John Steinbeck On Individuality And Freedom.

“And this I believe: that the free, exploring mind of the individual human is the most valuable thing in the world. And this I would fight for: the freedom of the mind to take any direction it wishes, undirected. And this I must fight against: any idea, religion, or government which limits or destroys the individual. This is what I am and what I am about.”

John Steinbeck, East of Eden.

Gotta' love this.

Follow the money and the power. People don't try to take your freedom just for fun, see who gains and how, then fight those fuckers by maintaining a free mind no matter what the cost.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Passive Aggression, Again.

I recently came across something I wrote a couple of years ago, a bit of a rant about passive aggression (To Live With Intent). Over the last two years I've had some further thoughts, I hope this will be less ranty.

Like many bad habits passive aggression is a learned behaviour. I mostly come across it in women whose mothers passed it on, an heirloom of sorts, a glory box gift for her future husband. A generation of women who felt powerless saw they could finally gain some power, chose to hide behind the "I didn't do anything" shield. We all have nasty little habits we picked up from our parents, some of them are quite charming in their way, when they are combined with real life neurosis they become dominant over our personalities.

I once worked as a sub contractor for a large city council, became privy to every group e mail that dysfunctional organization produced. Someone tripped over a long dog lead in a city park, broke an ankle, sued. The discussion on changing by laws to limit the length of dog leads in city parks went on for six months that I know of, my contract finished before the discussion, it is probably still going on. Everyone passed the buck, refused to make a decision. These administrators know that if they don't make a decision they don't make a wrong decision, that the public will continue employing them on their fantastic wages just the same. Passive aggression, building a defense into every word and action, is a successful policy, it is encouraged.

Within a relationship it only works if the other person will keep you on, make all the decisions, wear the consequences. Passive aggressive women end up with controlling men, it's a certainty. The fear of doing the wrong thing is amplified by men who tell them they've done the wrong thing constantly. It is no way to love, to live.

Pointing out passive aggression is pointless. The accused admits their crime, claims it is just who they are, they can't change. You'll feel better for calling her a name, for a few minutes, nothing is resolved. Pointing out that she is just like her mother is an act for the truly courageous. I don't recommend it.

So what to do? I've got it wrong so many times I should know by now. Apparently I am the flame to the passive aggressive moth. The only answer I can see is patience. Through encouragement, proving you will stand by decisions she makes even when you think they are wrong, by proving through words and actions that you have no interest in judging her, over time this is the only answer I can see. I have always lacked the patience. More accurately I haven't diagnosed the problem early enough, become angry and dispirited, walked away. Only then have I seen the problem clearly, what I should have done. No one wants to believe their true love is neurotic and annoying.

Perhaps the established passive aggressive is a lost cause, moving on might be an easier solution. Nobody said you have to be a saint. I hope I never encounter the problem again, never have to test my method. I'm pretty sure I will have to. Wish me luck.

Yeah, I know, I ranted a little. We all have habits we picked up from our parents.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Charlie Chaplin, A Swiss Oompah Band And Me.

I heard a great Charlie Chaplin story last night.

Having dwelled in cities Chaplin loved the freedom when he moved his family to a house in the woods in Switzerland. He enjoyed throwing open his bathroom window, seeing the trees, hearing the birds, feeling the air as he took his morning crap.

One morning the oompah band from the closest village came to greet him, traditional costume, full regalia. Seeing the great man sitting in a window they set up and played, sang and danced for him. Too polite to close the window Mr. Chaplin sat smiling for an hour and a half, every time he waved goodbye the band enthusiastically struck up a new number.

A perfectly Chaplinesque scene.

There are times in my life I have been that Swiss oompah band, full of enthusiasm and good intent, completely misreading the context. Ask any of my ex girlfriends, they'll tell you of plenty of these moments, none of them quite as funny without Charlie Chaplin on set.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Joseph Conrad On Life.

“Life knows us not and we do not know life—-we don’t know even our own thoughts. Half the words we use have no meaning whatever and of the other half each man understands each word after the fashion of his own folly and conceit. Faith is a myth and beliefs shift like mists on the shore; thoughts vanish; words, once pronounced, die; and the memory of yesterday is as shadowy as the hope of tomorrow”

Joseph Conrad.

Mr. Conrad could be so bleak, couldn't he? Yet his characters strive and go on, they seek truth and beauty, such courage in the futile, godless void their author places them in.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

A Stranger In My Home Town.

I wasn't born in Melbourne, I was raised here from a young enough age to make it my hometown. I've spent more than half my adult life elsewhere, will most likely leave this town again soon enough. I don't love or hate the place, it's just a place, there are other places.

Somehow I've ended up here on my own, a decade since I lived here last, a couple of incarnations in the meantime. I don't know anyone, no one really knows me. The waitress I used to know at Leo's is still there, we chat most days, otherwise I keep my own company. It's an odd feeling, a stranger in my own home town.

I'm treating the city as a traveller might, exploring it. Apart from a couple of old regular haunts that haven't changed at all I'm spending my days looking around interesting areas, venues, seeing it all like new. If I stay for a while, settle into a home, I'll start making new friends, new lovers, for now I'm enjoying the thrill of the new city.

Every city is pretty much the same. Mostly drab suburbs, a central hub of real life. Melbourne too. Here there are a handful of long, inner city streets that are packed with bars, cafes, pubs, interesting shops, the buzz that makes city life exciting. I'm trawling these streets, Fitzroy, Brunswick, Chapel, Lygon, Swan, High, becoming friends with them again. Perhaps they are getting to know me again too?

I guess I'll find new people too. Right now I'm fine without people, I'll need them again soon. Until then it's just the city and me, two strangers getting to know each other, becoming friends.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Graham Greene On Understanding.

“Time has its revenges, but revenge seems so often sour. Wouldn’t we all do better not trying to understand, accepting the fact that no human being will ever understand another, not a wife with a husband, nor a parent a child? Perhaps that’s why men have invented God – a being capable of understanding. ”

Graham Greene, The Quiet American.

Delightfully cynical, yet beautiful.

Over the last few months I've made the mistake of trying to understand, instead of just letting it be. I'll never understand, there is no rule that says I should understand. If I'd let it be, not tried to understand, the outcome would have been the same, it just would have cost me less emotional energy and a lot less wasted time.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Word Doodling.

Gather around kids, I'm going to tell you about an ancient art form, one your parents knew, one that was popular way back in the days before the mobile telephone was even invented.

This art was called Doodling. It takes a bit of explaining. You see, back in the day, each home had only one telephone, yes one. It was generally placed in a democratic position in the house, in the hallway, somewhere that was considered a shared space, easily accessible to all. Anyone in the house could answer the phone, so a pad and a pen, ask your folks what a pad and a pen are, would be placed beside the phone, if the call was for someone who wasn't at home a message containing the details of the call would be written down, left for the intended recipient.

Sometimes, when a young man was talking with his girlfriend, quietly so the rest of the house couldn't listen in, the fellow might pick up the pen, draw meaningless abstract images, whatever came into his daydreamy head as he listened to the wonderful inanity of a teenage girl on the other end of the phone line. This was called Doodling.

On a long call an entire page of paper could be filled with nonsense swirls and love hearts and animal images, all subconsciously appearing, drawn by a distracted hand, no real intent, the silly markings of young, thoughtless love. It was a beautiful art form, one that has been lost to the modern world.

Occasionally a particularly romantic young man might decide to tear that page off the pad, fold it away, present it to his girlfriend, his love, an image of his heart and mind inspired by her. He might become a little more conscious of what he was doodling, just a little, knowing there might be an audience for it. He might draw a small, subtle message of love into the otherwise abstract form.

This is where I'd like my writing to end up, simple word doodling, the abstract, subconscious scrawl of a lover, just slightly aware that she might be reading, a small, subtle message of love on every page.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Warm Up, solo, improvised flute by Kent Parkstreet, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

Graham Greene On Despair.

“Despair is the price one pays for setting oneself an impossible aim. It is, one is told, the unforgivable sin, but it is a sin the corrupt or evil man never practices. He always has hope. He never reaches the freezing-point of knowing absolute failure. Only the man of goodwill carries always in his heart this capacity for damnation.”

Graham Greene.

They say a virtuous life is it's own reward. Bullshit it is. Just as no good deed goes unpunished, every virtuous life is an impossible aim and on the edge of damnation.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Cool Loving.

There is much misunderstanding about what cool is. Like pornography, cool is difficult to define, you know it when you see it. Much squareness gets dressed up as cool, it ends being heartlessness instead. Cool isn't afraid of enthusiasm for love, there is nothing cooler than love. Squares pretending to be cool believe that being condescending and aloof are evidence of cool. They aren't. They are sure signs of squareness.

“Absence of Quality is the essence of squareness."

Robert M. Pirsig.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Robert M. Pirsig On Keeping It Real.

