so cold she would undress in bed at the end of the day, cuddle a hot water bottle. Here her denim shorts show just a hint of buttock, her singlet top a hint of breast, here she gets naked at any excuse.
She has heard about the deadly snakes in Australia, those native species have nothing on her. The boy she is with tonight has no idea her bite is venomous, that he is prey. In this heat cold blooded creatures must feed, she will seek new treats every night until the money runs out, until she returns home to settle down, complete her studies, get married.
She will swallow this boy whole. In twenty years when she is disappointed and lonely she will digest him, taste his ocean salty skin once more, feel him in her belly. When all her venom has dried up this boy will be her lover again, alone she will remember how sweet he was, make up a name to call out to the empty night because his real name was lost in the crowd.
Even before she has coiled herself around him her eyes are looking elsewhere, other options. She would never do this at home, where people know her. Her she has shed her inhibitions. Here she is a serpent, feeding on boys, storing future memories, knowing she has just one season before she goes back to thick socks and flannelette and skinny pasty boys who taste like chip shop oil.
This boy doesn't stand a chance, he is already dead to her. It's a shame, the way he looks at her I can tell he really likes her, possibly loves her, but that's not what she is looking for. As they shed their clothes he feels it, suddenly knows her, too late.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
She has heard about the deadly snakes in Australia, those native species have nothing on her. The boy she is with tonight has no idea her bite is venomous, that he is prey. In this heat cold blooded creatures must feed, she will seek new treats every night until the money runs out, until she returns home to settle down, complete her studies, get married.
She will swallow this boy whole. In twenty years when she is disappointed and lonely she will digest him, taste his ocean salty skin once more, feel him in her belly. When all her venom has dried up this boy will be her lover again, alone she will remember how sweet he was, make up a name to call out to the empty night because his real name was lost in the crowd.
Even before she has coiled herself around him her eyes are looking elsewhere, other options. She would never do this at home, where people know her. Her she has shed her inhibitions. Here she is a serpent, feeding on boys, storing future memories, knowing she has just one season before she goes back to thick socks and flannelette and skinny pasty boys who taste like chip shop oil.
This boy doesn't stand a chance, he is already dead to her. It's a shame, the way he looks at her I can tell he really likes her, possibly loves her, but that's not what she is looking for. As they shed their clothes he feels it, suddenly knows her, too late.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Friday, 11 November 2011
Rush Limbaugh On An Open Mind.
"Being stuck is a position few of us like. We want something new but cannot let go of the old - old ideas, beliefs, habits, even thoughts. We are out of contact with our own genius. Sometimes we know we are stuck; sometimes we don't. In both cases we have to DO something."
Rush Limbaugh.
When the man is right he is right. The easy option is to hang onto the belief that Rush talks crap all the time. For me he talks crap much of the time, why not pull the occasional diamond from the dung? Letting go of old beliefs means accepting the truth wherever it comes from.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Rush Limbaugh.
When the man is right he is right. The easy option is to hang onto the belief that Rush talks crap all the time. For me he talks crap much of the time, why not pull the occasional diamond from the dung? Letting go of old beliefs means accepting the truth wherever it comes from.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Not Milk?
So the waiter drops a coffee before me, announces it to be a "skinny latte". This is the last thing on earth I would order, I explain that I ordered a normal latte, what used to be normal, one with the yummy, creamy, full fat milk. He looks stressed, I tell him I'll just take the skim milk coffee. An attempt at jocularity, I ask him if he is trying to tell me something, that I should be watching my weight? He walks away without smiling. Both my coffee and waiter are lifeless.
Full fat milk contains all the natural vitamins, the fat allows us to absorb those vitamins, and the calcium. If skim milk were titled "nutrition free" no one would buy it. People buy it because the television tells them to. Don't get me started on soy milk. Soy milk is the juice of a bean, it is nothing like milk, it's juice, has no place anywhere near my coffee.
The fat in milk is what makes a latte work, hot steam makes tiny little bubbles that changes the texture, allows the full flavour of the coffee to be infused, the beverage is based around the fat in the milk. Anything made without full fat milk is another drink entirely, an inferior drink. I should have explained all this to my humourless waiter, told him to return with what I ordered, instead you are copping it.
The same waiter returns, the lady beside me receives a slab of cake the size of her head, and a skinny latte. I resist the urge to push that cake in her face, leave politely, a broken man yearning for a time when milk was milk.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Full fat milk contains all the natural vitamins, the fat allows us to absorb those vitamins, and the calcium. If skim milk were titled "nutrition free" no one would buy it. People buy it because the television tells them to. Don't get me started on soy milk. Soy milk is the juice of a bean, it is nothing like milk, it's juice, has no place anywhere near my coffee.
