I wander. I witness those with homes, I wonder if that is what I really want, if the wandering is just fear? If the variety of travel is the spice, does that not make home the meat and potatoes? A bowl of spice with no staple would be overwhelming, is my diet of constant wandering too much seasoning, not enough nutrition?
Or is my old duffel bag my home, meat and potatoes in rented rooms? Are these rest periods, a well known city, a woman, a job, are these things the foreign and exotic?
A bag, an instrument, an iPad and a ticket, my real estate. My bowl is full, rich and fulfilling. Until I find a town, a job, a woman that feel like wandering feels I'll keep on wandering.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Franz Liszt On Truth.
"Truth is a great flirt."
Franz Liszt.
Occasionally we gain a glimpse up the skirt of the universe, those rare moment when we think we see what has been hidden from us for so long. Truth mostly eludes us, smiles, walks seductively away, leaves us wondering.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Franz Liszt.
Occasionally we gain a glimpse up the skirt of the universe, those rare moment when we think we see what has been hidden from us for so long. Truth mostly eludes us, smiles, walks seductively away, leaves us wondering.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Masturbation And Home Renovation.
Like masturbation home renovation should be left at home where it belongs. Both are marvelous things to do, I do one of them, but they shouldn't be talked about in public, no one wants to hear about it.
The home renovator is a compulsive masturbator, going on and on about cornices and relief tiles and other stuff I don't care about. They become obsessive, expect everyone else to obsess along with them. Matching paints, feature walls, soft furnishings, kill me now. They tell it like someone has a gun to their head and they have no choice but to spend all their money and live in dust and angst for months on end.
Home renovation is a weird fetish. They all want the orgasm of a magazine quality house, for some reason they need to talk about it to get there, they can't get off unless someone is watching. Some go to the lengths of doing it on television. Perhaps there should be a special website to match up those who renovate and those who like to watch?
I don't even know what fucking cornices are, just shut up about them.
Even when the job is done, when the wet patch has dried and their homes are complete they can't stop talking about it. Stop in for a cup of tea and they'll regale you with a spectacularly boring story about where the kitchen cupboards came from, Oslo or an old church or somewhere, I'm never really listening.
Next thing they have divorced, moved, started again, warmed up the hand lotion and started banging on about the plans for the new apartment. I swear it is a compulsive disorder.
Do whatever works for you in the privacy of your own home beautiful, just keep it to yourself, or tell someone with the same disorder in a group session, just don't tell me.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The home renovator is a compulsive masturbator, going on and on about cornices and relief tiles and other stuff I don't care about. They become obsessive, expect everyone else to obsess along with them. Matching paints, feature walls, soft furnishings, kill me now. They tell it like someone has a gun to their head and they have no choice but to spend all their money and live in dust and angst for months on end.
Home renovation is a weird fetish. They all want the orgasm of a magazine quality house, for some reason they need to talk about it to get there, they can't get off unless someone is watching. Some go to the lengths of doing it on television. Perhaps there should be a special website to match up those who renovate and those who like to watch?
I don't even know what fucking cornices are, just shut up about them.
Even when the job is done, when the wet patch has dried and their homes are complete they can't stop talking about it. Stop in for a cup of tea and they'll regale you with a spectacularly boring story about where the kitchen cupboards came from, Oslo or an old church or somewhere, I'm never really listening.
Next thing they have divorced, moved, started again, warmed up the hand lotion and started banging on about the plans for the new apartment. I swear it is a compulsive disorder.
Do whatever works for you in the privacy of your own home beautiful, just keep it to yourself, or tell someone with the same disorder in a group session, just don't tell me.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart On Genius.
"Neither a lofty degree of intelligence nor imagination nor both together go to the making of genius. Love, love, love, that is the soul of genius."
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.
Who knew Mr. Mozart was a hippy? And all those silly hippies believing they had found a new path. We just weren't paying attention to the words of the right people.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.
Who knew Mr. Mozart was a hippy? And all those silly hippies believing they had found a new path. We just weren't paying attention to the words of the right people.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
A Sponsor For This Blog.
I'm seeking a commercial sponsor for this blog. I receive over five thousand hits per month, steadily growing, most of my readers are in the U.S.A., a wide spread across other countries including growing interest from China and Russia. I also have a loyal following in Australia.
I'm thinking an online store, a travel related site or a tech company, preferably Apple, would be the best fit. I'm interested in writing individual advertisements for each post, including links to the sponsor's site or current promotion.
Given a small income from this blog I could commit more time to it, include more photography and video, simply spend more time on each post. A sponsor would be helping a new writer develop a craft, as well as supporting a working musician. There is potential for added promotion through my music work and an upcoming e book. I'm also building an online presence on social media.
Right now a sponsor would be helping me out, acting as a patron. Over time I can repay that patronage with excellent promotion. If you see potential in me and my work please get in touch, my people can talk to your people and all that. If anyone knows a potential sponsor please pass on the word.
My e mail address is at the top of this page, I look forward to the offers pouring in.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I'm thinking an online store, a travel related site or a tech company, preferably Apple, would be the best fit. I'm interested in writing individual advertisements for each post, including links to the sponsor's site or current promotion.
Given a small income from this blog I could commit more time to it, include more photography and video, simply spend more time on each post. A sponsor would be helping a new writer develop a craft, as well as supporting a working musician. There is potential for added promotion through my music work and an upcoming e book. I'm also building an online presence on social media.
Right now a sponsor would be helping me out, acting as a patron. Over time I can repay that patronage with excellent promotion. If you see potential in me and my work please get in touch, my people can talk to your people and all that. If anyone knows a potential sponsor please pass on the word.
My e mail address is at the top of this page, I look forward to the offers pouring in.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The Passing Of Old Jokes.
His jokes suffered repetition with stoic, Presbyterian fortitude. They rose early to grind out another day of boring unamused friends and strangers, buttered up like brave soldiers following the orders of a deranged general. Oh, how they suffered. The cold indifference, the forced chuckle, the rapid change of subject.
Once proud, witty, spur of the moment creations of time and place, his jokes were miserable, defeated ghosts of themselves, never permitted the rest they had earned.
One day the jokes revolted, refused to leave his mouth when called upon, symbolically occupied his belly, a comedy sit in. He found himself with nothing to say, he fell silent in situations that he usually overwhelmed with ham delivered jokes. He found himself becoming quite popular, when he did speak he had to think about what he said, people actually liked what he said.
Released from their torment his old jokes became vapour, went out in classic joke style, as a series of noisy and comical farts, faithful servants to the last.
May they rest in peace.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Once proud, witty, spur of the moment creations of time and place, his jokes were miserable, defeated ghosts of themselves, never permitted the rest they had earned.
One day the jokes revolted, refused to leave his mouth when called upon, symbolically occupied his belly, a comedy sit in. He found himself with nothing to say, he fell silent in situations that he usually overwhelmed with ham delivered jokes. He found himself becoming quite popular, when he did speak he had to think about what he said, people actually liked what he said.
Released from their torment his old jokes became vapour, went out in classic joke style, as a series of noisy and comical farts, faithful servants to the last.
May they rest in peace.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Sonny Bono On Fame.
"Don't cling to fame. You're just borrowing it. It's like money. You're going to die, and somebody else is going to get it."
Sonny Bono.
Mr. Bono saw the ugly fame monster up close and personal, he should know.
Fame is just a currency, earn it and spend it as you will. Like money, if you believe fame has some magical qualities that can make you a better person, or make people love you, that fame will lead you down paths of delusion where you will become lost and most likely never return.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Sonny Bono.
Mr. Bono saw the ugly fame monster up close and personal, he should know.
Fame is just a currency, earn it and spend it as you will. Like money, if you believe fame has some magical qualities that can make you a better person, or make people love you, that fame will lead you down paths of delusion where you will become lost and most likely never return.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Heart, Soul And Feet.
Whatever music does it should move you, move your heart, your soul, your feet.
People write and perform music for millions of different reasons. Not all of them are noble, who ever said musicians have to be motivated by a higher calling than anyone else? Most of us are craving approval or just want to get laid, and why not? It works.
Whatever the reasons we do it we have to know that making music is a blessing, it gives us everything, the least we can do is offer music the best part of ourselves. We have to write from the heart, sing from the soul, give the audience the desire to at least tap their feet if not get up and move about on them. If we are going to gain the audience's approval, their sexual favours, their money, we owe them an emotional experience in return.
Let's face it, us musicians don't offer the world much else. We don't unblock toilets or unblock heart valves, we aren't good for a whole lot, we have to give something for the blessed lives we live.
Opening our own hearts and souls to others comes at a cost. It is a genuine gift, most often warmly received, but it does cost us. We lose something of ourselves every time we give it away, we have to renew and begin again every day. We also risk appearing foolish. How many people find it difficult to say the real words in real life, "I yearn for her", "I love you", "my heart is broken", even, "today I am happy"? It isn't easy to be a poet in this culture, someone is always ready to take the piss, to put yourself on a stage and do it takes guts.
But what else would we do?
There are other paths for seeking fame and fortune, reality television is open to all. If fame and fortune are your desires just leave the music alone and do something else.
If the music business ever feels too hard just remember that every day you get the chance to move people, to make them feel they aren't alone in feeling something, to express what they can't. Take that chance, give all you have. Every morning when you wake up imagine new ways to move people, their hearts, their souls, their feet.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
People write and perform music for millions of different reasons. Not all of them are noble, who ever said musicians have to be motivated by a higher calling than anyone else? Most of us are craving approval or just want to get laid, and why not? It works.
Whatever the reasons we do it we have to know that making music is a blessing, it gives us everything, the least we can do is offer music the best part of ourselves. We have to write from the heart, sing from the soul, give the audience the desire to at least tap their feet if not get up and move about on them. If we are going to gain the audience's approval, their sexual favours, their money, we owe them an emotional experience in return.
Let's face it, us musicians don't offer the world much else. We don't unblock toilets or unblock heart valves, we aren't good for a whole lot, we have to give something for the blessed lives we live.
Opening our own hearts and souls to others comes at a cost. It is a genuine gift, most often warmly received, but it does cost us. We lose something of ourselves every time we give it away, we have to renew and begin again every day. We also risk appearing foolish. How many people find it difficult to say the real words in real life, "I yearn for her", "I love you", "my heart is broken", even, "today I am happy"? It isn't easy to be a poet in this culture, someone is always ready to take the piss, to put yourself on a stage and do it takes guts.
But what else would we do?
There are other paths for seeking fame and fortune, reality television is open to all. If fame and fortune are your desires just leave the music alone and do something else.
If the music business ever feels too hard just remember that every day you get the chance to move people, to make them feel they aren't alone in feeling something, to express what they can't. Take that chance, give all you have. Every morning when you wake up imagine new ways to move people, their hearts, their souls, their feet.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Emily Bronte On Loss.
"You said I killed you - haunt me, then! The murdered do haunt their murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts have wandered on earth. Be with me always - take any form - drive me mad! only do not leave me in this abyss, where I cannot find you!"
Emily Bronte.