“The result is rather typical of modern technology, an overall dullness of appearance so depressing that it must be overlaid with a veneer of "style" to make it acceptable. And that, to anyone who is sensitive to romantic Quality, just makes it all the worse. Now it's not just depressingly dull, it's also phony. Put the two together and you get a pretty accurate basic description of modern American technology: stylized cars and stylized outboard motors and stylized typewriters and stylized clothes. Stylized refrigerators filled with stylized food in stylized kitchens in stylized homes. Plastic stylized toys for stylized children, who at Christmas and birthdays are in style with their stylish parents. You have to be awfully stylish yourself not to get sick of it once in a while. It's the style that gets you; technological ugliness syruped over with romantic phoniness in an effort to produce beauty and profit by people who, though stylish, don't know where to start because no one has ever told them there's such a thing as Quality in this world and it's real, not style. Quality isn't something you lay on top of subjects and objects like tinsel on a Christmas tree. Real Quality must be the source of the subjects and objects, the cone from which the tree must start.”

Robert M. Pirsig.

I'm just loving this guy right now. He describes, exactly, why I feel alienated from my surroundings most of the time. Give me honest ugliness over this shit pretence of beauty any day.

In any big city one can find the real, it has to be sought out. I find myself returning to a handful of real places, a handful of real people, a handful of real musicians. The rest is like the fake shit you buy from the mail order advertisements in comic books, it's not even real shit.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Would You Like A Valium?

So within two hours of breaking up with my girlfriend a well meaning person offered me a Valium pill, a chemical solution to grief. Such foolishness.

The whole point of falling in love is that you feel alive. Placing a pillow over an emotion, smothering it before it lives, cheapens the whole affair. I want to feel it all. And like a soap opera character the emotion never really dies, it just plays dead, goes to live somewhere else for a few episodes, becomes angry and strong and full of malicious intent, finds ludicrous ways to mess with your life that you never imagined possible. Better to feel the grief, feel every moment, let the emotion die of natural causes, peacefully in your sleep one joyous night.

Our culture turns emotions into medical conditions, cures them with pills. Damn foolishness. Why be alive? Why fall in love and only feel half the emotions? Isn't the tightrope act without a net part of the thrill? So high, so far to fall, wow, I'm alive!

Keep your Valium. My grief isn't a condition, it is me, my life.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Robert M. Pirsig On The Cult Of Busy.

“We’re in such a hurry most of the time we never get much chance to talk. The result is a kind of endless day-to-day shallowness, a monotony that leaves a person wondering years later where all the time went and sorry that it’s all gone. ”

Robert M. Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry Into Values.

If I ever needed an excuse for laziness, this is it. Constant busy busy routine does lead to a tedious, shallow life. I'm sure of it. Make less money, get less done, live a bit.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

A Tip For Giving Up Smoking.

Anyone giving up the addictive drug of tobacco needs motivation, some reason to battle through the difficult moments when it is just easier to buy a pack and feel good again. Our brains suffer from the Stockholm syndrome, identify with their captors, tell us to have just one, just one.

I'm choosing to employ a mental trick, imagining something that gives me more pleasure than a cigarette could. I imagine that every time I don't smoke a cigarette a grey suited NAZI who works in a place called The Big Tobacco Building hurls himself out a window in a fit of despair about the stock price, plummets to his death. This always cheers me up. I'm gradually luring my fickle brain back to work for me, although I'll always have to keep one eye on it, keep giving it small happy hormone rewards to maintain it's loyalty.

Perhaps you'd like to imagine your lungs getting healthier, something positive like that. Good on you. I'll stick with malicious dreams of death until the addiction eases, then I'll try positive.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

I Dived In The Deep End And Paddled Like A Bastard.

Writing a personal blog I often fall to the temptation of shooting my mouth off when something good happens, what a great bloke I am. If anyone is to have faith that this blog is a truthful response to what I'm thinking and feeling I also have to report it when something bad happens.

Andrea and I broke up today.

A love I've never known has become a heartbreak I've never known. Tears are falling as I write this. It's alright, I can wipe them off my iPad screen with my t shirt, there is no ink to smudge, no permanent stain. The soft cotton t shirt of time will wipe away my sadness, no permanent damage has been done.

The important thing to keep in mind is that I lived. I took a chance, gambled on romance, given the circumstances it was always a long shot. If I'd stayed in Sydney, wondered what it might have been like, I would have regrets. I did consider not moving, somehow knew what the outcome would be. As it is I packed up my life, moved it to Melbourne, dived in the deep end and paddled like a bastard.

I lived. Tomorrow I will live again. Tonight I will cry.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Compton Mackenzie On Modern Women.

"Women do not find it difficult nowadays to behave like men, but they often find it extremely difficult to behave like gentlemen."

Compton Mackenzie.

Rights and responsibilities, such an old fashioned notion.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Gentleman Test.

Today I have to undertake a difficult duty. It's personal, I'll spare you the boring details, it involves letting go of a dream. For some reason I believe how I handle myself in these situations is important. It probably isn't.

It's one thing to possess manners, to display respect for others when everything is going well. Taking tea and scones at The Windsor anyone can play nice. Under pressure, when emotions are raw, when the result of your endeavours is failure, then it is difficult to be polite. It takes fortitude to be courteous when everything is going badly.

I guess this is the test of a gentleman, grace under pressure, staying cool, maintaining what he believes in despite the context.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Robert M. Pirsig On Life.

“One of the most moral acts is to create a space in which life can move forward.”

Robert M. Pirsig.

Not even going to try to comment on this one, just ponder it a while, it's too beautiful.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Holiness, Food, Sex.

Those who claim to be holy always make up stupid rules about food and sex. Have you noticed that? It's true, it's a universal law, the whackier the holy man the more stupid the rules about food and sex. Control a human's appetites and you control the human.

Food and sex are the last freedoms, the last simple joys, the last shared experiences that we can choose for ourselves. Both are an expression of being alive, as holy an undertaking as you can get. Eat what makes you happy and healthy, eat with those you like and love. Have sex any way that feels good for you, with people you like and love. Don't let anyone tell you what is right and wrong, holy or unholy.

When a man or woman claiming holiness shouts in your ear tell them your mind is too occupied with thoughts of eating donuts whilst receiving oral sex to listen to them right now.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Robert M. Pirsig On Delusion And Religion.

“When one person suffers from a delusion, it is called insanity. When many people suffer from a delusion it is called a Religion.”

Robert M. Pirsig, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance: An Inquiry Into Values.

This book changed me, continues to change me so many years after I read it. I'm not even sure it's a great work, for me it is because it changed me.

Any work that makes a young man take time to learn of himself, to question and seek value in his life, that work is good enough for me.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Pain And Acceptance.

“Like those in the valley behind us, most people stand in sight of the spiritual mountains all their lives and never enter them, being content to listen to others who have been there and thus avoid the hardships.”

Robert M. Pirsig.


For the princess in her palace a bee sting in the garden is the worst physical pain she will ever know. To her it seems enormous. A boxer accepts intense pain as part of his day at work. Both suffer when their true love leaves. Only the hermit is free from emotional pain, the more intensely we live the more pain we must accept.

Don't be afraid of emotional pain. When you walk along a beach in winter the wind blows straight through you, cold, harsh, uncaring. It feels fantastic, you never feel more alive. You feel sorry for the folks who stayed home by the fire.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Ben Harper On Doing Your Thing.

“If you're gonna live, then live it up. If you're gonna give, then give it up. If you're gonna walk the Earth, then walk it proud. If you're gonna say the word, you got to say it loud.”

Ben Harper.

Testify brother.

Thank you Mr. Harper, you've cheered me up on an unhappy day.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

I Need A Plan.

Today I ran into a ghost from my past, a guy who worked at a dodgy hotel I once lived in. He has moved from Sydney, ended up a few blocks from where I'm staying in Melbourne. I felt like my past was giving me a choice, forward or reverse?

He is a tall, distinguished, handsome fellow, classy eastern European accent, into opera and art and all that. What was he doing working at a skid row hotel? Pocketing cash from hookers for short stay rooms, enough to move here and buy a couple of houses in a posh part of town. What was I doing living in a skid row hotel? Saving the money that funded my last four trips to America. We were both out of place in that place, drawn to each other for moments of civilization amongst the junkies and lunatics.

We were both happy to see each other, will both be happy if it never happens again. We like and respect each other but don't need witnesses to our seedy pasts hanging around our new lives. There was a moment, we both thought about exchanging phone numbers, smiled, "see you around mate". Neither of us ashamed, nor overly proud.

I wish him well with his new life, grandchildren, a little retirement luxury on the back of girls on their backs. He has a plan, I have no plan. Right now, while I have no plan, the past is alluring. I can't buy a new life with ill gotten gains. I'll have to work and suffer for my new life.

I'm glad I ran into my old friend today. He reminded me that I need to make a plan.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Ron White On Judgement.

“I had the right to remain silent... but I didn't have the ability.”