The fat in milk is what makes a latte work, hot steam makes tiny little bubbles that changes the texture, allows the full flavour of the coffee to be infused, the beverage is based around the fat in the milk. Anything made without full fat milk is another drink entirely, an inferior drink. I should have explained all this to my humourless waiter, told him to return with what I ordered, instead you are copping it.
The same waiter returns, the lady beside me receives a slab of cake the size of her head, and a skinny latte. I resist the urge to push that cake in her face, leave politely, a broken man yearning for a time when milk was milk.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Thursday, 10 November 2011
John Stuart Mill On War.
"War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things. The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse. The person who has nothing for which he is willing to fight, nothing which is more important than his own personal safety, is a miserable creature and has no chance of being free unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself."
John Stuart Mill.
It is rare to find a quotation that doesn't damn war. Those who defeated the Fuhrer and the Emperor between 1939 and 1945 gave us all life, and liberty. They paid the price for us, not themselves. Today we see folks in the Middle East and Africa tearing down despots by force of arms, for their children, so their children can be free. When people say that all war is bad those people are simpletons who should get a grip. They are free to say that all war is bad because someone else fought for their freedom.
Of course many wars have been profit based landgrabs, oilgrabs, there are bad wars, of course there are, most wars are bad. Those who reject violence have to ask themselves how they react when a bad person punches them on the nose, punches their children on the nose? They usually react by punching the bad person back. Sometimes it just has to be done.
All we can hope is to elect leaders with the maturity and wisdom to know when to punch back, and a population fond enough of freedom, wise and mature enough to accept or reject our leader's decisions.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
John Stuart Mill.
It is rare to find a quotation that doesn't damn war. Those who defeated the Fuhrer and the Emperor between 1939 and 1945 gave us all life, and liberty. They paid the price for us, not themselves. Today we see folks in the Middle East and Africa tearing down despots by force of arms, for their children, so their children can be free. When people say that all war is bad those people are simpletons who should get a grip. They are free to say that all war is bad because someone else fought for their freedom.
Of course many wars have been profit based landgrabs, oilgrabs, there are bad wars, of course there are, most wars are bad. Those who reject violence have to ask themselves how they react when a bad person punches them on the nose, punches their children on the nose? They usually react by punching the bad person back. Sometimes it just has to be done.
All we can hope is to elect leaders with the maturity and wisdom to know when to punch back, and a population fond enough of freedom, wise and mature enough to accept or reject our leader's decisions.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Red Poppies.
Red poppies overwhelmed the pastures of France after the Great War. Fertilized by the sacrifice of millions of young men, a macabre, beautiful sea of innocent red poppies. Australian soldiers pressed them in letters, sent home hope and beauty, kept the terror and horror to themselves.
Today, Armistice Day, Rememberance Day, we purchase little paper poppies for our lapels, raise money for returned servicemen and their families, display our memory of the first Australians to fight and die under our own flag. None of us can imagine. My grandfather kept his to himself, I'll never know. The least I can do is buy a poppy, raise a toast to Wilfred, a man I never knew.
Now we are mates with everyone we fought, we don't even know why we were fighting. We do know that millions of young men, wearing red badges of courage, were exchanged for millions of red poppies, a symbol that life goes on but hardly a fair trade.
On this day we remember, wonder what it was all about, wear a red poppy, hope.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Chris In The Morning On Ownership.
"Rain usually makes me feel mellow: curl up in a corner time, slow down, smell the furniture. Today... it just makes me feel wet. What is it about owning things? Why do we feel the need to own what we love, and why do we become such jerks when we do? We've all been there, you know: we want something; we own it; and by owning it we change it. When you finally win that girl of your dreams, the first thing you do is try to change her. That little thing she does with her hair, the way she wears her clothes, the way she chews her gum. Until eventually, what you like, what you don't like and what you change all merges into one. Like a watercolor in the rain."
Chris In The Morning.
"By owning it we change it." Ownership is an illusion, all we really do is limit other people's access for a short period, shorter than a lifetime. That's a pretty short period to control an object or person, why bother? We try to reshape what we own, in our own image, tiny little ego gods we are.
Why not just own ourselves, change ourselves, let other objects and people interact with us as they will?
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Chris In The Morning.
"By owning it we change it." Ownership is an illusion, all we really do is limit other people's access for a short period, shorter than a lifetime. That's a pretty short period to control an object or person, why bother? We try to reshape what we own, in our own image, tiny little ego gods we are.
Why not just own ourselves, change ourselves, let other objects and people interact with us as they will?
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Not For Me, Thanks.
After a recent bout of illness I discovered it was caused by food additives I was consuming unknowingly. It was a relief, to know my allergic reaction is real, not some sort of self induced nonsense, I didn't know the additives were there so it wasn't all in my mind.