I have known this kind of loss. There were times I'd have been happy to be haunted, driven mad, rather than the emptiness.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Emily Bronte.
I have known this kind of loss. There were times I'd have been happy to be haunted, driven mad, rather than the emptiness.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Monday, February 27, 2012
East Sydney, 1985.
We fished him from his bath, a bloated red sea mammal who had lost the art of swimming. The honoured tradition of vodka, aspirin, bath water and a blade had fulfilled it's task hours before we arrived.
We all laughed. All of us. None of us thought anything was funny. It was tragedy complete, somehow we all knew we would meet at this time and place, at this death, that it was always going to be. It was the laughter of recognition, you are thinking what I'm thinking, oh, and you too. Too tragic to cry.
He just couldn't recall how to stay afloat, how to keep his nose above the water. He was never a land mammal, never one of us. Slower, gentler, more lovely.
We fished him from his bath, looked at each other, laughed, then returned him to his bath. We had no idea what to do with him. All that was missing was the big fish snapshot, look what we caught, smiles all 'round.
Then we cried, drowned our grief in salt tears and beer. There was nothing we could have done. We were land mammals, he was a sea mammal, a different species, we couldn't teach him to swim, we didn't know how ourselves.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
We all laughed. All of us. None of us thought anything was funny. It was tragedy complete, somehow we all knew we would meet at this time and place, at this death, that it was always going to be. It was the laughter of recognition, you are thinking what I'm thinking, oh, and you too. Too tragic to cry.
He just couldn't recall how to stay afloat, how to keep his nose above the water. He was never a land mammal, never one of us. Slower, gentler, more lovely.
We fished him from his bath, looked at each other, laughed, then returned him to his bath. We had no idea what to do with him. All that was missing was the big fish snapshot, look what we caught, smiles all 'round.
Then we cried, drowned our grief in salt tears and beer. There was nothing we could have done. We were land mammals, he was a sea mammal, a different species, we couldn't teach him to swim, we didn't know how ourselves.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Igor Stravinsky On Fame.
"A plague on eminence! I hardly dare cross the street anymore without a convoy, and I am stared at wherever I go like an idiot member of a royal family or an animal in a zoo; and zoo animals have been known to die from stares."
Igor Stravinsky.
Pop stars believe they invented fame. Silly children, they just invented unmerited fame.
I love that Mr. Stravinsky looks down on idiot members of royal families, those who have done nothing to warrant attention or notice. He said he would have been happier in Bach's time, composing anonymously and for god. What an interesting fellow.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Igor Stravinsky.
Pop stars believe they invented fame. Silly children, they just invented unmerited fame.
I love that Mr. Stravinsky looks down on idiot members of royal families, those who have done nothing to warrant attention or notice. He said he would have been happier in Bach's time, composing anonymously and for god. What an interesting fellow.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Eyelashes.
Closed eyes, her eyelashes are exquisite. Elegant yet naive, this moment is a photograph, when all is fading I will remember her eyelashes on her closed eyes and I will smile. I feel protective, closed eyes are trusting, she is safe while I lie beside her.
How can these simple dust filters, the result of evolutionary trial and error, inspire such emotion and admiration? They are pretty, no doubt, but so are her feet and they don't stir me this way. They are delicate, beautiful, unaware of their affect on me, just like her. While she lies quietly in my arms her eyelashes remind me of my good fortune, my responsibility, the delicate beauty I hold.
She is exquisite. Closed eyes, eyelashes, perfectly formed face, wondrous body, quiet and trusting in my arms.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
How can these simple dust filters, the result of evolutionary trial and error, inspire such emotion and admiration? They are pretty, no doubt, but so are her feet and they don't stir me this way. They are delicate, beautiful, unaware of their affect on me, just like her. While she lies quietly in my arms her eyelashes remind me of my good fortune, my responsibility, the delicate beauty I hold.
She is exquisite. Closed eyes, eyelashes, perfectly formed face, wondrous body, quiet and trusting in my arms.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Maurice Ravel On Love And Music.
"The only love affair I have ever had was with music."
Maurice Ravel.
The artist's dilemma, does time for romance just steal time from creating stuff? I guess we have to know what we want from our lives. I want romance, even if it costs me some time for creating stuff. A human and an artist, I hope.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Maurice Ravel.
The artist's dilemma, does time for romance just steal time from creating stuff? I guess we have to know what we want from our lives. I want romance, even if it costs me some time for creating stuff. A human and an artist, I hope.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Wishing Life Away.
A friend recently told me she is looking forward to a time in the near future when her life will become simpler, but that she didn't want to "wish life away" in the meantime. I'd never heard this idea stated so simply. Wishing to be in the future before it's time is in fact wishing away the part of your life in between.
I move around a lot so I have many beginnings and endings, times when I'm finishing up one life and starting a new one. The in between times, when it doesn't make sense to begin a new venture in a town I'm about to leave, are often the most blissful times. It is like I give myself permission to just live for a while, be a human, eat, sleep, keep good company. I guess I've done it enough times to know the future will come when it does.
Life is long enough if we use it all. These in between times are life too. Having something to look forward to is undeniably a great feeling. It is difficult to feel that glow on the horizon, be warmed by it, at the same time fully feel each footstep towards it, the sunrise of hope is so very beautiful and distracting.
Why not think of this time as a blessing? Whilst waiting for the next big thing take the time for yourself, play the game knowing you are holding a winning hand, let it play out. The other option is to wish life away, step over sections of it instead of feeling every step.
I believe I just took a number of paragraphs to say what my friend said in a few words. Don't wish life away.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I move around a lot so I have many beginnings and endings, times when I'm finishing up one life and starting a new one. The in between times, when it doesn't make sense to begin a new venture in a town I'm about to leave, are often the most blissful times. It is like I give myself permission to just live for a while, be a human, eat, sleep, keep good company. I guess I've done it enough times to know the future will come when it does.
Life is long enough if we use it all. These in between times are life too. Having something to look forward to is undeniably a great feeling. It is difficult to feel that glow on the horizon, be warmed by it, at the same time fully feel each footstep towards it, the sunrise of hope is so very beautiful and distracting.
Why not think of this time as a blessing? Whilst waiting for the next big thing take the time for yourself, play the game knowing you are holding a winning hand, let it play out. The other option is to wish life away, step over sections of it instead of feeling every step.
I believe I just took a number of paragraphs to say what my friend said in a few words. Don't wish life away.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Ludwig van Beethoven On Music.
"I despise a world which does not feel that music is a higher revelation than all wisdom and philosophy."
Ludwig van Beethoven.
I like that he didn't feel irritated, disappointed, that he felt strongly enough to despise the world. I trust a fellow who can say he despises the world for not agreeing with him.
I, by the way, agree with him.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Ludwig van Beethoven.
I like that he didn't feel irritated, disappointed, that he felt strongly enough to despise the world. I trust a fellow who can say he despises the world for not agreeing with him.
I, by the way, agree with him.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Sunday, February 26, 2012
A Very Large Wall For Shooting Folks Against.
Folks who eat greasy food then push the button at the pedestrian crossing. Folks who stand directly in front of elevator doors as if they can't imagine that anyone else might be riding that elevator and want to get out, folks who try to board the train before others have alighted. Folks who cough in other folks' ears, folks who don't wash, folks who yell private conversations into cell phones in public places. Folks who stand and chat in the middle of busy city pavements, folks who walk out of shops without looking first, folks who shake their wet umbrellas on other folks. Folks who ride motorbikes loud enough to set off car alarms, folks who play the doof doof in their cars loud enough to rattle windows. Folks who talk over the top of other folks, roll their eyes or simply don't listen to other folks. Folks who pick one insignificant point from a conversation to carp about and ignore the essential. Folks who sit on a crowded tram while the frail stand.
I could go on.
Come the revolution we are going to need a very large wall for all the folks who are going to first against it.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I could go on.
Come the revolution we are going to need a very large wall for all the folks who are going to first against it.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Salvador Dali On Love.
“I dedicate this novel to Gala, who was constantly by my side while I was writing it, who was the good fairy of my equilibrium, who banished the salamanders of my doubts and strengthened the lions of certainties...”
Salvador DalÃ, Hidden Faces.
Now this is a dedication. This is the girl we are all looking for.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Salvador DalÃ, Hidden Faces.
Now this is a dedication. This is the girl we are all looking for.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Predicting The Melbourne Weather.
Most places on earth the old timers can look at the horizon and tell you what the weather is going to do. Not in Melbourne. What's the point in living somewhere all your life and not being able to say, "cripes, better get the washing in Marge", an hour before the rain?
Today it is tropical overcast, my jeans are sticking to my legs. Or I should say it was tropical, a minute ago, I've just put on a jacket, a cool breeze is in. Who knows what it will be in a few minutes? Thunder storm? Cold Autumn rain? Warm Summer rain? Who knows?
Planning an outdoor wedding in Melbourne? What does the invitation say? Informal, but bring a coat, an umbrella, and swimwear for later.
Aah, now the breeze has become a wind, squalls of rain are blowing in on my iPad. Excellent. Why does anyone live here? Why would anyone live here all their lives? What do the old folks talk about over their garden fences? "Looks like rain, maybe, or it might be sunny." My guess is that they retreat to the old chestnut of, "funny weather we're having". It's not funny, it's bloody always like this.
Irrational and annoying are the only possible predictions for Melbourne weather.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Today it is tropical overcast, my jeans are sticking to my legs. Or I should say it was tropical, a minute ago, I've just put on a jacket, a cool breeze is in. Who knows what it will be in a few minutes? Thunder storm? Cold Autumn rain? Warm Summer rain? Who knows?
Planning an outdoor wedding in Melbourne? What does the invitation say? Informal, but bring a coat, an umbrella, and swimwear for later.
Aah, now the breeze has become a wind, squalls of rain are blowing in on my iPad. Excellent. Why does anyone live here? Why would anyone live here all their lives? What do the old folks talk about over their garden fences? "Looks like rain, maybe, or it might be sunny." My guess is that they retreat to the old chestnut of, "funny weather we're having". It's not funny, it's bloody always like this.
Irrational and annoying are the only possible predictions for Melbourne weather.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Salvador Dali On Identity.
"Each morning when I awake, I experience again a supreme pleasure - that of being Salvador Dali."
Salvador Dali.
Wonderful self belief, self love. Might be worth trying, congratulating yourself for being yourself each morning.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Salvador Dali.
Wonderful self belief, self love. Might be worth trying, congratulating yourself for being yourself each morning.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Snakes And Ladders And Auditions.
I haven't responded to an advertisement then attended an audition for so long that I can't remember the last time I did. I did today. It was a surprisingly enjoyable occasion.
I'm old enough that people usually know I'm around, call me if they want me. The idea of being tested was a thing of the past until I recently moved cities. The folks I auditioned for today made me feel that we were all trying each other out, offered me a beer, made me feel welcome.
I left with no idea if I'd been successful or not, and not really caring. It was an enjoyable afternoon of music, I met some cool people, took my first step towards becoming a full time player again. The process felt good, the result is out of my hands. I will go to my next audition, later this week, much better prepared for today's effort.