Ron White.

Oh, the times I should have kept my big mouth shut. Us menfolk feel impotent if we can't do or say something to fix a problem. Sometimes remaining silent is the best way to fix a problem. The trick is to think of staying silent as doing something, I am actively staying silent, it is the best thing I can do. This is difficult to remember in the face of stupidity.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

A Man Wakes Up.

A man wakes up one morning, realises that all he perceives as reality is an illusion. Poor bastard. Feel sorry for him people, he has a long, circular road to travel before he wakes up one morning and realises it doesn't matter.

There are two elements in play, the man's perception of reality and his way of thinking about that perception.

Naturally he goes in search of what is real. He reads, he undertakes physical, emotional and mental exercises, he goes in search of a teacher. He learns that he must change his perception before he can see reality, unlearns all he knew about perception. He discovers new ways of perceiving, new realities.

He finds the new realities unsatisfying. He doesn't know why.

He tries to change the way he thinks about reality itself. The way of thinking that convinced him of his original reality also convinces his him of the new realities. Every book, every school, every teacher is espousing one reality or another.

One morning the man wakes up and realises that all the realities are illusion. Poor bastard. He is back where he started.

"What did I do all that for?"

The man gets up and goes to work.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Steve Irwin On Life.

“One crowded hour of glorious life is worth more than an age without a name.”

Steve Irwin.

This connection between living a full life and having a name, an identity, is interesting. Authenticity and identity seem to be essential to living as we desire to.

Who are you?

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

What Is Compassion?

Compassion is an action, not a thought. It isn't something one talks about, it is something one does. Compassion is the act of detecting pain and trying to relieve it.

Compassion doesn't exist in isolation. Without the sensitivity to feel someone else's pain, or the effort to ask, compassion can't exist. We all feel and act for those we know and love, compassion for those we don't know is much more difficult. Compassion for those we don't like is the most difficult.

There is no rule that states that compassion is required. There is no rule that says it must be limitless, feeling and acting for family and friends is plenty for most. Those who tell us that we should be compassionate to all rarely are themselves, your own heart will tell you what is right for you.

The word compassion has been monopolised by those who enjoy telling us how to live. It has been corrupted, turned into some mystical power that only the enlightened few fully understand. Most of us possess the ability to care for others, do what we can with what we've got. The further the word becomes removed from the common language the more we feel we are failing. We should take the word back, understand it for the common element of humanity it is.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Steve Irwin On Crocodiles And Humans.

“Crocodiles are easy. They try to kill and eat you. People are harder. Sometimes they pretend to be your friend first.”

Steve Irwin.

On Australia Day, a quotation from quite possibly the most famous Australian ever. This simple, charming, old fashioned Australian attitude is what made him famous, not just his wildlife antics. I must say that I agree, I prefer an out and out bastard who doesn't pretend, whenever I see too many teeth too often I will keep Mr. Irwin's advice in mind.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Wandering Australia Day Thoughts In St. Kilda.

It is Australia Day. We are simple folk, a day for Australia is titled just that. Most people really don't know what they are celebrating, the first day of European settlement, but they will drink a lot and say how proud they are, and good on them. A no fuss, no bullshit approach to life made this country great, there should be more of it.

A public holiday, not much to do unless pop music, fireworks and drinking are your thing. For most people they are their thing, I'm settling into an outside seat at Leo's Spaghetti Bar with an Australian flag t shirt on my back, watching the passing parade of Australians who aren't quite sure what to do with themselves.

A couple on the tram, standing room only, one seat, she sits in his lap. The tram stops and starts, he holds her, gently, firmly, lovingly, perfectly. She never wants this tram ride to end.

A bloke pushing a pram built for twins, just one baby in the left hand seat, the right seat worryingly empty. Does he know? Should I say something? Can a man forget he has twins? I'm wondering if he shares custody with his ex wife, every week they hand over, one twin for the other? This week he has the one who sits in the left seat. He is gone, I'll never know. Perhaps I should have said something?

I've been frequenting the pharmacy a couple of doors down for twenty five years, on and off. Solly, the pharmacist, has appeared to be a man in his mid forties the entire time. Whatever pills he is taking they are working. It's like seeing a fat cook in the kitchen, a pharmacist who never ages fills me with confidence in his work.

The street is full of folks who rarely come to St. Kilda. They are keeping an eye out for prostitutes. Their lives are so protected they have no idea the working girls don't hang around the main street. Today the working girls are picking up free drinks and unattended wallets in the pubs, keeping an eye out for a cashed up schmuck who is really worth rolling. Hookers don't take public holidays, for them it is harvest time.

Leo's is full, I'm the only one sitting alone. I wonder how this came to be? All my friends are in other parts of Australia. Australians file by, strangers all, perhaps we are connected by our nationality, perhaps we aren't?

A gentleman with a newspaper has joined my table. We smile and smoke in silent company.

Happy Australia Day.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Lewis Black On Being A Writer.

“All you had to say was, 'I am a writer,' and you became one. You didn't even have to write anything. You could just sit in a coffee shop with a notebook and stare into space, with a slightly bemused look on your face, judging the weight of the world with a jaundiced eye. As you can see, you can be completely full of shit and still be a writer...I also thought it was going to be a great way to meet girls, but it wasn't--probably because as I was staring into space, I no doubt looked mildly retarded. You see, I wanted to write plays, which in retrospect is a lot harder than learning Mandarin, I think. How I ended up in this delusional state shall be saved for another time.”

Lewis Black, Nothing's Sacred.

Mr. Black just ruined my game plan. This is what I've been doing for two years now.

I must disagree with one thing, it is a great way to meet girls. Who knew bloggers get groupies? I might sit around cafes pretending to be a writer for a little longer.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Confess , Confess, Confess.

I reckon it started with cabaret performers and singer songwriters telling personal stories to create an atmosphere around a song, a stage trick designed to place songs in a context, give them more emotional impact. Now that every plonker on the street and on Facebook views their own life as performance art the habit of spewing out the most personal stories without provocation has become standard procedure.

The entire world is a confessional.

Performers employ personal stories, some true, some not, for a reason. These stories are examples, analogies, parables, they make a point, vulnerability is the vehicle. Lovers do the same thing. I dare say I'm personally acquainted with a blogger who often employs this device. The personal information that is constantly gushed to strangers on social media sites serves no purpose. It makes the teller feel important, for a few minutes, then they need to say something else.

It's a social phenomena as well as a social media one, strangers telling all, welcome or not. It couldn't be more boring. The confession fad is like two nightclub girls kissing to gain a reaction, to shock, there is no desire to communicate. A billion boys crying wolf, when someone has a real problem we've all ceased listening.

People who treat their entire lives as one long therapy session are destined to always be emotionally unwell. They will never resolve anything, the fun is in the confession, not in resolution.

Performers, writers, will have to learn a new trick. Personal stories, vulnerability, are no longer interesting.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Lewis Black On Individuality.

"Each of us is full of shit in our own special way. We are all shitty little snowflakes dancing in the universe."     

Lewis Black, Oh Me Of Little Faith.



I don't know where to start with Lewis Black, it seems every word he writes or speaks is quotable. There will be much more to come from him.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Jackson Pollock On Modern Art.

“The strangeness will wear off and I think we will discover the deeper meanings in modern art.”

Jackson Pollock.

I don't believe the strangeness bothers many people.

Very few painters express any deeper meaning than most folks do in their daily lives. The art business employs clever words to make us believe painters are expressing something deep, a triumph of advertising over content. The few who have something to say, who aren't just into the sound of their own voice, find their meaning is understood by those who care to look for it. Artists aren't that much smarter than us. If they speak to us we understand them, strange or not.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

She Is The Future Of Romance.

So it seems the groom's family were going to pay for the wedding, but now they can't. She is beside me on the tram, undertaking a business negotiation with her father, organising a transaction. Apparently it can't wait to find a quiet place to talk with her father, beside me on the tram it has to be.

The language is all business, what her and her partner are hoping to put in place, what they need settled before they can move forward. The most romantic day of her life is all business. Imagine what her sex life is like? The poor bastard she is marrying probably has to maintain an accurate data base of orgasms, quantity and quality, ensure that both partners are receiving their share.

I'm an optimist. This chick is always too busy or too tired for sex.

I'm beginning to hate her.

She is still speaking loudly and confidently into her telephone when I step off the tram. This will be a long negotiation. The Cuban Missile Crisis was less complex, less important. I'm sad that I'm not astounded by her self obsession, her reduction of everything beautiful to a deal. A fully paid up member of the Cult Of Busy she won't slow down until even the possibility of a daydream has been crushed.

She is the future of romance.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Doubt.

We all suffer from doubt. If you don't suffer from doubt go and seek professional help, you are a psychopath. All emotionally healthy people suffer doubt.

The moment a firm decision is made doubt begins. Have I done the right thing? Have I? Until we learn to predict the future, be certain of the results of our decisions, doubt will always appear after a decision. All we can do is learn how to deal with it.