If everyone else can eat food additives why can't I? Am I allowing my natural aversion to food that is titled by a number to manifest in a physical form, is my body just showing off what a nature boy I am? This incident has reassured me I'm not just a self indulgent wanker. Well, I am a self indulgent wanker much of the time, but not in this case.
Self doubt, we all do it. A little self analysis isn't such a bad thing. Know yourself, know the world, and all that. A little self belief does no harm either. There will always be plenty of other people to doubt you, let them carry that boring load. When I tell people that I can't eat some stuff they look at me like I'm being fussy. At least now I can look them in the eye and say no, tell them where to get off if they continue judging me.
A few days of minor illness in return for a large portion of self knowledge, that's a good deal.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
If everyone else can eat food additives why can't I? Am I allowing my natural aversion to food that is titled by a number to manifest in a physical form, is my body just showing off what a nature boy I am? This incident has reassured me I'm not just a self indulgent wanker. Well, I am a self indulgent wanker much of the time, but not in this case.
Self doubt, we all do it. A little self analysis isn't such a bad thing. Know yourself, know the world, and all that. A little self belief does no harm either. There will always be plenty of other people to doubt you, let them carry that boring load. When I tell people that I can't eat some stuff they look at me like I'm being fussy. At least now I can look them in the eye and say no, tell them where to get off if they continue judging me.
A few days of minor illness in return for a large portion of self knowledge, that's a good deal.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Wednesday, 9 November 2011
Chris In The Morning On Darkness Of The Soul.
"There's a dark side to each and every human soul. We wish we were Obi-Wan Kenobi, and for the most part we are, but there's a little Darth Vader in all of us. Thing is, this ain't no either-or proposition. We're talking about dialectics, the good and the bad merging into us. You can run but you can't hide. My experience? Face the darkness. Stare it down. Own it. As brother Nietzsche said, being human is a complicated gig. So give that ol' dark night of the soul a hug. Howl the eternal yes!"
Chris In The Morning, Northern Exposure.
The Chris Stevens character from the television show Northern Exposure often said more in one minute than most television shows say in a series. The writing for the whole show was brilliant, Chris particularly appealed to me. His radio show went out to a tiny audience, pretty much everyone he knew, but he took it seriously, produced the best radio show he knew how. His idea of success was producing great work. He knew many wouldn't understand, or would misunderstand, he knew they would be forced to think and feel anyway. He never dumbed down, he did find words that communicated with his audience.
Yes, there is darkness in all of us. Yes, Chris in the morning, and his writer, summed up this human duality and how to deal with it in just one paragraph. Brilliant.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Chris In The Morning, Northern Exposure.
The Chris Stevens character from the television show Northern Exposure often said more in one minute than most television shows say in a series. The writing for the whole show was brilliant, Chris particularly appealed to me. His radio show went out to a tiny audience, pretty much everyone he knew, but he took it seriously, produced the best radio show he knew how. His idea of success was producing great work. He knew many wouldn't understand, or would misunderstand, he knew they would be forced to think and feel anyway. He never dumbed down, he did find words that communicated with his audience.
Yes, there is darkness in all of us. Yes, Chris in the morning, and his writer, summed up this human duality and how to deal with it in just one paragraph. Brilliant.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Not Even A Fuck Off.
So I applied for a freelance writing gig, an online newspaper has begun publishing weekly instead of monthly, needs more content to fit in around the advertising. I sent a link to my online portfolio, www.parkstreetprose.blogspot.com, waited for a response, a yes or a no. Either way would have been cool, my style would have appealed or not, fit into the newspaper or not. I didn't receive any response at all, still nothing after two follow up e mails. How rude! Not even a, "fuck off, your writing sucks".
Advertising then not acknowledging those who have taken the time to respond to your ad is simply crap manners. I'm not surprised. Old fashioned manners are just that, old fashioned, out of date. I like old fashioned manners. I like receiving an e mail telling me I haven't been successful in my application. I don't expect to be successful every time, I do expect to be treated with respect, when one is unsuccessful is when one needs that respect. I guess expectation and disappointment are old friends.
If anyone out there knows where I can go in search of some writing work, anything from whimsy to travel to politics, please feel free to let me know. Hopefully I'll apply to some good mannered folks who will knock me back in an old fashioned, courteous way.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Advertising then not acknowledging those who have taken the time to respond to your ad is simply crap manners. I'm not surprised. Old fashioned manners are just that, old fashioned, out of date. I like old fashioned manners. I like receiving an e mail telling me I haven't been successful in my application. I don't expect to be successful every time, I do expect to be treated with respect, when one is unsuccessful is when one needs that respect. I guess expectation and disappointment are old friends.