It's all a process. Learning to play, learning to perform, learning to audition, learning to adapt to whatever circumstances you find yourself in. So what if I've regressed to having to attend auditions? That is where I'm at, that is the process I need to go through to start again.
The secret to longevity in the music business is to enjoy the process, knowing where you are, what you have to do, then enjoying every step along the way. The method to burning out, to misery, is looking only for results, forgetting to enjoy the steps.
Right now I feel like I've slipped down a snake, back to where I started, I'm climbing ladders I've climbed before. I'm enjoying every step.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I'm old enough that people usually know I'm around, call me if they want me. The idea of being tested was a thing of the past until I recently moved cities. The folks I auditioned for today made me feel that we were all trying each other out, offered me a beer, made me feel welcome.
I left with no idea if I'd been successful or not, and not really caring. It was an enjoyable afternoon of music, I met some cool people, took my first step towards becoming a full time player again. The process felt good, the result is out of my hands. I will go to my next audition, later this week, much better prepared for today's effort.
It's all a process. Learning to play, learning to perform, learning to audition, learning to adapt to whatever circumstances you find yourself in. So what if I've regressed to having to attend auditions? That is where I'm at, that is the process I need to go through to start again.
The secret to longevity in the music business is to enjoy the process, knowing where you are, what you have to do, then enjoying every step along the way. The method to burning out, to misery, is looking only for results, forgetting to enjoy the steps.
Right now I feel like I've slipped down a snake, back to where I started, I'm climbing ladders I've climbed before. I'm enjoying every step.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Renoir On Doneness.
“When I've painted a woman's bottom so that I want to touch it, then the painting is finished.”
Pierre-Auguste Renoir.
Glad to know it's not just me.
I think most art contains an element of lust, or at least desire.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Pierre-Auguste Renoir.
Glad to know it's not just me.
I think most art contains an element of lust, or at least desire.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Saturday, February 25, 2012
New Coat Of Thought.
It can be hard to throw away a favourite old coat. You look around for a new one, half heartedly, stick with the old one for one more season. It is worn thin, the lining is torn, it really doesn't serve the purpose of being a coat any more, beyond repair, yet it is comfortable, comforting.
You know the coat has to go.
You buy a new coat. It's satisfactory, does what a coat is supposed to do, keeps the rain off, the wind out. It isn't your old coat.
One day, one ridiculously cold day, light drizzle, wind off the ocean that could cut you in half, you are warm, dry and happy in your new coat. You congratulate yourself on buying the new coat, for making your own life so much better.
One day, you are preparing to leave the house, grab your new coat off the hook, it slides on like an old friend, it has become your old coat.
The last few weeks I've taken on a new way of thinking. It is uncomfortable. It doesn't fit like my old way of thinking. The new way of thinking is serving me well, like a new coat, it does everything a way of thinking should do. The old way was comfortable, but it had ceased fulfilling the purpose it was designed for.
This new way of thinking still doesn't feel like my old, favourite coat. One day it will. By then it will probably be time to replace it.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
You know the coat has to go.
You buy a new coat. It's satisfactory, does what a coat is supposed to do, keeps the rain off, the wind out. It isn't your old coat.
One day, one ridiculously cold day, light drizzle, wind off the ocean that could cut you in half, you are warm, dry and happy in your new coat. You congratulate yourself on buying the new coat, for making your own life so much better.
One day, you are preparing to leave the house, grab your new coat off the hook, it slides on like an old friend, it has become your old coat.
The last few weeks I've taken on a new way of thinking. It is uncomfortable. It doesn't fit like my old way of thinking. The new way of thinking is serving me well, like a new coat, it does everything a way of thinking should do. The old way was comfortable, but it had ceased fulfilling the purpose it was designed for.
This new way of thinking still doesn't feel like my old, favourite coat. One day it will. By then it will probably be time to replace it.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Lizard.
"There's a lizard on the wall, behind you."
I turn to look, my sudden movement sends the tiny green guy scurrying down the wall, into the bushes, I only catch a glimpse.
I feel there may be some lesson in this, I don't know what it is. Perhaps there is no lesson? Sometimes things just work out this way.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I turn to look, my sudden movement sends the tiny green guy scurrying down the wall, into the bushes, I only catch a glimpse.
I feel there may be some lesson in this, I don't know what it is. Perhaps there is no lesson? Sometimes things just work out this way.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Omar Sharif On Sex Appeal.
“I don't know what sex appeal is. I don't think you can have sex appeal knowingly. The people who seduce me personally are the people who seem not to know they're seductive, and not to know they have sex appeal.”
Omar Sharif.
I know a girl just like this. I think it is more that she knows she has it, she just can't see what the big deal is. Maybe it all comes back to the old chestnut of being comfortable in your own skin.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Omar Sharif.
I know a girl just like this. I think it is more that she knows she has it, she just can't see what the big deal is. Maybe it all comes back to the old chestnut of being comfortable in your own skin.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Writing Yourself.
The first time I travelled to Portland Oregon was in late February. It was no place for a sub tropical Australian, but Spring soon sprung. I noticed that most of the buildings were designed to defeat the cold, smaller windows than I'm used to, the doors of bars and cafes were kept closed, something that never happens in wide open Sydney.
At the time some cheap, small plug in neon lights had become available. Most of them simply stated "OPEN". Where I'd come from, Kings Cross, the red light district of Sydney, those neon lights were only displayed by brothels, the one business that by nature keeps the front door closed. For the first week in Portland I was convinced I'd arrived in the most sex crazed town on earth, brothels with open signs wherever I went.
As it turns out Portland is a pretty sexy town, the girls are the friendliest, most open minded lasses a man could hope to meet, but my preconceived ideas about signage and shopfronts did lead me to a false conclusion.
Despite what everyone says about books and covers people rarely lead you astray by their appearance. I usually find that what I see is what I get. If my gut tells me not to trust someone and I don't listen I usually get ripped off. If someone pays too much attention to their appearance they are usually wankers. Those who appear to be trying too hard to look interesting usually aren't, beware the personality hat. That crazy look almost always denotes crazy behaviour.
Folks aren't so difficult to work out. A combination of experience and instinct serves us well enough to sum up what we are dealing with before a word is spoken. Call me shallow if you will, but I'm right. This ability to read appearances is what allowed some of us to survive, the inability was bred out by bloody evolution.
Of course there are exceptions to any rule, and we remember those exceptions, forget the millions, and it is millions, of times we were right.
I'm thinking about this today because I am writing a character for myself, a variation of myself for a show I'm putting together. How should this guy look? How will he carry himself, how much eye contact will he make? How can I let the audience know exactly who they are dealing with from the moment my character walks on stage? Clothes, hair, how I walk, by the time I get to the microphone they will have an expectation, I want to create that expectation, define it, not have to work against it for the rest of the show.
It is making me think about how I present myself to the world in my real life. Is the clean t shirt on top of the pile good enough? Should I be presenting an image that truly represents me or is what I end up cobbling together exactly how I am? I definitely don't want to end up one of those wankers who pays too much attention to my appearance, but a little thought may not hurt.
When I travel to a new town I take time to get to know it. People often don't have that much time. On stage it just makes sense to create a character in every way. I'm beginning to think we all do that a little in real life too.
Perhaps writing, creating your own character, presenting yourself as you wish to be seen, is part of creating the culture of yourself, your identity? As I sit in old Levi's, black t shirt from the top of the pile, I'm thinking this over.
No conclusion yet.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
At the time some cheap, small plug in neon lights had become available. Most of them simply stated "OPEN". Where I'd come from, Kings Cross, the red light district of Sydney, those neon lights were only displayed by brothels, the one business that by nature keeps the front door closed. For the first week in Portland I was convinced I'd arrived in the most sex crazed town on earth, brothels with open signs wherever I went.
As it turns out Portland is a pretty sexy town, the girls are the friendliest, most open minded lasses a man could hope to meet, but my preconceived ideas about signage and shopfronts did lead me to a false conclusion.
Despite what everyone says about books and covers people rarely lead you astray by their appearance. I usually find that what I see is what I get. If my gut tells me not to trust someone and I don't listen I usually get ripped off. If someone pays too much attention to their appearance they are usually wankers. Those who appear to be trying too hard to look interesting usually aren't, beware the personality hat. That crazy look almost always denotes crazy behaviour.
Folks aren't so difficult to work out. A combination of experience and instinct serves us well enough to sum up what we are dealing with before a word is spoken. Call me shallow if you will, but I'm right. This ability to read appearances is what allowed some of us to survive, the inability was bred out by bloody evolution.
Of course there are exceptions to any rule, and we remember those exceptions, forget the millions, and it is millions, of times we were right.
I'm thinking about this today because I am writing a character for myself, a variation of myself for a show I'm putting together. How should this guy look? How will he carry himself, how much eye contact will he make? How can I let the audience know exactly who they are dealing with from the moment my character walks on stage? Clothes, hair, how I walk, by the time I get to the microphone they will have an expectation, I want to create that expectation, define it, not have to work against it for the rest of the show.
It is making me think about how I present myself to the world in my real life. Is the clean t shirt on top of the pile good enough? Should I be presenting an image that truly represents me or is what I end up cobbling together exactly how I am? I definitely don't want to end up one of those wankers who pays too much attention to my appearance, but a little thought may not hurt.
When I travel to a new town I take time to get to know it. People often don't have that much time. On stage it just makes sense to create a character in every way. I'm beginning to think we all do that a little in real life too.
Perhaps writing, creating your own character, presenting yourself as you wish to be seen, is part of creating the culture of yourself, your identity? As I sit in old Levi's, black t shirt from the top of the pile, I'm thinking this over.
No conclusion yet.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Pablo Picasso On Creativity.
“The urge to destroy is also a creative urge.”
Pablo Picasso.
Many cultures include a god of destruction in their belief system. Without destruction there is no renewal. Acknowledged and employed thoughtfully destruction can be a creative process. Every house begins with the destruction of a tree. New art begins with destroying all you think you know.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Pablo Picasso.
Many cultures include a god of destruction in their belief system. Without destruction there is no renewal. Acknowledged and employed thoughtfully destruction can be a creative process. Every house begins with the destruction of a tree. New art begins with destroying all you think you know.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Talented, Skillful Eggs, One Basket.
One of things we admire about athletes is their single minded determination. They place all their talented, skillful eggs in one basket, give it a crack, take the risk. It is an impressive thing to do, admirable.
This decision, this choice, can result in a gold medal, a shattered knee, missing the qualifying time by one tenth of a second and never being heard of again. The glory is not in the result, rather in the risk, putting body, heart and soul on the line, the courage to say out loud, "I desire this, I'm going as hard and fast as I can".
Musicians make a similar choice. I've worked with guys and girls who have earned gold records, who's minds have shattered. I'm the guy who just misses qualifying by the smallest margin each time. The blessing for me is that unlike an athlete my career wasn't over at thirty years of age. I'm still out there.
The result is not the point. Of course we would all enjoy fame and fortune but it is the scarcity that makes those things valuable. At the Olympics in London this year one guy will win the one hundred metre sprint, one in four years, out of all the athletes who train daily only one. Every athlete does his best with what he's got, it is all any of us can do. The fellows who didn't even make it to the games are still champions, they made a decision to try.