I'm up to my third paragraph without presenting any method for dealing with doubt, obviously I don't know. My usual method is to make a decision so emphatically, sometimes so rudely, that going back to repair it if it's wrong is not an option. Burn the fields behind me, burn the bridges too. I'm sure there must be a better way.

Acceptance is a psychobabble buzzword, I hate using it. Acceptance. There, I did it again. Accepting that we can't predict the future, have no choice but to make decisions on the basis of the past, that every decision has an unknown life of it's own, accepting all this is probably the way to experience doubt without suffering for it. Us menfolk who enjoy controlling things find this acceptance difficult, we want to pull the strings on the kite, not let it fly free. We also tend to forget that other people are making decisions around us, that we aren't responsible for everything.

All we can do is trust instinct, trust experience, trust that a bad decision won't be as bad as we think it will. Doubt will always be there. Accept it. Or set fire to stuff as you leave.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Woody Allen On Sex.

“My brain? That's my second favorite organ.”

Woody Allen.

Let us be honest, most sex is the same stuff repeated with variations, right? If imagination lies in the brain, and I'm pretty sure it does, then the brain is the real sex organ.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Measured Anger.

Emotions come in different sizes. Even when love fails to be infinite it is still pretty enormous. Jealousy is the size of a flea, just as capable of keeping you up all night. These emotions make us bigger or smaller according to their size.

Anger is the one emotion that is difficult to place a size on.

"You burned our village and raped our women, in return we are going to kill you" anger is massive, all consuming. So it should be. Anger this size becomes power, it is the unholy threat that maintains civilization.

"You done me wrong" anger is much smaller. It's a tiny, wounded bird puffing up it's feathers, trying to look menacing. It is natural to feel this emotion, when we dwell on it we diminish ourselves. There is simple action that can be taken to avoid someone doing you wrong, just sever them from your life, let them take their rancid behaviour with them. Seeing it as bigger than it is gives it power over you, rather than giving you power.

Folks inform me that anger must be expressed. Once expressed, by slaughtering your enemy or by saying don't treat me that way, then it can be left behind, another, more enjoyable emotion can take it's place. The expression should fit the size of the anger.

Like most people, when I try to express anger it often comes out wrong, in the forms of accusation, judgement, resentment. By accurately assessing the size of my anger I will be much better equipped to express it.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Woody Allen On Life.

“We're all faced throughout our lives with agonizing decisions, moral choices. Some are on a grand scale, most of these choices are on lesser points. But we define ourselves by the choices we have made. We are, in fact, the sum total of our choices. Events unfold so unpredictably, so unfairly, Human happiness does not seem to be included in the design of creation. it is only we, with our capacity to love that give meaning to the indifferent universe. And yet, most human beings seem to have the ability to keep trying and even try to find joy from simple things, like their family, their work, and from the hope that future generations might understand more”

Woody Allen.

The sum total of my choices? Sadly I have to agree. This system makes me a Cubist work, all over the shop, but at least I'm art.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Work. Always The Work.

The work. Always the work.

There is the day to day hamster wheel of earning and spending, that's not the work. The work is what we create, what we construct out of love and air, what we send out into the world to live or die in it's own right. Call it art, call it what you will, those who do it call it the work.

The work. Always the work.

Distractions from the work come and go. The only true love is the love that enhances the work. We'd rather be alone than have to choose between the lover and the work. The work is romance enough, certainly more romantic than a modern woman. The work can be adapted to fit the lover, but the work must go on.

The work. Always the work.

When the work is difficult we get excited, not discouraged. When the work is flowing the idea of time disappears. The joy of complete work is beyond joy, beyond any other feeling.

The work. Always the work.

I'm going back to work, to the work. The work is all there is.

The work. Always the work.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Sir Alex Ferguson On Respect.

“He was certainly full of it, calling me Boss and Big Man when we had our post-match drink after the first leg. But it would help if his greetings were accompanied by a decent glass of wine. What he gave me was paint-stripper.” (on Jose Mourinho)

Sir Alex Ferguson.

Showing respect is more than words.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

What They Were Really Saying.

We talk of an Australian indigenous culture, there were thousands of cultures, hundreds of languages that we know of. Many place names here come from these languages, the closest most of us come to knowing the culture of the original inhabitants is a one word name of a place, our interpretation of what it means.

I was raised in an area of Melbourne named Booroondara. At primary school I was told it meant "shady place". This is unlikely to be true. Thick bushland filled thousands of square kilometres around this place before Europeans cut the trees down. There was nothing but trees, nothing but shady places. It is much more likely that booroondara means "fuck off whitey".

Most of the places we interpreted as meaning "hunting ground" and "meeting place" probably had similar derivations. It is quite likely that the original Australians were saying "please stop talking so much" and "god? where?" most of the time. Some of the longer names may have meant "you can stay a while, just leave the place as you found it" and "your clothes are funny, aren't you hot?".

Our ignorance of what indigenous Australians were trying to tell us is a national shame. I can joke about it, the unwitnessed death of cultures and languages isn't funny. British settlers collected samples of everything except the cultures that could have taught us how to live on this harsh continent.

I'm no hand wringer, denying that strong cultures have always trampled weaker ones. The strong and smart cultures took the time to learn from the previous one, if only to make themselves stronger. We know now, doing what we can to save what we can. We'll never know what we missed.

Only now have we realised that the original people of this country are people like us. They want their family safe, a full belly, a dry bed. We were speaking the same language all along.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

A Woman Of Few Words.

For the girl in the large, clumsy electric wheelchair talking requires genuine effort. From the conversation I pick up that she is learning to speak again. She appears to possess a quirky sense of humour, and dare I say a dirty one, she is thrilled by the strength of her rehabilitation nurse and how he manhandles her. Every time she leans forward and mumbles a few words her friend laughs loudly and happily. They are clearly real friends.

Her friend is quite capable of talking for two people, and she's proving it. I'm wondering how she knows what to talk about? It can't be easy. Then I notice a forefinger hovering above the back of her hand, one tap for yes, two for no, possibly the other way around. And when the girl in the wheelchair is smiling her finger also rests on her friend's hand, a joyous pressure. This silent communication amongst the chatter is so beautiful I might cry.

A bully idiot of a man pushes past the wheelchair, bumps my new friend's arm, complains about her being in the way. I'm furious. The girl in the wheelchair musters her strength to utter one word.

"Meathead."

The entire tram full of people smile in agreement, I realise I don't have to protect this girl.

An insult from someone who can't afford to waste words carries much more weight than my loud mouth ever could.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

A Few Days Off.

I'm taking a few days off, getting my head together, becoming a professional musician again.

Thanks again to all who are so supportive of this blog, it is appreciated.

Back soon, and that's a threat.

Parkstreet.

Salty Like A Closed Eyes Kiss.

The on shore breeze blows my hair in my face. I don't need to see where I am, I can taste it, salty on my lips like a closed eyes kiss. The wind is blowing the cigarette smoke from my hair and my old denim jacket, dry cleaning my soul. I'm a kite without a string, my feet only look like they are touching the ground as I walk Melbourne's bay.

Wherever I end up living it will be beside a beach, my species has evolved to breathe salt air.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Stanley Kubrick On Education.

“I think the big mistake in schools is trying to teach children anything, and by using fear as the basic motivation. Fear of getting failing grades, fear of not staying with your class, etc. Interest can produce learning on a scale compared to fear as a nuclear explosion to a firecracker.”

Stanley Kubrick.

It's easy to forget that mass education is a relatively new idea. It isn't necessarily a good idea, it's better than the option of no education for working people that preceded it. Mass production requires simple patterns. If we want each child to be free to follow their passions it will cost us financially. I wonder what we think it is worth?

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Ready, Fire, Aim.

Today I heard a political commentator describe one candidate as "ready, aim, aim, fire", his opponent as "ready, fire, aim". New age types would have us believe that the act of aiming is detrimental to action, that the process should be "fire, ready or not". The results of this way of thinking are apparent, we are surrounded by social and financial crisis caused by thoughtless new age action.

That thinking is out of fashion astounds me. We are like the third generation of a wealthy family, blowing the fortune that was created for us, ungrateful children. We grew from stone age thugs to philosophers and artists in a remarkably short time, built remarkable cultures with education, medicine, sanitation, pensions. Now we are brainlessly pissing it up against the wall.

Any politician who promises to balance money in with money out is seen as stiff, lacking inspiration. It's a Star Trek story line, a planet without grown ups, idiot children in charge. Of course it is the child in us that plays and creates, balanced with our inner adult great things can happen. We can be sure that Captain Kirk won't land and save us, we have to rediscover this balance for ourselves.

Being an adult requires thought, the judgement to pick targets then aim and fire accurately. In our culture it is acceptable to blast away randomly, then speak brilliantly about lessons learned, apologise, pretend Dolly did it. I prefer the old fashioned thoughtful approach.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Stanley Kubrick On Meaning.