If anyone out there knows where I can go in search of some writing work, anything from whimsy to travel to politics, please feel free to let me know. Hopefully I'll apply to some good mannered folks who will knock me back in an old fashioned, courteous way.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Michael Caine On Being A Grown Up.
“Do you know that the harder thing to do and the right thing to do are usually the same thing? Nothing that has meaning is easy,"Easy" doesn't enter into grown-up life.”
Michael Caine.
Easy money. Everyone I know who has come across easy money has become dissatisfied and restless, they know something is wrong. Deep down they know that earned money feels different to easy money.
On the other hand I've seen people flogging themselves by choosing the hard option every time. Why not take a few easy steps amongst all the hard ones, reserve some strength for the battles that matter? Coast a little, be ready to step up when the time is right.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Michael Caine.
Easy money. Everyone I know who has come across easy money has become dissatisfied and restless, they know something is wrong. Deep down they know that earned money feels different to easy money.
On the other hand I've seen people flogging themselves by choosing the hard option every time. Why not take a few easy steps amongst all the hard ones, reserve some strength for the battles that matter? Coast a little, be ready to step up when the time is right.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Eating By Numbers.
Recently, for various reasons, I've been eating some frozen meals. Today I looked up the ingredients on the side of the package. As soon as I saw the numbers, 222, 451, 452, I knew why I've had so little sleep for the last week, my head has been sore and I've been farting louder and prouder than the average man.
Numbers aren't food. The 450 numbers are closely related to chemicals used in industry and farming. 222 is the classic A.D.H.D. chemical. I know I'm a sensitive boy, everyone else can eat numbers, it seems I can't. Why would I want to anyway?
I can't imagine reminiscing about that tiny bistro in Paris where we had the fresh mussels in white wine with a 451 seasoning. That fabulous creme caramel with the 222 sauce, the Asian influenced salad dressed with 621. There is no romance in numbered food, there is no love in numbered food.
We all have to eat, why not eat with romance and love? Numbered food is going to bed with someone who looks good but doesn't stir your heart. It takes a little effort to make love, make food, both are worth the effort.
Avoiding the food with numbers is easy enough. Finding stores with a love of food, taking time to cook that food, not so hard. My reaction to these additives is stronger than most, it's been years since I consumed any, I'm sure I could get used to them. Why would I want to?
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Numbers aren't food. The 450 numbers are closely related to chemicals used in industry and farming. 222 is the classic A.D.H.D. chemical. I know I'm a sensitive boy, everyone else can eat numbers, it seems I can't. Why would I want to anyway?
I can't imagine reminiscing about that tiny bistro in Paris where we had the fresh mussels in white wine with a 451 seasoning. That fabulous creme caramel with the 222 sauce, the Asian influenced salad dressed with 621. There is no romance in numbered food, there is no love in numbered food.
We all have to eat, why not eat with romance and love? Numbered food is going to bed with someone who looks good but doesn't stir your heart. It takes a little effort to make love, make food, both are worth the effort.
Avoiding the food with numbers is easy enough. Finding stores with a love of food, taking time to cook that food, not so hard. My reaction to these additives is stronger than most, it's been years since I consumed any, I'm sure I could get used to them. Why would I want to?
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Stephen Fry On Real Life.
“There were people who believed their opportunities to live a fulfilled life were hampered by the number of Asians in England, by the existance of a royal family, by the volume of traffic that passed by their house, by the malice of trade unions, by the power of callous employers, by the refusal of the health service to take their condition seriously, by communism, by capitalism, by atheism, by anything, in fact, but their own futile, weak-minded failure to get a fucking grip.”
Stephen Fry, Revenge.
We all have a million excuses, none of them good enough. Often the excuses are pretty damned amusing. Especially mine.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Stephen Fry, Revenge.
We all have a million excuses, none of them good enough. Often the excuses are pretty damned amusing. Especially mine.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Tuesday, 8 November 2011
Random Insincerity.
So, some guy on the tram stop sparks up a conversation, in the big city there is usually a reason for random friendliness. We chat about Melbourne's public transport, turns out we've both been wandering, other cities, other lives. He tells me of saving his baby daughter from an irresponsible mother, now she is six, how well she is doing in school, do I need to be hooked up, pot, ice, coke?
There is usually a reason for random friendliness in the big city.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
There is usually a reason for random friendliness in the big city.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Sean Penn On Popularity.
"There`s a lot of mediocrity being celebrated, and a lot of wonderful stuff being ignored or discouraged."
Sean Penn.
I sound like I'm whining when I say this, so I'll let Mr. Penn say it instead.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Sean Penn.
I sound like I'm whining when I say this, so I'll let Mr. Penn say it instead.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
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