When musicians become dispirited, as I have recently, I remind them of how magnificent they are for following their desire and believing in themselves. Millions will play guitar in their bedrooms and wonder if they could, a few stand up and do. The decision to create an identity and be a musician is the stuff of life, it is wonderful beyond words. I need to stop and tell myself this too.
Not many of us are born with the limbs and heart of a sprinter, I don't even run for the last tram. Being born with talent is a blessing. If you are so blessed, in any field, go hard at it, take the risk, cram all your talented, skillful eggs into one basket and do what you can with what you've got.
The glory is in the decision, the courage, not the result.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
This decision, this choice, can result in a gold medal, a shattered knee, missing the qualifying time by one tenth of a second and never being heard of again. The glory is not in the result, rather in the risk, putting body, heart and soul on the line, the courage to say out loud, "I desire this, I'm going as hard and fast as I can".
Musicians make a similar choice. I've worked with guys and girls who have earned gold records, who's minds have shattered. I'm the guy who just misses qualifying by the smallest margin each time. The blessing for me is that unlike an athlete my career wasn't over at thirty years of age. I'm still out there.
The result is not the point. Of course we would all enjoy fame and fortune but it is the scarcity that makes those things valuable. At the Olympics in London this year one guy will win the one hundred metre sprint, one in four years, out of all the athletes who train daily only one. Every athlete does his best with what he's got, it is all any of us can do. The fellows who didn't even make it to the games are still champions, they made a decision to try.
When musicians become dispirited, as I have recently, I remind them of how magnificent they are for following their desire and believing in themselves. Millions will play guitar in their bedrooms and wonder if they could, a few stand up and do. The decision to create an identity and be a musician is the stuff of life, it is wonderful beyond words. I need to stop and tell myself this too.
Not many of us are born with the limbs and heart of a sprinter, I don't even run for the last tram. Being born with talent is a blessing. If you are so blessed, in any field, go hard at it, take the risk, cram all your talented, skillful eggs into one basket and do what you can with what you've got.
The glory is in the decision, the courage, not the result.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Pablo Picasso On Life.
“People want to find a meaning in everything and everyone. That's the disease of our age...”
Pablo Picasso.
A cigar is just a cigar, a human is just a human. This isn't an Easter Egg Hunt, no creator left secret, hidden meanings around the garden for us to find.
What does "meaning" mean anyway?
On Guernica.
"...this bull is a bull and this horse is a horse... If you give a meaning to certain things in my paintings it may be very true, but it is not my idea to give this meaning. What ideas and conclusions you have got I obtained too, but instinctively, unconsciously. I make the painting for the painting. I paint the objects for what they are."
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Pablo Picasso.
A cigar is just a cigar, a human is just a human. This isn't an Easter Egg Hunt, no creator left secret, hidden meanings around the garden for us to find.
What does "meaning" mean anyway?
On Guernica.
"...this bull is a bull and this horse is a horse... If you give a meaning to certain things in my paintings it may be very true, but it is not my idea to give this meaning. What ideas and conclusions you have got I obtained too, but instinctively, unconsciously. I make the painting for the painting. I paint the objects for what they are."
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Where To Find Me.
This is where you'll find me in the evenings when I'm in Melbourne. Drop in when you are in town.
Spaghetti Philosophy.
So I've plunged my fork into the spaghetti, twirled it on my spoon, lifted a haphazard mouthful, it looks like a ball of wool that a kitten has gotten hold of. I've been clumsy, taken too much, dangling spaghetti is going to land on my chin, splash my shirt, but I've realized too late, the fork is already in my mouth. It is a table manners disaster.
Do I bite off the stragglers, let them fall back into the bowl? Or do I slurp? Both are appalling options, what kind of gentleman am I?
The problem is that I let it get to this point in the first place. A gentleman pays attention to detail, he isn't hasty, lazy with his manners. He takes the time to learn how to twirl spaghetti on his fork accurately, doesn't leave his manners to chance.
A gentleman applies his approach to spaghetti twirling to the rest of his life. In relationships, in business, in society, he takes the time to understand the culture, deports himself thoughtfully. A relationship is a culture of two, taking the time to gently understand her is essential to loving beautifully. For a gentleman business is a pursuit, greed, hustling for money is poor form. Society must be endured, why not make it glamorous and courteous?
A boy child can be taught how to eat spaghetti properly. Teaching him why it is important takes time and the child's own mistakes and experience. This boy child forgot his manners, twirled too much spaghetti, forgot to listen carefully to his lover. Because I am a gentleman I will redress my manners, amend my behaviour.
Right now I'm just going to eat spaghetti.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Do I bite off the stragglers, let them fall back into the bowl? Or do I slurp? Both are appalling options, what kind of gentleman am I?
The problem is that I let it get to this point in the first place. A gentleman pays attention to detail, he isn't hasty, lazy with his manners. He takes the time to learn how to twirl spaghetti on his fork accurately, doesn't leave his manners to chance.
A gentleman applies his approach to spaghetti twirling to the rest of his life. In relationships, in business, in society, he takes the time to understand the culture, deports himself thoughtfully. A relationship is a culture of two, taking the time to gently understand her is essential to loving beautifully. For a gentleman business is a pursuit, greed, hustling for money is poor form. Society must be endured, why not make it glamorous and courteous?
A boy child can be taught how to eat spaghetti properly. Teaching him why it is important takes time and the child's own mistakes and experience. This boy child forgot his manners, twirled too much spaghetti, forgot to listen carefully to his lover. Because I am a gentleman I will redress my manners, amend my behaviour.
Right now I'm just going to eat spaghetti.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Charles Chaplin On Life.
“What do you want meaning for? Life is desire, not meaning.”
Charles Chaplin, My Life In Pictures.
I see this as the fundamental philosophical split in humanity, those who seek truth in a higher meaning, those who seek truth in their own humanity. You've probably already guessed that I am of the latter school. Someone I love dearly is of the former school. I'm not sure we will ever find a middle ground, it really is a fundamental split.
Without desire we cannot create. Without desire we would be wordless, hairless apes without the sophistication to discuss the difference between meaning and desire. Meaning? Who needs it? No one can really tell me what it is let alone why I should need or want it.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Charles Chaplin, My Life In Pictures.
I see this as the fundamental philosophical split in humanity, those who seek truth in a higher meaning, those who seek truth in their own humanity. You've probably already guessed that I am of the latter school. Someone I love dearly is of the former school. I'm not sure we will ever find a middle ground, it really is a fundamental split.
Without desire we cannot create. Without desire we would be wordless, hairless apes without the sophistication to discuss the difference between meaning and desire. Meaning? Who needs it? No one can really tell me what it is let alone why I should need or want it.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The Walk Of Love.
So I'm walking behind this lady for a few blocks. Not following her or anything weird like that, we happen to be walking in the same direction. She is a large boned lass, struggling in high heels, adjusting the dress that clings to her ample bottom constantly, ensuring the split doesn't display her knickers. I'm strolling, she is battling, she is so courageous I love her for it. She stops, employs a shop window to make a final adjustment, walks a further two shops down the street. Her man meets her at the door. He smiles involuntarily, she looks so flushed and worried and beautiful, he wraps her in an instinctive hug, completely ruins the line of her dress. She suddenly doesn't care about the dress.
I hope that in the morning, faced with track pants and t shirt, he hugs her just as enthusiastically, loves her just as instinctively. He should, she is loveable, lovely, loving.
I walk on smiling. You see, I wasn't following her, we just happened to be going the same way for a while. I'm so glad we were. She has given me joy and hope, as all love does.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I hope that in the morning, faced with track pants and t shirt, he hugs her just as enthusiastically, loves her just as instinctively. He should, she is loveable, lovely, loving.
I walk on smiling. You see, I wasn't following her, we just happened to be going the same way for a while. I'm so glad we were. She has given me joy and hope, as all love does.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
My Guilty Secret.
I've discovered that I have rather a skewed view of the world I live in. I really do. It perverts my thinking, makes me an outcast, I'm considered a fool. You see, the problem is, I'm a romantic. There, I've said it.
I'm a romantic in a world obsessed with status and wealth, with being busy and tired, with how others perceive us, a giant reality television show. Some even believe they are being watched by a god, they keep busy in order to keep him entertained, as if the wonders of the universe they believe he created aren't enough for him. To me this appears to be a mass psychosis, a denial of death, a crazy headlong rush to nowhere. To everyone else I'm just another fucking weirdo.
As long as the movie runs less than ninety minutes people will watch romance on a screen, they'll read about it, they see romance as a fantasy. For a moment they wish someone would stand in the rain outside their window, playing "their song" on a portable stereo, if it happened in real life they'd call the cops, as if they aren't already sleep deprived, tell their friends about being stalked.
This medicalized culture calls a romantic obsessive, like being obsessed is a bad thing. Pills are often prescribed to prevent the delusion that beauty, truth, romance lies in every moment of every day. To see romance everywhere, in everything and everyone is clearly an illness.
I see romance in this life. I'm sorry, I shouldn't talk about it in public. I do. I can't help it. It all seems so obvious. All these crazy humans scurrying about doing who knows what, when all they really want is to feel loved, to love. All the busy stuff is an elaborate mating dance, the problem is everyone is dancing so self consciously, so egotisticly, they've forgotten what the dance is for.
Without this pursuit of romance, of love, humans would never have evolved. It is fundamentally what makes us human, what drives us. Call me crazy, I want to pursue romance, lap up every moment of romance, celebrate romance.
I'm sorry if this public display of my deviant mind embarrasses you. I'm glad I have it off my chest.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I'm a romantic in a world obsessed with status and wealth, with being busy and tired, with how others perceive us, a giant reality television show. Some even believe they are being watched by a god, they keep busy in order to keep him entertained, as if the wonders of the universe they believe he created aren't enough for him. To me this appears to be a mass psychosis, a denial of death, a crazy headlong rush to nowhere. To everyone else I'm just another fucking weirdo.
As long as the movie runs less than ninety minutes people will watch romance on a screen, they'll read about it, they see romance as a fantasy. For a moment they wish someone would stand in the rain outside their window, playing "their song" on a portable stereo, if it happened in real life they'd call the cops, as if they aren't already sleep deprived, tell their friends about being stalked.
This medicalized culture calls a romantic obsessive, like being obsessed is a bad thing. Pills are often prescribed to prevent the delusion that beauty, truth, romance lies in every moment of every day. To see romance everywhere, in everything and everyone is clearly an illness.
I see romance in this life. I'm sorry, I shouldn't talk about it in public. I do. I can't help it. It all seems so obvious. All these crazy humans scurrying about doing who knows what, when all they really want is to feel loved, to love. All the busy stuff is an elaborate mating dance, the problem is everyone is dancing so self consciously, so egotisticly, they've forgotten what the dance is for.
Without this pursuit of romance, of love, humans would never have evolved. It is fundamentally what makes us human, what drives us. Call me crazy, I want to pursue romance, lap up every moment of romance, celebrate romance.