“The very meaninglessness of life forces man to create his own meaning. Children, of course, begin life with an untarnished sense of wonder, a capacity to experience total joy at something as simple as the greenness of a leaf; but as they grow older, the awareness of death and decay begins to impinge on their consciousness and subtly erode their joie de vivre, their idealism – and their assumption of immortality. As a child matures, he sees death and pain everywhere about him, and begins to lose faith in the ultimate goodness of man. But, if he’s reasonably strong – and lucky – he can emerge from this twilight of the soul into a rebirth of life’s elan. Both because of and in spite of his awareness of the meaninglessness of life, he can forge a fresh sense of purpose and affirmation. He may not recapture the same pure sense of wonder he was born with, but he can shape something far more enduring and sustaining. The most terrifying fact about the universe is not that it is hostile but that it is indifferent; but if we can come to terms with this indifference and accept the challenges of life within the boundaries of death – however mutable man may be able to make them – our existence as a species can have genuine meaning and fulfillment. However vast the darkness, we must supply our own light.”

Stanley Kubrick.

This guy didn't make brilliant films by accident.

I usually add my two cents worth to these quotes, not today, he said it all.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

My Reincarnation.

For me the reincarnation myth is just a philosophy teaching method that was taken too literally and got out of hand. Every day is a new day, a new life. The life you wake up to is the result of all your words and actions of your previous days, previous lives. The joy of this idea is the freedom of a new life, the chance to start again each day, improve future lives with more authentic words and actions in this life, this day.

Last night I realised that I had ruined an opportunity, lost something valuable by my own words and actions. I played my hand poorly, it happens. I know I couldn't have played it differently, my playing partner sent confusing signals, my mistakes became apparent after the fact. Understanding this I was faced with the choice of dwelling on the situation for another day or allowing it to die with the death of the day, wake up to a new life where this mistake was a past life. I enjoyed a peaceful death, slept properly for the first time in months, woke to a new life.

Nothing has changed, I'm at the point that my past words and actions brought me to, by seeing today as a new life I am free to go out into the world and start again. Past lives don't disappear, a new life well lived validates those past lives.

Religious types take a sweet little analogy, take it perversely literally, turn it into a wild goose trip out. Letting past lives die, waking to a new life, living now, not so complicated.

I feel better for it.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

William Wordsworth On Self Knowledge.

“Habit rules the unreflecting herd. ”

William Wordsworth.

Harsh, but fair.

When you ask yourself why you are doing something, and the answer is because you always do it, because everyone else does it, then Jack you dead.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Recording Studio Of Life.

The recording studio is a very strange place. It is the one place on earth that a professional musician can stop and do it again. It is also one of the few places where the cliche that time equals money is actually true.

Knowing that what you are playing will remain forever changes everything. It's a very different pressure to playing live. Knowing that going over time will cost your rent money is another pressure. Forgetting all that and playing from the heart is a skill that comes with experience.

Living in the moment, the now, ignoring the future and money, is a skill worth learning. Whether I make a good recording or not doesn't matter so much. Living like I intend to nail every take first time is something I'm just becoming experienced enough to know.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Blues, Not Art. First single from Blute - Kent Parkstreet, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

Joy Sandwich.

Today a beautiful young waitress with a winning smile brought me exactly the sandwich I wanted even though it wasn't on the menu. The coffee was excellent. The sun was shining. No one complained about me enjoying a cigarette with my second coffee. A small child laughed at my hair and sunglasses, then waved goodbye earnestly. While I was playing on my computer I rediscovered the work of William Wordsworth.

Being easily pleased by simple things is a blessing.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

William Wordsworth On Life.

“With an eye made quiet by the power of harmony, and the deep power of joy, we see into the life of things.”

William Wordsworth.

That Wordsworth dude could write a bit.

Finding harmony with the real world, expressing joy, seems a reasonable way to relate to all around. The most esoteric philosophies often come back to this. Why don't they just land it smoothly like Mr. Wordsworth?

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Kitten Herding.

The last couple of months I've felt like I've been herding kittens. They were so cute I couldn't get cranky when they didn't go in the direction I wanted. That's just how kittens are. If a kitten could give a straight answer to a straight question they would lose much of their charm.

At some stage a kitten becomes a cat, human and feline get to know each other, straight answers aren't required as both know each other's behaviour. The human can always see the kitten in the cat, I guess the kitten feels the security of knowing the human protected it before it could take care of itself.

So a relationship develops. I wonder if it's the same for two humans? Is it normal for the male to be constantly bewildered by a woman at first? Is it normal for him to try to control the situation? Does the true test of a relationship come down to a man being patient enough to hang in until the unruly kitten becomes a cat, until genuine communication begins?

Obviously I don't know.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Blues, Not Art. Single from Blute - Kent Parkstreet, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

William S. Burroughs On Love.

“Love is a haunting melody that I have never mastered, and I fear I never will.”

William S. Burroughs.

I hear ya' brother.

Life is short, if I haven't learned that tune by now chances are I never will.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com
http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/blutekentparkstreet

Emotional Eating.

Steak Frites, New York Cut and Fries, Porterhouse and Chips, in the three countries I've spent some time in the bar and cafe staple has been the same.

In France you'll receive the salad first, in America you'll receive a list of dressings so long that you'll have forgotten the first two by the time the waitress gets to the last. What the hell is Ranch anyway? In Australia you take the salad as it comes.

Tonight I needed comfort food, an ally, an old friend who has always been there for me. Emotional eating has a bad reputation, the psychobabblists will tell you it's a bad thing. Ask an Italian to separate emotion and food, see how far you get before he or she starts laughing at you. When a man's gut, in every sense of the word, tells him he needs a steak that man best get himself to a restaurant and order one. Denying such a primal urge can lead to impotency you know. It really can.

Wherever I go in this world I know I can find a satisfying combination of grilled meat and fried potato, and that other staple, bread, ham and cheese. Every traveller must ensure his pocket contains enough local currency to obtain at least one if not both of these meals when required. There are always lonely moments when you are away from loved ones, a few bucks to purchase succour in your hour of need is just a sensible precaution.

My steak and chips tonight cheered me up no end after an emotionally fraught day. Self love in a polite company kind of way. I ate alone, cleared my mind, thought of nothing but char grilled gorgeousness. I walked away feeling a stronger man than when I sat down.

Falling back on food won't solve any problems. I do like knowing that wherever I go I can make any problem seem smaller by ordering Steak Frites, Steak and Fries, Steak and Chips.

Leo's Spaghetti Bar, Fitzroy St. St. Kilda, Melbourne Australia.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/blutekentparkstreet

Henry Lawson On Beer.

“Beer makes you feel the way you ought to feel without beer”

Henry Lawson.

This has been said many ways. I like Mr. Lawson's ability to say it succinctly.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Henry Lawson On Wandering.

“Oh, my ways are strange ways and new ways and old ways, And deep ways and steep ways and high ways and low, I'm at home and at ease on a track that I know not, And restless and lost on a road that I know.”

Henry Lawson.

The spirit of the Australian wanderer.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Waltzing Matilda.

In the post gold rush depression of 1890's Australia some free men chose to live on the road rather than accept charity, live in a slum. It was an Australian tradition, to pack meagre belongings into a rolled sheet of canvass, a swag, walk from town to town looking for work, sleeping rough, living off the land when required. It was a tough life, there were no women on the road, swagmen couldn't afford prostitutes, they named their swags by women's names, this was a time when poetry and humour was plentiful in Australia. Matilda became the popular slang, to go waltzing Matilda was to choose this life.

At the same time the state was trying to develop the inland, they handed vast tracts of land to wealthy, educated individuals, and to friends and family. It was a system of sorts, some trust fund families are still living off the rewards. Accident of birth decided if you were knocking on the back door seeking work or too fat and happy to fit through the front door.

For two years I played the song Waltzing Matilda every day, for Chinese tourists on a Sydney Harbour lunch cruise. I had plenty of time to think about the song, what it meant. So an itinerant labourer steals a lamb, gets caught, kills himself rather than go to prison, why does this song appeal so much? It was only when I played it as a lament in America that I felt it for the first time, the cry for freedom, the choice of death over slavery.

The crux of the song is the last verse. His ghost may be heard, As you pass by that billabong, Singing who'll come a'waltzing Matilda with me? It's not a call to arms, the loner swagman would never consider asking anyone else to fight his battles. It is a call from the grave, to all Australians, to live free at any price. Die free rather than live in prison.

You've all seen young Australians expressing this spirit, backpacking around the world. Unfortunately most come home and forget. Years later they look at photographs and wonder what happened.

The modern swagman can pack a saxophone and an iPad, perhaps it is time to go waltzing Matilda?

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

William S. Burroughs On Self Knowledge.

“Thou shalt not be such a shit, you don't know you are one.”