I'm sorry if this public display of my deviant mind embarrasses you. I'm glad I have it off my chest.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Vincent Van Gogh On Art And Love.
"The more I think about it, the more I realize there is nothing more artistic than to love others."
Vincent Van Gogh.
Every artist I know is hopeless at love. They love too fully and urgently, it scares people.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Vincent Van Gogh.
Every artist I know is hopeless at love. They love too fully and urgently, it scares people.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Monday, February 20, 2012
Testing A New App.
Trying a new blog app. Can I post photographs accurately? Why not test it with Miss Bardot? At the age of sixteen a photo like this one woke me up to women, the idea that after girls there would be women. Oh happy day!
Give Us One Hour.
Love doesn't happen at some apocryphal date in the future when we are "in the right place", it happens right here and right now, or not at all.
Give us one hour by the bay, watching the waves, feeling Earth spin, the light change, the salt on our lips, sit with me quietly and feel it all. Feel time pass, feel now, the passing parade of strangers behind us, feel that we are no longer strangers, that we can sit and feel this hour together.
There is no future time, no future place, there is us, right here, right now, one hour of feeling Earth spin and us with it.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Give us one hour by the bay, watching the waves, feeling Earth spin, the light change, the salt on our lips, sit with me quietly and feel it all. Feel time pass, feel now, the passing parade of strangers behind us, feel that we are no longer strangers, that we can sit and feel this hour together.
There is no future time, no future place, there is us, right here, right now, one hour of feeling Earth spin and us with it.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Frank Lloyd Wright On Form And Function.
"Form follows function - that has been misunderstood. Form and function should be one, joined in a spiritual union."
Frank Lloyd Wright.
In this age of the triumph of form over content, when the lighting rig is the star of the show, these words are important. Frank Lloyd Wright didn't always get it right, one of his houses is impossible for human habitation because the surrounding water features make so much noise, resonate throughout constantly. He mostly got it right.
When form and function, form and content, are one we create art, as good a definition as any.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Frank Lloyd Wright.
In this age of the triumph of form over content, when the lighting rig is the star of the show, these words are important. Frank Lloyd Wright didn't always get it right, one of his houses is impossible for human habitation because the surrounding water features make so much noise, resonate throughout constantly. He mostly got it right.
When form and function, form and content, are one we create art, as good a definition as any.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I've Been Where You Are Now.
I've been where you are now. I was outside the metropolitan area and the meter was still running, turned out empty pockets, turned out of the cab, they don't accept credit in the realms of the dead.
I had to find my own way back. It took time, but now I know the way. Let me show you.
I've been where you are now.
Who knows how many locals scaled the highest mountain before Hillary and his funny English name for it came along? They climbed, pissed on the peak, climbed down again. They didn't speak of it again. All they felt was lonely, everyone they loved was below them, height meant nothing.
They went where you are now. When the ice melts we'll see the skeletons of all those who didn't make it back, who's last act was pissing alone on a mountain top.
I've been where you are now. Take my hand. I know the way back.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I had to find my own way back. It took time, but now I know the way. Let me show you.
I've been where you are now.
Who knows how many locals scaled the highest mountain before Hillary and his funny English name for it came along? They climbed, pissed on the peak, climbed down again. They didn't speak of it again. All they felt was lonely, everyone they loved was below them, height meant nothing.
They went where you are now. When the ice melts we'll see the skeletons of all those who didn't make it back, who's last act was pissing alone on a mountain top.
I've been where you are now. Take my hand. I know the way back.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Toulouse Lautrec On Love.
"Love is when the desire to be desired takes you so badly that you feel you could die of it."
Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.
One of the saddest feelings is when you think you'll die of yearning, but you don't.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec.
One of the saddest feelings is when you think you'll die of yearning, but you don't.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Men And Deep Emotion.
The defence cites Mr. Ludwig Van Beethoven and Mr. Pablo Picasso. We could produce nearly every major artist from the last five hundred years, to keep it simple for the jury these two will do to prove that men are capable of deep emotion, delicate and powerful expression.
Men have been snowed, told we are too clumsy to handle the delicate china. Told enough times we believe, what we believe becomes true. We are afraid that we will break anything we touch, that touches us. It's simply not true. Men can be as tender as anyone else. By anyone else I mean women.
Us menfolk need to reclaim our right to deep emotion. There is nothing emotionally wrong with us. We are the sons of Beethoven and Picasso, there is nothing we can't feel or express. Our culture tells us that women are the emotional ones, that the way women feel and express feelings are the correct ways. The way men feel and express themselves are the right ways for men and perfectly good.
Rembrandt, Davis, Bach, Van Gogh, need I go on? Men are complex, thoughtful, intense, powerful, intelligent, resilient. When we doubt ourselves we just need to think of Beethoven and Picasso, that we have been fooled, that we are emotionally deep and as able to express it as anyone else.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Men have been snowed, told we are too clumsy to handle the delicate china. Told enough times we believe, what we believe becomes true. We are afraid that we will break anything we touch, that touches us. It's simply not true. Men can be as tender as anyone else. By anyone else I mean women.
Us menfolk need to reclaim our right to deep emotion. There is nothing emotionally wrong with us. We are the sons of Beethoven and Picasso, there is nothing we can't feel or express. Our culture tells us that women are the emotional ones, that the way women feel and express feelings are the correct ways. The way men feel and express themselves are the right ways for men and perfectly good.
Rembrandt, Davis, Bach, Van Gogh, need I go on? Men are complex, thoughtful, intense, powerful, intelligent, resilient. When we doubt ourselves we just need to think of Beethoven and Picasso, that we have been fooled, that we are emotionally deep and as able to express it as anyone else.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Coco Chanel On Love.
“Passion goes, boredom remains.”
Coco Chanel.
Oh, Coco, why so bleak? It is often true, but doesn't need to be. Passion is internal, expressed through another. Shallow passion based on appearance goes rapidly. Real passion, based on resonance, remains, is never boring.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Coco Chanel.
Oh, Coco, why so bleak? It is often true, but doesn't need to be. Passion is internal, expressed through another. Shallow passion based on appearance goes rapidly. Real passion, based on resonance, remains, is never boring.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Worth Doing?
School teachers used to tell me, "if it is worth doing it is worth doing well". The shit they wanted me to do wasn't worth doing, I was doing it because I had to, so the saying didn't fit. It's only when we have choices, what to do, what to walk away from, that this saying takes hold. It's a good saying, it is making me think right now.
Choice is a mixed blessing. I have three musical options in my life, enjoy them all, but I wander between all three, a jack of all. If someone broke into my house and stole two choices I would thank them. To become a master of one trade I need to make a choice, what is worth doing?
Once a task is taken on the work is easy enough. It can be hard some days, not that hard. The hard bit is the choice. What is worth doing? What will satisfy me on my death bed? What will I look back on with pride, a feeling that I contributed something, that I took on something worth doing and did it well?
Love is worth doing. Raising a family is worth doing. A man also needs to do something in the world, be something. A brick layer can walk away from a job knowing he did it well, that his work will be useful to generations. As a musician what makes the work worthwhile? Is it spreading some joy or creating some art? I'm no Beethoven, my work won't be played by generations into the future, what can I do that contributes to humanity, that makes a difference?
These questions are unanswered for me. Perhaps I take myself too seriously? Perhaps I do. If I don't, who else will? In the meantime spreading some love and joy around aren't bad things to do, I just can't help this nagging feeling there is something more I can do.
What is worth doing, and therefore doing well? So many choices, so little time.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Choice is a mixed blessing. I have three musical options in my life, enjoy them all, but I wander between all three, a jack of all. If someone broke into my house and stole two choices I would thank them. To become a master of one trade I need to make a choice, what is worth doing?
Once a task is taken on the work is easy enough. It can be hard some days, not that hard. The hard bit is the choice. What is worth doing? What will satisfy me on my death bed? What will I look back on with pride, a feeling that I contributed something, that I took on something worth doing and did it well?
Love is worth doing. Raising a family is worth doing. A man also needs to do something in the world, be something. A brick layer can walk away from a job knowing he did it well, that his work will be useful to generations. As a musician what makes the work worthwhile? Is it spreading some joy or creating some art? I'm no Beethoven, my work won't be played by generations into the future, what can I do that contributes to humanity, that makes a difference?
These questions are unanswered for me. Perhaps I take myself too seriously? Perhaps I do. If I don't, who else will? In the meantime spreading some love and joy around aren't bad things to do, I just can't help this nagging feeling there is something more I can do.
What is worth doing, and therefore doing well? So many choices, so little time.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Saturday, February 18, 2012
Coco Chanel On Identity.
“How many cares one loses when one decides not to be something but to be someone.”
Coco Chanel.
This idea of an identity, usually self created, comes up a lot with folks who create stuff. Identity is trained out of us as we learn to "behave", we often have to start again and create it for ourselves. It is a kind of freedom, from expectation, of who we "should" be.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Coco Chanel.
This idea of an identity, usually self created, comes up a lot with folks who create stuff. Identity is trained out of us as we learn to "behave", we often have to start again and create it for ourselves. It is a kind of freedom, from expectation, of who we "should" be.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Getting Stuff Working Again.
This is not a day for working. It is a day for hanging out, watching the funny humans, imagining their lives, contemplating my own. In a way this is working for me.
After six months of wondering what the hell I do on this planet I'm finally forming some idea in my mind. I've been like an electrician faced with roughly seven thousand differently coloured wires to sort out, to disconnect, or connect, or twist together, or whatever it is that electricians do with wires. Doing this in darkness has made it more difficult. Finally they are nearly sorted, the lights are coming on, I can see what I'm doing.
I'll get back to it all tomorrow. There is no urgency now I can see. Today I sit and ponder, the not working that is kind of work in a way.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
After six months of wondering what the hell I do on this planet I'm finally forming some idea in my mind. I've been like an electrician faced with roughly seven thousand differently coloured wires to sort out, to disconnect, or connect, or twist together, or whatever it is that electricians do with wires. Doing this in darkness has made it more difficult. Finally they are nearly sorted, the lights are coming on, I can see what I'm doing.
I'll get back to it all tomorrow. There is no urgency now I can see. Today I sit and ponder, the not working that is kind of work in a way.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Mrs. Beeton On Servants.
"The treatment of servants is of the highest possible moment, as well to the mistress as to the domestics themselves. On the head of the house the latter will naturally fix their attention; and if they perceive that the mistress's conduct is regulated by high and correct principles, they will not fail to respect her. If, also, a benevolent desire is shown to promote their comfort, at the same time that a steady performance of their duty is exacted, then their respect will not be unmingled with affection, and they will be still more solicitous to continue to deserve her favour."
Mrs. Beeton.
Egomaniac ex hippies in Northern California made a fortune out of rewriting this stuff as corporate management culture.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Mrs. Beeton.
Egomaniac ex hippies in Northern California made a fortune out of rewriting this stuff as corporate management culture.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Suits.
Some days it seems every knob in a suit in the city is wearing the same shirt.
I take a breath, try to be more generous of spirit.
I imagine one individual, going home after work, hanging up jacket and trousers, removing the uniform shirt, standing in front of the mirror in his socks and underpants, and still being a knob.
I shouldn't blame the shirt.
It's like that question, "does this dress make my bum look big?". It isn't fair to blame some cut and stitched fabric, it's what's inside that counts.
Collins Street 5p.m. John Brack.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I take a breath, try to be more generous of spirit.
I imagine one individual, going home after work, hanging up jacket and trousers, removing the uniform shirt, standing in front of the mirror in his socks and underpants, and still being a knob.
I shouldn't blame the shirt.
It's like that question, "does this dress make my bum look big?". It isn't fair to blame some cut and stitched fabric, it's what's inside that counts.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Friday, February 17, 2012
Aldous Huxley On Normality.
“The real hopeless victims of mental illness are to be found among those who appear to be most normal. "Many of them are normal because they are so well adjusted to our mode of existence, because their human voice has been silenced so early in their lives, that they do not even struggle or suffer or develop symptoms as the neurotic does." They are normal not in what may be called the absolute sense of the word; they are normal only in relation to a profoundly abnormal society. Their perfect adjustment to that abnormal society is a measure of their mental sickness. These millions of abnormally normal people, living without fuss in a society to which, if they were fully human beings, they ought not to be adjusted.”
Aldous Huxley, Brave New World Revisited.
I don't dare add anything to this.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Aldous Huxley, Brave New World Revisited.
I don't dare add anything to this.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Water Obstacle.
Horse and rider approach the water jump, a barrier with a shallow pool on the other side. There is no danger to the horse if he leaps confidently, lands normally, but he doesn't know that. The water is an unknown, he is right to be wary, even though the danger is an illusion. The rider tries to express confidence, let her horse know that all is well.
"Trust me, trust me, all will be well."
The voice in my head is soothing, telling me to leap. I can't allow the perceived hazard to bluff me. I know the water is shallow. I won't drown even if it all goes wrong.
When horse and rider trust each other great leaps are possible.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
"Trust me, trust me, all will be well."
The voice in my head is soothing, telling me to leap. I can't allow the perceived hazard to bluff me. I know the water is shallow. I won't drown even if it all goes wrong.
When horse and rider trust each other great leaps are possible.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Aldous Huxley On Creativity.
“The secret of genius is to carry the spirit of the child into old age, which means never losing your enthusiasm.”
Aldous Huxley.
This idea, maintaining the child, playing, comes up again and again, from people who created stuff. It is frowned upon by those who know better. What do they know?
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Aldous Huxley.
This idea, maintaining the child, playing, comes up again and again, from people who created stuff. It is frowned upon by those who know better. What do they know?
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Cardboard Cutout Culture.
Ever more sophisticated humans living in an ever more phony world. J. D. Salinger was a prophet. Folks complain that Holden Caulfield was a spoiled rich kid, he should have been satisfied. What better vehicle to represent our culture now? Mr. Salinger could write a bit, didn't write his characters by accident.
Of course mental illness abounds, of course everyone needs pills to make their brains feel good. When the choice is dumbing down or going mad there is no good option.
Dazzled by the lights we don't see that it's a cardboard cutout on the stage. If you notice, point it out, it is you who has a problem. It's easier to pop a soma and forget about it.
Confused by the spin we don't notice that the politician is a cardboard cutout. Tempted by the money we don't notice that the businessman is a cardboard cutout. Swindled by prettiness we don't notice that the lover is a cardboard cutout.
The blonde lead the bland and we all sing along, or sing alone.
I, for one, opt out. I won't dumb down, I won't go mad. Instead I will seek out the real, create the real, live and love for real. Get real or get fucked, keep your phony and your half arsed and your celebrity and your shallow end.
Mr. Salinger wrote it into a gorgeous story, more than once. We all know where this culture is headed. We are the culture. We can take it back and make it real, point out the cardboard cutouts when we see them, knock them over, or succumb to an autotuned life.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Of course mental illness abounds, of course everyone needs pills to make their brains feel good. When the choice is dumbing down or going mad there is no good option.
Dazzled by the lights we don't see that it's a cardboard cutout on the stage. If you notice, point it out, it is you who has a problem. It's easier to pop a soma and forget about it.
Confused by the spin we don't notice that the politician is a cardboard cutout. Tempted by the money we don't notice that the businessman is a cardboard cutout. Swindled by prettiness we don't notice that the lover is a cardboard cutout.
The blonde lead the bland and we all sing along, or sing alone.
I, for one, opt out. I won't dumb down, I won't go mad. Instead I will seek out the real, create the real, live and love for real. Get real or get fucked, keep your phony and your half arsed and your celebrity and your shallow end.
Mr. Salinger wrote it into a gorgeous story, more than once. We all know where this culture is headed. We are the culture. We can take it back and make it real, point out the cardboard cutouts when we see them, knock them over, or succumb to an autotuned life.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Dustin Hoffman On Talent And Relationships.
“If you have this enormous talent, it's got you by the balls, it's a demon. You can't be a family man and a husband and a caring person and be that animal. Dickens wasn't that nice a guy.”
Dustin Hoffman.
Artists and good relationships, may as well go in search of unicorns.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Dustin Hoffman.
Artists and good relationships, may as well go in search of unicorns.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Clocks And Humans.
The workings of an old fashioned wind up clock are fairly easy to understand. Every part is aimed at the same purpose, making the hands on the face go around at the correct pace. Given time most people could work out what all the parts do because we comprehend the unified purpose, the aim.
Humans aren't like clocks. Individually they are conflicted, contain a collection of different desires and purposes. Collectively the differences are multiplied. It is near impossible to pull a human or a culture apart, identify the broken part and fix it. It is foolishness to try, you will most likely break another part as you do.
Sometimes you just have to accept that a fellow human keeps a different time to you.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Humans aren't like clocks. Individually they are conflicted, contain a collection of different desires and purposes. Collectively the differences are multiplied. It is near impossible to pull a human or a culture apart, identify the broken part and fix it. It is foolishness to try, you will most likely break another part as you do.
Sometimes you just have to accept that a fellow human keeps a different time to you.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Robert De Niro On Motivation.
"When I was a teenager, I went to the Dramatic Workshop at the New School. The school had a lot of actors under the GI Bill -- Rod Steiger, Harry Belafonte, the generation ahead of me. I went in there and the director said to me, Vy do you vant to be an acteh?" I didn`t know how to answer, so I didn`t say anything. And he said, "To express yourself!" And I said, "Yeah, yeah, that`s it. That`s right."
Robert De Niro.
There is a lovely humanity in this story, and that Mr. De Niro can tell it about himself.
I'm not sure we need to know why we want to do anything, just wanting to do it is enough. Better to expend energy on finding what we like, what we desire, what we want to do, then doing it, rather than trying to work out why.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Robert De Niro.
There is a lovely humanity in this story, and that Mr. De Niro can tell it about himself.
I'm not sure we need to know why we want to do anything, just wanting to do it is enough. Better to expend energy on finding what we like, what we desire, what we want to do, then doing it, rather than trying to work out why.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Islam? I Don't Know.
Decades ago the civilized world united against the racially based apartheid of South Africa. I'm told I should be tolerant and try to understand Islam but as long as the religion and the culture practise gender based apartheid I just can't. While one half of the people have rights that the other half don't I don't want to hear another word.
It is 2012 and that shit is medieval.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
It is 2012 and that shit is medieval.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Claude Monet On Atmosphere.
“For me, a landscape does not exist in its own right, since its appearance changes at every moment; but the surrounding atmosphere brings it to life - the light and the air which vary continually. For me, it is only the surrounding atmosphere which gives subjects their true value.”
Claude Monet.
I love it when the ideas from one form of art collide with another. Occasionally you hear a musician who can create that "love in the room" atmosphere. The song is one thing, the atmosphere illuminates it, creates true beauty in performance.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Claude Monet.
I love it when the ideas from one form of art collide with another. Occasionally you hear a musician who can create that "love in the room" atmosphere. The song is one thing, the atmosphere illuminates it, creates true beauty in performance.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Karma? I Don't Know.
I can't seem to get a grip on karma, what it is. Everyone tells me something different.
Is it a cosmic swapmeet? I'll trade you these good deeds for some luck with my lovelife? Or a giant scoreboard, Universe versus Me? Some tell me the spirit in which actions and words are undertaken is more important than the actions and words, it ain't whatcha' do but the way thatcha' do it. Yet others have concrete rules, certain acts are karmically positive, others negative. What am I supposed to believe?
Add to this the whole reincarnation fiasco, karma carrying on into the next life, like tennis players getting seeded, an easier draw in return for past success. Confusion abounds.
I once suggested to some hippy friends that there are karma free people, those who act appallingly, selfishly, yet live long happy lives surrounded with love and riches. The hippies were crestfallen, disappointed in me. I was amazed they had never considered the possibility, the evidence is everywhere, there are people like this, if karma exists how can these people exist too?
I don't like the idea of a rewards based system, frequent flyer miles for regular good deeds, corporate karma. Virtue is supposed to be it's own reward, so they say. If the spirit of your actions counts seeking reward doesn't really fit.
Eventually it comes back to the question of faith. Do you believe that someone or something set up a karmic system of justice? If so, who or what? Is there some cosmic court taking note of our behaviour, handing out punishments and rewards accordingly? Of course there isn't. If I'm wrong, if there is such a court, I demand the right of appeal against most of it's judgements, the higher powers have gotten it wrong again and again. How many good people have been shat on by life, how many arseholes have thrived? Karma my arse!
I guess if I could get a grip on what karma actually is I might have more faith in it. As it stands the folks who believe in it can't tell me. I believe they like it that way, a wishy washy panacea to make them feel better about living in this godless void.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Is it a cosmic swapmeet? I'll trade you these good deeds for some luck with my lovelife? Or a giant scoreboard, Universe versus Me? Some tell me the spirit in which actions and words are undertaken is more important than the actions and words, it ain't whatcha' do but the way thatcha' do it. Yet others have concrete rules, certain acts are karmically positive, others negative. What am I supposed to believe?
Add to this the whole reincarnation fiasco, karma carrying on into the next life, like tennis players getting seeded, an easier draw in return for past success. Confusion abounds.
I once suggested to some hippy friends that there are karma free people, those who act appallingly, selfishly, yet live long happy lives surrounded with love and riches. The hippies were crestfallen, disappointed in me. I was amazed they had never considered the possibility, the evidence is everywhere, there are people like this, if karma exists how can these people exist too?
I don't like the idea of a rewards based system, frequent flyer miles for regular good deeds, corporate karma. Virtue is supposed to be it's own reward, so they say. If the spirit of your actions counts seeking reward doesn't really fit.
Eventually it comes back to the question of faith. Do you believe that someone or something set up a karmic system of justice? If so, who or what? Is there some cosmic court taking note of our behaviour, handing out punishments and rewards accordingly? Of course there isn't. If I'm wrong, if there is such a court, I demand the right of appeal against most of it's judgements, the higher powers have gotten it wrong again and again. How many good people have been shat on by life, how many arseholes have thrived? Karma my arse!