William S. Burroughs.

Classic.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Recognition.

So I had a chat on the phone with a mate in Sydney today. We aren't best mates, don't really know each other so well, but we recognize each other. Recognition of a fellow traveller is something only travellers know.

We are men, so we talked about our work. We both create stuff for a living, in different fields but it is still common ground. We didn't bitch about the boss, we both work for ourselves, the talk of work was really just a vehicle, a method to understand how the other was travelling. For us everything else comes and goes, the work is the one constant. The work is always there for us, when women, money, even friends elude us.

It wasn't a long chat, a touching of bases, a recognition. As I hung up the phone I felt connected again, after feeling lost for weeks. All I needed was a fellow traveller to recognize me.

http://www.amazon.com/Cocktail-Nation-the-Interviews-ebook/dp/B0062Z15TM/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1320659059&sr=8-2#_

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

John Keats On Art And Intensity.

“The excellence of every Art is its intensity.”

John Keats, Complete Poems and Selected Letters.

A man can lie on, and under a bed of nails, great weight can be placed on the apparent torture device without wounding the man because the pressure is evenly dispersed to every point, dividing the force, rendering it harmless. Place the same pressure upon a single nail and it will pierce the man, go straight through him.

Intensity, the ability to focus energy on a single sharpened point, is essential to creating artistic impact. In a culture grown soft we are a little afraid of intensity, and fair enough, it can be shocking. Without this intense focus our species would still be running away from any beast with teeth or claws, instead of eating them. Without intensity we wouldn't have Miles Davis or John Coltrane, or pyramids or ocean liners or the Hubble telescope or . . .

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Reality Connection.

Every human lives within their own reality. We like to believe our realities are shared. They aren't.

Occasionally, by rubbing against each other gently until their abrasions become tongue in groove, or by force of collision, two realities become connected, begin to slowly bleed into one another. These are the rare, beautiful connections we need to nurture and cherish.

Mostly our individual realities just bounce off each other. It feels a little like a connection, for a while.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

William S. Burroughs On Love And Pain.

“There is no intensity of love or feeling that does not involve the risk of crippling hurt. It is a duty to take this risk, to love and feel without defense or reserve.”

William S. Burroughs.

Bold words. I wonder how truly he lived this?

Intensity is an interesting word. The Eastern, Asian philosophy fad has made it an in fashionable word. Serenity is nothing without intensity.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Opening Passage.

So last night I found the opening passage for my novel, like Captain James Cook finding the entrance to Sydney Harbour, I was quite pleased. I've found a way to set up my premise in a few paragraphs, it should be plain sailing from here, shouldn't it?

Cook was a brilliant man, he probably guessed some of the future for the harbour he charted, I'm sure he couldn't have foreseen all the details. This is part of the fun of writing a story, or living one, you just can't know what will happen in the middle, how it will end. Knowing myself, what interests me, I can predict a path for my story. In real life knowing yourself and what you love is also a sound guide.

The actual stuff that happens doesn't matter so much. Cook set off fearlessly, wrote his own story. He took the chance that he would find something interesting on the unknown side of the world. If he'd let doubt be his guide he would have gone nowhere, remained a farm hand, talked about what if and I coulda'.

If you go poking around uncharted coastlines the chances are you'll find something interesting.

My voyage began when I started writing this blog every day. I've been learning, gathering knowledge, ideas, experience, confidence. Unlike Cook I haven't had to surround myself with ill educated sailors and battle the elements, although it is hot and windy at this outdoor cafe, and the folks at the table next to mine are a little annoying. I know myself well enough to know I like a small boat that I can sail on my own, that my strength is in imagination, not physical feats of endurance.

So for the next few months I will be discovering all that surrounds my opening passage, where it leads, who lives there, what they want to tell the world. This blog that got me started will continue, a fresh water spring of ideas, my daily workout, but it may come and go a little as I dive deeper into a long story, a work. We'll see.

I'm excited. Two years of work here is beginning to pay off. I've found the opening to a harbour, it's time to go exploring and come back with a story.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

John Keats On Depression.

“I am in that temper that if I were under water I would scarcely kick to come to the top.”

John Keats.

As far as I can tell this is an excellent one sentence description of depression. It's not wanting to die, it is not caring if you do or don't.

This isn't the most poetic line from Mr. Keats, but he has employed his skills to describe a complex problem succinctly. I'll add something more lovely another time.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

You Will Return.

It's like walking past your favourite restaurant without a penny in your pocket, the smell hits you, you can remember that flavour, you can actually taste it, but you can't go in and order a table full of it. You know that one day you'll have a pocketful, you'll saunter in and order up a perfect storm of deliciousness. You are nervous the chef will move on before your fortunes change, that you'll never know that flavour, that texture again, except for in your memory.

You convince yourself it was never that good anyway, lower expectations to minimize disappointment. You know it was that good.

You also know that your groove, your nerve, your mojo will return. You were that good and will be again. Better. The guy who creates the magic, the maker of music, the dreamer of dreams, will always be there, so don't rush. When you are ready he will welcome you through the door, shake your hand, usher you to your favourite table. There you will rediscover your art, satisfy what must be satisfied.

Smile at the people in the window, keep walking. The flavour is in you, always will be. You will return.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Ezra Pound On Paying The Piper.

“The only thing one can give an artist is leisure in which to work. To give an artist leisure is actually to take part in his creation.”

Ezra Pound.

Yeah, so give me money!

Time to daydream is the scarcest commodity in our culture. A small amount of money buys a lot of it, artists come cheap, it is only precious because it is scarce.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Let Go, Let Go!

It's one of the few truly beautiful clichés, a father pushing his son on his first bike, running clumsily alongside until the boy cries, "let go, let go!". From that moment the relationship is changed, father and little man. This is the father's job, to run clumsily alongside until the son can do it for himself.

Every man has something of the father in him, if he is any sort of man. Part of our duty to our culture is to help others up, children, the frail, the temporarily lost. A father doesn't ask for gratitude or reward, it's just what he does. He is tall, he can see far enough to know other returns.

I once let a girlfriend go, she needed to prove she could ride on her own for a while. No one said being a father is easy. Other men have picked me up, kicked me up the arse, given me a push to get going.

Our culture is full of little boys right now, afraid to ride on their own. They want Dad to keep pushing them their whole lives. It's an appalling state of affairs, a soft, weak culture. When boys rule a society that society turns to shit. Check out the Middle East, men playing boys games with big guns, the society has turned to shit, won't improve until some men act like fathers, lift, carry the society, set it on it's feet. Big business is run by psychopath boys, only interested in what's in it for them. Our politicians? Show me a father figure, just one.

Men aren't the only ones to blame for the lack of masculine influence on the culture. We are largely considered ballast by our women, superfluous to requirements. We are witnessing the results of a man free culture, and it's only just begun. When it is made clear that masculinity isn't welcome enough times men tend to retire.

Men have always lead by example. The few men left have a choice, to retire or to act like men, help up the next generation. We should keep in mind the beautiful cliche of a father pushing his son on his first bike, the pride in hearing those words, "let go, let go!".

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

William Carlos Williams On Age.

“It is not fair to be old, to put on a brown sweater.”

William Carlos Williams.

Clothes, the man, it's true you know. While Levi's jeans don't make me look foolish I'll keep wearing them, reach for brown sweaters, comfort clothes, when I feel that old.

I love poets like Mr. Williams, who can choose such simple images for us, a brown sweater, we all know exactly what he means.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

People In Gingerbread Houses.

You can't con an honest man. The person being conned has to at least lie to themselves if they are to be taken in.

Hansel and Gretel fell for the old gingerbread house trick. They knew it was too good to be true, they deluded themselves that free candy for life was what they deserved. They deserved to be eaten by a witch, the sort of greed that leads to self delusion will always end badly.

Hansel and Gretel were children, they can be forgiven. The times I've fallen for a con I've seen a gingerbread house and known better, entered anyway. In my case the gingerbread houses are always beautiful women. I'm old enough to know better, to stop deluding myself that something too good to be true could be true.

It only makes sense to consider the motive of someone offering a great deal. Everyone has a motive, if they know it or not. If that motive seems reasonable, if the deal seems fair to both parties, not a silly gingerbread house, then you have to trust at some point. In my case, does that declaration of undying love seem hasty, based on nothing? I have to ask myself what's really going on? If it's too good to be true there is a con in play, if she knows it or not.

The only way to avoid being conned is to be honest with yourself. In the face of flattery, promises, we all lose our perspective sometimes. The great cons offer wealth, status, sex, all the things us humans are suckers for. All we can hope for is enough self honesty to avoid the big cons, take the ones we fall for on the chin.

Falling for a con doesn't mean being eaten by a witch, it means losing your self respect. A little self honesty is a cheap insurance policy.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Billy Connolly On Love And Sex.

“The human race has been set up. Someone, somewhere, is playing a practical joke on us. Apparently, women need to feel loved to have sex. Men need to have sex to feel loved. How do we ever get started?”
 