I guess if I could get a grip on what karma actually is I might have more faith in it. As it stands the folks who believe in it can't tell me. I believe they like it that way, a wishy washy panacea to make them feel better about living in this godless void.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Claude Monet On Being An Artist.
“No one is an artist unless he carries his picture in his head before painting it, and is sure of his method and composition.”
Claude Monet.
I love this. As an improvising musician I hear a lot of crap about inspiration, not much about getting your shit together. I hear guitarists talking of their spiritual approach then forgetting to tune their instrument. I hear talk of channeling the greats but not much about getting the space inside the head in shape, knowing yourself, your own voice, your own identity and approach.
Carrying your picture in your head, knowing how you feel it, advice I'll pay attention to.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Claude Monet.
I love this. As an improvising musician I hear a lot of crap about inspiration, not much about getting your shit together. I hear guitarists talking of their spiritual approach then forgetting to tune their instrument. I hear talk of channeling the greats but not much about getting the space inside the head in shape, knowing yourself, your own voice, your own identity and approach.
Carrying your picture in your head, knowing how you feel it, advice I'll pay attention to.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Last Night Monet Painted The Bay For Me.
Last night Claude Monet painted the bay for me. Greys, blues, faded yellows, it was very kind of him to go to so much trouble, a vast canvass.
The clouds broke, just a litte, about two thirds of the way up the picture, on the far right side. I realized I had walked in before the work was complete. The last of the red sunset glowed through the gap, Claude, we are on first name terms now, drew out every shade of pink from it, dappled it lazily over the still water, divided sea from sky.
The painting lasted just ten minutes, the first twinkle of electric light sparkled for a moment then night covered the canvass. Ten minutes was enough, to watch the master at work, to be in his presence, I didn't need to take the painting home with me.
Last night Claude Monet painted the bay for me and I am grateful.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The clouds broke, just a litte, about two thirds of the way up the picture, on the far right side. I realized I had walked in before the work was complete. The last of the red sunset glowed through the gap, Claude, we are on first name terms now, drew out every shade of pink from it, dappled it lazily over the still water, divided sea from sky.
The painting lasted just ten minutes, the first twinkle of electric light sparkled for a moment then night covered the canvass. Ten minutes was enough, to watch the master at work, to be in his presence, I didn't need to take the painting home with me.
Last night Claude Monet painted the bay for me and I am grateful.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Blind Gods, Visionless Humans.
Those giant heads on Easter Island once gazed out to sea, into the night sky. Now they are blind.
The humans who believed in them, created them, once came to sit with them, to share their vision. The god would enjoy the intensity of mortality, the human could experience the void and wonder.
Now tourists come to have their photograph taken with the giant heads. They see through a frame, not through the eyes of gods.
The indigenous inhabitants depleted all the earthly requirementents for life from this place, moved on, their gods were simply too large to come with them. Abandoned, the gods gazed one last time at the endless ocean, the endless sky, closed their eyes to humanity. The humans closed their eyes to their gods.
Blind gods, curiosities, beheld by the visionless.
Or perhaps there was never enough dry flat land on Easter Island for anyone to invent football and building giant heads was just their thing?
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The humans who believed in them, created them, once came to sit with them, to share their vision. The god would enjoy the intensity of mortality, the human could experience the void and wonder.
Now tourists come to have their photograph taken with the giant heads. They see through a frame, not through the eyes of gods.
The indigenous inhabitants depleted all the earthly requirementents for life from this place, moved on, their gods were simply too large to come with them. Abandoned, the gods gazed one last time at the endless ocean, the endless sky, closed their eyes to humanity. The humans closed their eyes to their gods.
Blind gods, curiosities, beheld by the visionless.
Or perhaps there was never enough dry flat land on Easter Island for anyone to invent football and building giant heads was just their thing?
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Magic.
It wasn't magic. He turned his lips into tiny, delicate bellows, breathed life back into the lungs of the Phoenix. Ever so gently, lovingly, he held the wonderful bird until it could breathe for itself, fly majestically away, never looking back.
Everyone was watching the Phoenix, no one noticed how badly the ashes had burned his hands.
Everyone said that she recovered as if by magic, took wing, never looked back.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Everyone was watching the Phoenix, no one noticed how badly the ashes had burned his hands.
Everyone said that she recovered as if by magic, took wing, never looked back.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
John Gielgud On Identity.
“Before you can do something you must first be something.”
John Gielgud.
What a crazy old fashioned notion.
Many artists of every kind talk about the importance of identity. It's something I'm learning late in life, partly through writing this blog. Personality has become a buzzword, it generally denotes bubbly inanity. To bring your own personality, identity to any task is to make that task your own, make it real and individual and original.
You have to be something.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
John Gielgud.
What a crazy old fashioned notion.
Many artists of every kind talk about the importance of identity. It's something I'm learning late in life, partly through writing this blog. Personality has become a buzzword, it generally denotes bubbly inanity. To bring your own personality, identity to any task is to make that task your own, make it real and individual and original.
You have to be something.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Foolishness And Being A Fool.
A man in love will act foolishly. There is nothing we can do about it. He will say and do things he wouldn't usually say and do. It's a rule, there is no point fighting it.
And why fight it? A spot of going out on a limb is the kind of tightrope performance that pleases a lady, there is no more romantic image than a man practising his getting down on one knee act in front of his mirror.
There is a line where being foolish becomes making a fool of oneself. A tightrope walker thrills, a clown amuses. Being a fool is never cool. If you find yourself having to perform more and more foolish acts to maintain her attention she isn't worthy of your art.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
And why fight it? A spot of going out on a limb is the kind of tightrope performance that pleases a lady, there is no more romantic image than a man practising his getting down on one knee act in front of his mirror.
There is a line where being foolish becomes making a fool of oneself. A tightrope walker thrills, a clown amuses. Being a fool is never cool. If you find yourself having to perform more and more foolish acts to maintain her attention she isn't worthy of your art.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Mark Hamill On Acting.
“I can't tell you how much we laughed on the set to have Alec Guinness in a scene with a big, furry dog that's flying a space ship.”
Mark Hamill.
Aah, the dignity in being a working actor.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Mark Hamill.
Aah, the dignity in being a working actor.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Comforting Words.
"Would you like fries with that?"
It's like driving through a country town, your father at the wheel, passing the cemetary, "it's the dead centre of town", if he didn't say it you'd feel bereft.
We all find comfort where can.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
It's like driving through a country town, your father at the wheel, passing the cemetary, "it's the dead centre of town", if he didn't say it you'd feel bereft.
We all find comfort where can.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Storm.
A storm is tempting me. The wind is swirling, lurching like a drunk man, blows my hair in my face no matter which way I look. It takes an experienced hand to light a cigarette in these conditions. My mug of tea on the balcony wall has tiny tear drops running down the sides, the wind has created miniature king tides, broken the tea sea wall.
I know this storm, she is beautiful.
I stand stoically still while my storm lover invites me to wildness. She knows it is in me, we ran together once. She wants me to head out into the night with her, not come home for three days, leave a trail of petty emotional vandalism behind us. Humidity closes in, my sweat mingles with the first squalls of rain.
"Leave all this half arsed shit behind, feel me on your skin, we are already becoming one again, feel the sound and fury, remember euphoria, come with me."
She knows me, she doesn't know I've changed. My heart belongs to another.
The air suddenly stands still. This is the moment. Any second now it will begin, lightning, thunder, skin soaking rain. I turn my face to the sky, let the straight down rain wash away my tears, place my palm over my tea, rinse the tears from the mug.
I know this storm. She is beautiful and seductive. I was once hers. I smile up at her, toast her with my tea, turn to walk back inside. The first lightning hits, blinds me, reminds me what I am turning my back on. Thunder shakes the windows, rattles me, hell hath no fury.
She'll forgive me, come back to tempt me again another night. She might succeed next time, she might be right. Tonight my heart belongs to another.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I know this storm, she is beautiful.
I stand stoically still while my storm lover invites me to wildness. She knows it is in me, we ran together once. She wants me to head out into the night with her, not come home for three days, leave a trail of petty emotional vandalism behind us. Humidity closes in, my sweat mingles with the first squalls of rain.
"Leave all this half arsed shit behind, feel me on your skin, we are already becoming one again, feel the sound and fury, remember euphoria, come with me."
She knows me, she doesn't know I've changed. My heart belongs to another.
The air suddenly stands still. This is the moment. Any second now it will begin, lightning, thunder, skin soaking rain. I turn my face to the sky, let the straight down rain wash away my tears, place my palm over my tea, rinse the tears from the mug.
I know this storm. She is beautiful and seductive. I was once hers. I smile up at her, toast her with my tea, turn to walk back inside. The first lightning hits, blinds me, reminds me what I am turning my back on. Thunder shakes the windows, rattles me, hell hath no fury.
She'll forgive me, come back to tempt me again another night. She might succeed next time, she might be right. Tonight my heart belongs to another.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Monday, February 13, 2012
Naked by Pablo Neruda, for the Day of Saint Valentine.
Morning XXVII
Naked.
Naked, you are simple as one of your hands,
smooth, earthy, small, transparent, round:
you have moon-lines, apple-pathways:
naked, you are slender as a naked grain of wheat.
Naked, you are blue as a night in Cuba;
you have vines and stars in your hair;
naked you are spacious and yellow
as summer in a golden church.
Naked, you are tiny as one of your nails -
curved, subtle, rosy, till the day is born
and you withdraw to the underground world,
as if down a long tunnel of clothing and of chores:
your clear light dims, gets dressed - drops its leaves -
and becomes a naked hand again.
Pablo Neruda.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Naked.
Naked, you are simple as one of your hands,
smooth, earthy, small, transparent, round:
you have moon-lines, apple-pathways:
naked, you are slender as a naked grain of wheat.
Naked, you are blue as a night in Cuba;
you have vines and stars in your hair;
naked you are spacious and yellow
as summer in a golden church.
Naked, you are tiny as one of your nails -
curved, subtle, rosy, till the day is born
and you withdraw to the underground world,
as if down a long tunnel of clothing and of chores:
your clear light dims, gets dressed - drops its leaves -
and becomes a naked hand again.
Pablo Neruda.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Thomas Malory On Chivalry.
“The very purpose of a knight is to fight on behalf of a lady.”
Thomas Malory.
For my old fashioned chivalrous friends on this day of Saint Valentine.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Thomas Malory.
For my old fashioned chivalrous friends on this day of Saint Valentine.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Those Rare Moments.
There are moments, rare, delicious moments, when the rhythm is right and the notes just fly out of the saxophone, not played by me but through me. These are the moments, the ones when I feel I'm giving it everything and everything is playing through me, the universe, these are the moments that make playing music a way of life, a state of being. I have to be technically in tune with my instrument, the hard scale and arpeggio yards done, but most of the job is in getting my head right, letting it flow, getting out of the way of it. It's one thing to be charming and entertaining, that is the frame for the picture, the art is in these beautiful rare moments of timeless connection with everything and everyone, that is when I am giving the audience something worth giving. Finding and milking these moments is my job, should be my job, I need to remind myself to make it my job amongst the distractions of daily rent paying life. A state of intellectual and emotional freedom should be my only goal when I rise each morning. Being open to and able to express every real emotion, the emotions that words can't speak. In return I feel that timeless, gorgeous love that only music can give me.