Billy Connolly.

We get started by feeling from the point of view of the other person.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Wearing Colours On Your Sleeve.

There is nothing doing at Baker Street. Watson is bored, throws his newspaper down, falls into what he describes as a "brown study". Not a blue funk, a grey gloom, not black despair, a brown study. He is staring at a wall, allowing his thoughts to drift. Gorgeous.

I'm wondering what other colours do?

I'm pretty sure laughter is the pale green of sunlight through the canopy of a rain forest. The pale blue of a sunset sky is anticipation. Purple is love. Arrogance is that sickly washed out mauve colour that makes the wearer look pathetic. Pain is the fierce scarlet you see with your eyes closed to a bright light.

As a child of the 1970's burnt orange is home, but I guess I'm seeking more universal feelings and colours. Loneliness is black, a starless night sky, but black is also jazz, even when a white guy is playing it. Joy is pink, I don't know why.

I'd love to hear some of your ideas on matching colours with feelings.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Billy Connolly On Farts.

“A fart is just your arse applauding.”

Billy Connolly.

This blog has been awfully serious recently. Thank you Mr. Connolly.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Love And Surf Swimming.

As a teenager I used to swim out from the beach, swim through the breakers, swim as hard and fast as I could, swim until I was so exhausted I couldn't swim any further.

Of course I could swim further, I'd swim back to the beach, I guess I always turned around at the point that I knew I could swim back. I guess this is the test of true love. Have you swum the surf as hard and fast as you can, or are you leaving a little in reserve, enough to ensure you don't get hurt?

Don't be embarrassed, ensuring you don't get lost at sea is your responsibility to yourself. Swim too hard and fast and you might never come back.

Make sure you have enough left to swim back to the beach, there are plenty of pretty girls on the beach, one of them will notice how far you were willing to swim.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Linus And Charlie Brown On Education.

“Linus: What's wrong, Charlie Brown?
Charlie Brown: I just got terrible news. The teacher says we're going on a field trip to an art museum; and I have to get an A on my report or I'll fail the whole course. Why do we have to have all this pressure about grades, Linus?
Linus: Well, I think that the purpose of going to school is to get good grades so then you can go on to high school; and the purpose is to study hard so you can get good grades so you can go to college; and the purpose of going to college is so you can get good grades so you can go on to graduate school; and the purpose of that is to work hard and get good grades so we can get a job and be successful so that we can get married and have kids so we can send them to grammar school to get good grades so they can go to high school to get good grades so they can go to college and work hard...
Charlie Brown: Good grief!”

Charles M. Schulz.

Good grief indeed.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Lost In The Woods.

That moment when you realize she doesn't love you. Not like you love her anyway. Suddenly lonely, sad, astonished. How can this be? Even worse when you believe she does love you, she just can't express it, live it, be it. How can this be? Just a few hours ago everything made sense, now all is heartbreakingly incomprehensible. How can this be?

It's like being lost in the woods at night. Just a few hours ago this place was gorgeous, welcoming, reminded you of the joy of being alive, the joy of your own true nature. Now it is bewildering, every path a dead end, nothing looks like it did before. How can I be so lost so suddenly?

All you can do is light a fire and hunker down, wait for the dawn. It doesn't feel like it right now but you know the sun will come up again, then you will find your way. Perhaps she will come looking for you? Perhaps she will realize she left you behind, come back for you? She probably won't.

The sun rises, life goes on, and each day is a new life. It will all make sense again in the morning.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Beatrix Potter On Getting Started.

“There is something delicious about writing the first words of a story. You never quite know where they'll take you.”

Beatrix Potter.

It's easy to be distracted by the future, it is brightly coloured and shiny. Uncertainty about the future is where the beauty lies, by stepping out, getting started, enjoying the feeling of that first step we are ensuring that the future will take care of itself.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Let It Be Broken.

I'm in my element here. Alone at an outdoor cafe, drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, watching the world go by, writing nonsense. I feel happy.

The last few weeks I've been trying to fix a broken thing. Look at me, do I look like the kind of guy who can fix things? Do I look like the kind of guy who just calls in a man to fix stuff, or let's stuff be broken and steps over it every day? In trying to fix a broken thing I have stepped outside my true nature, been distracted and driven out of my lane causing others to crash around me. A man can only be what he is.

Sometimes, rarely, broken things come good of their own accord, a loose wire falls back into place. Most times someone who likes fixing things comes along and fixes them. When I try to fix stuff I generally break it some more, defeating the purpose of trying to fix it in the first place. I'm best to let stuff be broken, find a different use for it if I can. So what if the anchor on my tinny is my old computer? So what if that saxophone case with a broken strap is now a door stop leaning against the door that rattles in the night? I could fix the case, but then I'd have to fix the door, where would it end?

I'm just not a fixing it kind of guy. Now I've given up trying to fix the thing I've been trying to fix I feel more myself, authentic. The thing will be fixed by someone else, or it won't. I'll be here, writing nonsense, doing what I do.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Beatrix Potter On Education And Originality.

“Thank goodness I was never sent to school; it would have rubbed off some of the originality. ”

Beatrix Potter.

Took me years to forget the crap that parents and school taught.

Authenticity is essential, originality the path to it.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Two Stops Of Nirvana.

I've stepped into Nirvana, clumsily, in a rush, I was running for the tram one second, in Nirvana the next. Buddha is here, asleep in his pram. Everyone is quiet, smiling, soaking up his mellow Buddha buzz. Between his belly and his weeboks lies a stuffed toy lion, a friendly lion, smiling up at the world like a saint. Everyone is smiling. Everyone is looking everyone else in the eye and smiling some more. I'm sure this baby knows he is holy, a sleeping gift.

Two stops later I have to leave Nirvana, get on with my day. I lean over the pram, the holy one, press the stop button, stand by the door.

For two stops I was in Nirvana. Now Nirvana is in me.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Solo, improvised flute track, Warm Up, available for download at iTunes, all the other sites.

Drum.

I wrote this song years ago, not based on any real situation or person. Folks often talk about how they identify with a song, how some lyrics slot into their life, a situation they are in. It's odd to find that now in one of my own songs, especially one written from a liking for one line, some bum poetry and an imagined situation.

Drum.

Your heart,
Beats me like a drum,
And your eyes,
They burn me like the sun.
Your mouth,
Shoots me like a gun.
My love,
We've only just begun.

I'm going to ride it like a wave,
And sail it like a storm.
Gonna' ride you like a wave,
Sail you like a storm.

Your touch,
Breaks me like a string,
And your arms,
They bind me like a ring.
Your kiss,
Thaws me like the Spring.
My love,
You are my little wing.

I'm going to ride it like a wave,
And sail it like a storm.
Gonna' ride you like a wave,
Sail you like a storm.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Carl Jung On Love And Chemistry.

“The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.”

Carl Jung.

People who want to fall in love but remain unchanged just aren't getting it.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Get Started.

I remember my first gigs as a flute player. A friend, an accomplished actor, found himself out of work, set up a show in his own lounge room, reading the short stories of Noel Coward. A friend and I sat on the front patio and played jazz standards, flute and guitar, as the small audience arrived. My pay was some cheap fizzy wine, as many camp cucumber sandwiches as I could eat, dinner at a cheap and cheerful Malaysian restaurant down the road after the show. I've played for less since.

I was actually a terrible flute player. My technique allowed me about an octave and a half of the flute's three octaves. Even within that range my tuning was dodgy. My improvization over jazz chords was pretty funny. I learned that a cool shirt and a smile bluffed the audience into believing I could play. I'd only been playing flute for a few months, but I knew it was what I wanted to do, that getting started was the only way to get started, no matter how crap I was.

That decision paid off. It took time, but I learned to play, learned to perform, became what I set out to be. If I'd waited until I was ready I'd still be practising in my bedroom.

I figure this idea of getting started applies to most things. Of course you'll be crap when you first start. Suck it up. Be crap, push through, get started and keep getting better. How did you first start having sex? Were you brilliant at it the first time? Well, I was, but I bet you weren't! If you liked doing it you kept going, hopefully getting better at it.

When we fall in love the only way to go is to get started. Say it out loud, do it, fuck it up but keep going. You can wait until every circumstance is perfect, may as well wait until politicians are honest, until your shit doesn't stink. Just get started, be bad at it at first, get better.

Any job, any relationship, any undertaking you love and believe in, get started now. My actor friend who could pull a full house to his lounge room by just reading short stories beautifully, he got started once, stepped onto a stage, awkward and ill prepared, believed in himself and became great.

I'm trying to get started on a novel. Can you tell?

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Carl Jung On Play And Creativity.

“The creation of something new is not accomplished by the intellect but by the play instinct acting from inner necessity. The creative mind plays with the objects it loves. ”

Carl Jung.

A lot of people say a lot of words about creativity, what it is, how to enhance it, what it means. Creativity is just play, and love.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Three Tough Birds.

They've been working hard since they arrived here as kids over fifty years ago. They've made their money, could sell this little food bar for a pile more, they work every day because they like their customers and like to keep busy. Say please and thank you a few times and you'll find yourself being called darling and having an extra potato cake slipped into your bag when you aren't looking.

Today the electronic device that processes credit and debit cards was playing up. Spectacles were fished out of apron pockets, the problem was analyzed and solved, in the meantime the customer trying to pay accidentally let the word fuck slip out. Hell hath no fury like three tough old Greek girls who believe they have been sworn at. All three of them turned on him, told him to behave, gave him the stare. Undaunted the foul mouthed fool attempted a counter offensive, told them what a good customer he was.

"You are a loud mouth, that's what you are. Take your food and your card, don't come back."

He walked out silently, suddenly had the good sense to be daunted. A physically big man looks very small when he is defeated by a stronger will.

"Salt darling?"

I took my huge bag of hot chips, made sure to say thank you twice. The ladies went back to pushing happy giant hamburgers into the hands of grateful working men, chatting with the lonely, advising the heartbroken, feeding their people.

The shop was full, will be full tomorrow, the bully boy had already been forgotten. He will be angry for days. The elderly Greek ladies know themselves, know joy. The middle aged man who sought attention in the wrong way knows nothing but aggression and showing off.

It's the only decent food shop in the area, he'll be back, with an apology and better manners if he knows what is good for him.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Carl Jung On Parenthood.

“The greatest tragedy of the family is the unlived lives of the parents.”

Carl Jung.

An interesting thing to say. Are children best served by parents who put their own lives aside or by parents who provide an example of how to live?

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Genius In Flight.

The white bellies of seagulls illuminated by the yacht club lights, riding the on shore breeze like surfers, genius in flight.

There is no sailing at this time of night, just beer drinking on the balcony. In Australia wherever beer drinking goes potato fried in hot oil follows, lightly salted like the breeze. Seagulls know our habits better than we know theirs, they lie in wait, float in anticipation. Soon a happy drunken soul will feel the need to be a good guy, throw a couple of tips to the acrobats above. He's just spent the rent on beer, he has to do something to redeem himself.

I pass, the seagulls will stay until the bar closes. Kites on invisible strings, dancers with wings, genius in flight.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Carl Jung On Action.

“You are what you do, not what you say you'll do.”

Carl Jung.

I love it when the advice of a great luminary sounds like the advice of your grandmother. That can only be good advice.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Baby Steps Towards A Novel.

So I've taken a baby step, purchased an app that will allow me to write, organize, store my novel on my iPad. It feels like I've placed an easel in the middle of my lounge room, I'll look pretty foolish if it just sits there, if I never paint on it.

I'm thinking of F. Scott Fitzgerald, he said something about the difference between writers who just want to say something and writers who have something to say. What do I have to say? What hasn't been said a billion times before? Do I just want to say something, pull some attention? Why a novel?

At one time in my life I read at least three novels a week. I'd knock one off in a night, happily give up sleep. If my eyes hadn't failed I'd still be reading like that now. I'm glad I'm not, that I'm filling that void with my own novel. A happy accident of fate.

So what do I have to say? I'm interested in the psychology of language, the link between the way we communicate and the way we think, how one affects the other. From the oaf who makes a point by repeating the same words but louder, to the verbose fool who says nothing, I see communication, the lack of it, as the essence of the human condition. You try putting this idea into a rollicking good story! I have some work ahead of me.

I believe the lead character will be a man torn between his passion for communicating with the world through art and his passion for communicating with the woman he loves. I'm not sure about her yet, she will communicate for a living too, perhaps in politics or advertising. I want this thing to be real, a genuine conversation about humanity. I also want steamy sex scenes. Even a serious minded fellow has to get his kicks somehow.

So tonight I start building a structure, writing characters, imagining some action, some essential turning points in the story. From there I'll join the dots, then colour in between the lines.

At least I've purchased an app. It's a start.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Sigmund Freud On Getting A Grip.

“Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”

Sigmund Freud.

To a hammer everything looks like a nail. To a human with a passion everything looks like a reflection of that passion. The religious see god in everything, the capitalist sees money, the lover sees romance.

Sometimes it is pleasant to sit back in a comfy chair and smoke a real cigar, do nothing else, see nothing else, just smoke a real cigar.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Plumbers And Musicians.

Musicians sometimes like to share a fantasy, a happy dream. They imagine a venue suffers a major plumbing emergency on a Saturday night, have no choice but to call out a team of five plumbers, ask them to bring their equipment, expertise, experience. Musicians then like to calculate the cost of five plumbers for five hours late on a Saturday night. Musicians then like to dream they could be paid half that much.

Our culture expresses it's appreciation of goods and services in terms of money, plumbers are obviously more valuable to us than musicians. Fair enough too, the state of plumbing is as good a gauge of a civilization as any other. The majority of humans still live without plumbing, their relationship with their own shit ranges from medieval to stone age. They may have a rich musical life but their kids die of cholera. If I had the choice between giving up music and giving up the flushing toilet I'm pretty sure I'd keep the toilet.

In our culture it doesn't have to come down to a choice, we can have both. We are gradually choosing one over the other, valuing an easy, no mess life over a life rich in art. We value beautiful experiences much less than we value a pristine, magazine ready home. We have swayed so far towards the physical part of the civilization that we have nearly forgotten about the emotional part of it.

I'm pretty Japanese in my tastes. I like clean. I like that the state carries my shit away and treats it somewhere else. I like that I can flick a tap and clean my teeth, drink water from a tap inside my house, that even the poorest people can enjoy these luxuries. It is a civilized way to live, it's important. I'd say that music, art, is equally important, that our minds, our souls need to be treated as well as our bodies.

When I meet suburban kids whose only experience of music being played by a human is on television I despair. Kids from good homes, their every physical need met, their creative souls ignored. How can any civilization grow more beautiful that way? It can't. The civilization can be supplied with better infrastructure, gradually become soulless and therefore worthless, a zombie culture with clean arses.

All power to the plumbers, I'm a fan of their work, I wouldn't want to live without them. Perhaps musicians don't need to be paid even half as much as them, there are other rewards in this life. We do need both musicians and plumbers, our civilization just needs to think about what it puts in as well as what it puts out.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Sigmund Freud On Religion.

“Religion is a system of wishful illusions together with a disavowal of reality, such as we find nowhere else but in a state of blissful hallucinatory confusion. Religion's eleventh commandment is "Thou shalt not question.”

Sigmund Freud, The Future of an Illusion.

Religious folks used to tell me that they knew the truth because a book told them so, or because they just knew. They used to tell me these things back when I could be bothered asking. If you are eager to waste some of your precious life just ask a stoutly religious person a question.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

If You Love What You Do.

I've been asked why I play music a couple of times recently. My stock reply is, "what else would one do with a life?", but there is more to it than that. The genuine answer is that music is playing in my head from the moment I wake to the moment I sleep, probably in my dreams too. Apart from writing, an art I'm still learning, nothing else holds my interest for long enough for me to get good at it. And really, what else would I do? Would you employ me?

For me there is a moment of sublime joy that occurs when the music inside my head is flowing out of me. I'm outside time, space, myself, at the same time solidly present and truly myself. It's not happiness, it's just being. That feeling sustains me all day every day, when all is dark and cold that feeling is a warm fire I can sit beside, like a cowboy on a prairie, alone and blessed. What else could I want or need?

I wonder why you do what you do? Would you do it for fun if you weren't being paid for it? Is there some secret yearning to do something else?

People ask me, so I'm asking you, why do you do what you do?

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Sigmund Freud On The Hard Yards.

“One day, in retrospect, the years of struggle will strike you as the most beautiful.”

Sigmund Freud.

I believe this may only be true if one meets with success at some point, nothing but struggle wears thin. I know what he means though. Struggle equals purpose.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Treat Life Like A Lover.

Treat life like a lover.

Hold her when she's sad, tend her when she is sick. Bathe in her warm smile when she is happy, give her reason to be happy. Make life laugh, tell her a story, share your dreams. Work to support her when she needs support, lie in her arms when you need hers. When life gives you that knowing look throw her joyously onto your bed and give her everything you've got.

Treat life like a lover, treat your lover like she is your life.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Richard Brautigan On Writers.

“I will be very careful the next time I fall in love, she told herself. Also, she had made a promise to herself that she intended on keeping. She was never going to go out with another writer: no matter how charming, sensitive, inventive or fun they could be. They weren't worth it in the long run. They were emotionally too expensive and the upkeep was complicated. They were like having a vacuum cleaner around the house that broke all the time and only Einstein could fix it.
She wanted her next lover to be a broom. ”

Richard Brautigan.

I suspect I am a broken vacuum cleaner. All the evidence points that way. Einstein isn't here to fix me.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com