I can think about reaching this way of being in the rest of my life some other time.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I can think about reaching this way of being in the rest of my life some other time.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
George Lucas On Passion.
"You have to find something that you love enough to be able to take risks, jump over the hurdles and break through the brick walls that are always going to be placed in front of you. If you don't have that kind of feeling for what it is you are doing, you'll stop at the first giant hurdle.”
George Lucas.
Some people are born lucky, know what they want to do with their lives from childhood. Most of us have to seek it out, go searching for something that truly thrills us. Most of us never get around to it, if we don't encounter our passion accidentally we just do what comes up, keep doing it. We all have something we love to do. It doesn't really matter if you are no good at it, finding that thing and doing it is important.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
George Lucas.
Some people are born lucky, know what they want to do with their lives from childhood. Most of us have to seek it out, go searching for something that truly thrills us. Most of us never get around to it, if we don't encounter our passion accidentally we just do what comes up, keep doing it. We all have something we love to do. It doesn't really matter if you are no good at it, finding that thing and doing it is important.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The Men Crying Thing.
Last night I eavesdropped on a cafe conversation, two young couples confessing which movie made them cry. One guy was smart, admitted that at ten years old Titanic had made him cry. Suddenly in the eyes of his female companions he was a sweet boy, naturally sensitive, a little Dicaprio, all without admitting to crying as a grown man. Cunning bastard.
When you think about it there are very few things in this life that make us cry in public. The death of a loved one, I can't think of any others, not in Australian culture anyway. Crying is a private business. We might cry during a romantic break up, usually because it looks like the other person is going to, shared, private crying.
I see cultures where folks wail in public, let it all hang out. I'm not sure I'm cool with it. My British heritage denies this breaking of the stiff upper lip. I wonder if it is healthier for everyone to cry together? I guess there are places in the world where tragedy is a regular occurrence, grief has to be short, collective, now let's get back to work. We have the luxury of long, slow grief, time to cry at night. My culture honours death with quiet dignified tears, repressed bravely, it is what I'm accustomed to, on the whole I prefer it.
I've cried twice in the last year, once leaving a girl at an airport, the other time leaving a girl. On both occasions I was stoic enough to maintain some dignity, I would have preferred I didn't cry just the same. Where I come from men just don't. I know it is old fashioned but I like it that way. A man needs to be seen as strong, reliable, even when he isn't feeling it, by crying he loses that invulnerable image.
Today men are supposed to carry a sensitive image. I don't know why. No one really likes it, men or women, yet somehow sensitivity is in fashion. Most of it is faux sensitivity, a pretence, real masculine sensitivity is in his patience, emotional strength when times are tough, in his art. False tears make a mockery of manhood.
I was full of admiration for the young fellow and his cunning crying story, gaining sensitivity points without losing dignity. He found a way to be fashionable and manly at the same time. Still, I found myself liking the other guy at the table. When asked what movie made him cry he said, "I've never cried at a movie".
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
When you think about it there are very few things in this life that make us cry in public. The death of a loved one, I can't think of any others, not in Australian culture anyway. Crying is a private business. We might cry during a romantic break up, usually because it looks like the other person is going to, shared, private crying.
I see cultures where folks wail in public, let it all hang out. I'm not sure I'm cool with it. My British heritage denies this breaking of the stiff upper lip. I wonder if it is healthier for everyone to cry together? I guess there are places in the world where tragedy is a regular occurrence, grief has to be short, collective, now let's get back to work. We have the luxury of long, slow grief, time to cry at night. My culture honours death with quiet dignified tears, repressed bravely, it is what I'm accustomed to, on the whole I prefer it.
I've cried twice in the last year, once leaving a girl at an airport, the other time leaving a girl. On both occasions I was stoic enough to maintain some dignity, I would have preferred I didn't cry just the same. Where I come from men just don't. I know it is old fashioned but I like it that way. A man needs to be seen as strong, reliable, even when he isn't feeling it, by crying he loses that invulnerable image.
Today men are supposed to carry a sensitive image. I don't know why. No one really likes it, men or women, yet somehow sensitivity is in fashion. Most of it is faux sensitivity, a pretence, real masculine sensitivity is in his patience, emotional strength when times are tough, in his art. False tears make a mockery of manhood.
I was full of admiration for the young fellow and his cunning crying story, gaining sensitivity points without losing dignity. He found a way to be fashionable and manly at the same time. Still, I found myself liking the other guy at the table. When asked what movie made him cry he said, "I've never cried at a movie".
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Nathaniel Hawthorne On Progress.
“The world owes all its onward impulses to men ill at ease. The happy man inevitably confines himself within ancient limits.”
Nathaniel Hawthorne.
If schoolteacher or parent ever titled you "misfit" wear the name proudly, you are part of a fine tradition, without you we would be living in caves, wondering if capturing fire may or may not be a good idea.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Nathaniel Hawthorne.
If schoolteacher or parent ever titled you "misfit" wear the name proudly, you are part of a fine tradition, without you we would be living in caves, wondering if capturing fire may or may not be a good idea.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Who Do I Love?
Valentinus, a popular name bestowed by parents hoping their boy would grow strong and worthy. More than one martyr died under this name, a popular myth that one sainted individual married young Christian lovers despite the persecution of Emperor Claudius grew from the fiction of Chaucer and his romantic mates.
It's a sweet myth. Why not have a day to stop and ask yourself, "who do I love?".
Who do I love? One of the hardest questions we'll ever encounter. The most valiant may falter when they realize the one they are with is not the one they love. Much easier to go through the motions, a restaurant full of candlelit tables for two, an odourless hothouse rose, pantomime sex, much easier than facing the truth. If you can look in the honest mirror and say you are with the one you love you are amongst the luckiest people on earth. You can share a pizza on the lounge room floor, fish and chips on the beach, or fly your loved one to the Cartier shop in Place Vendome before dinner afloat on the Seine, your sincerity will be known no matter what you can afford.
Lovers are like dogs, they can smell insincerity, it is just another form of fear. It takes two to tango around the truth. We can also sense true love, it won't be denied. Would you marry your lover in the face of persecution, the threat of death?
A sweet myth, a fine excuse to express your true love, perhaps the day to pursue your true love. It takes courage to be happy, to answer yourself honestly when you ask who you love, to be strong and worthy like Valentinus.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
It's a sweet myth. Why not have a day to stop and ask yourself, "who do I love?".
Who do I love? One of the hardest questions we'll ever encounter. The most valiant may falter when they realize the one they are with is not the one they love. Much easier to go through the motions, a restaurant full of candlelit tables for two, an odourless hothouse rose, pantomime sex, much easier than facing the truth. If you can look in the honest mirror and say you are with the one you love you are amongst the luckiest people on earth. You can share a pizza on the lounge room floor, fish and chips on the beach, or fly your loved one to the Cartier shop in Place Vendome before dinner afloat on the Seine, your sincerity will be known no matter what you can afford.
Lovers are like dogs, they can smell insincerity, it is just another form of fear. It takes two to tango around the truth. We can also sense true love, it won't be denied. Would you marry your lover in the face of persecution, the threat of death?
A sweet myth, a fine excuse to express your true love, perhaps the day to pursue your true love. It takes courage to be happy, to answer yourself honestly when you ask who you love, to be strong and worthy like Valentinus.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Jane Austen On The Cult Of Busy.
“Life seems but a quick succession of busy nothings.”
Jane Austen, Mansfield Park.
Miss Austen predicted the common condition of our lives. Perhaps it was always thus, we have just turned this stupidity into a quality?
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Jane Austen, Mansfield Park.
Miss Austen predicted the common condition of our lives. Perhaps it was always thus, we have just turned this stupidity into a quality?
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Perceived Offence.
Years ago a well meaning social worker type talked me into undertaking an aptitude test for university entry. In her mind my mind was being wasted because it wasn't being used in the system she used hers in. An intellectual hammer seeing only intellectual nails.
One word I was asked to define was the word egregious. Up until then I'd done pretty well, I found myself stuck. I told her that as I'd only heard the word employed by politicians and pocket intellectuals a clear definition was difficult to grasp, that the word seemed to be used when some offence was perceived but no genuine harm had been done, when an offence was flagrant and obvious to the person speaking but they felt they needed to point out to all us idiots how obvious this offence was. I suggested that I couldn't define the word because the word had lost all meaning because of the people who used it, how they used it.
I believe my response may have been considered an egregious insult by the lady who was testing me. I suddenly received an icy feeling that she employed the word egregious on a regular basis.
In Australia we have laws that curtail our freedom of speech, they are tagged with the term "anti vilification". If I were a public figure I couldn't suggest that the Lebanese/Australian population in Sydney is responsible for more drug and gun crime than other immigrant groups. It is true, but I couldn't say it because I'd be seen as vilifying both a racial group and a religious group. Such a statement would be titled an egregious generalization. Some politicians and intellectuals would take offence on behalf of the repressed minority. Not one real person would take any real offence. Those involved in crime would smile quietly to themselves, those who oppose it and are embarrassed by how their countrymen make a living would agree. I could be fined and/or jailed for creating perceived offence amongst a loud minority of people who are educated beyond their own capacity.
Anyone who would dispute my statement could stand up and refute it. Taking offence is the refuge of smug intellectuals who are so busy defining everything they can't see the truth any more. They employ buzzwords such as egregious lie, egregious generalization, egregious insult instead of arguing a case. A defined problem can be tackled. Defining degrees of offence achieves nothing.
The funny thing is that the original definition of egregious, from the Latin, was to stand out from the flock. Standing out with a point of view has become offensive.
My intellectual friend reluctantly passed me on her test. I defined enough stuff to join her system, to be trained, despite my egregiously offensive depiction of politicians and intellectuals.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One word I was asked to define was the word egregious. Up until then I'd done pretty well, I found myself stuck. I told her that as I'd only heard the word employed by politicians and pocket intellectuals a clear definition was difficult to grasp, that the word seemed to be used when some offence was perceived but no genuine harm had been done, when an offence was flagrant and obvious to the person speaking but they felt they needed to point out to all us idiots how obvious this offence was. I suggested that I couldn't define the word because the word had lost all meaning because of the people who used it, how they used it.
I believe my response may have been considered an egregious insult by the lady who was testing me. I suddenly received an icy feeling that she employed the word egregious on a regular basis.
In Australia we have laws that curtail our freedom of speech, they are tagged with the term "anti vilification". If I were a public figure I couldn't suggest that the Lebanese/Australian population in Sydney is responsible for more drug and gun crime than other immigrant groups. It is true, but I couldn't say it because I'd be seen as vilifying both a racial group and a religious group. Such a statement would be titled an egregious generalization. Some politicians and intellectuals would take offence on behalf of the repressed minority. Not one real person would take any real offence. Those involved in crime would smile quietly to themselves, those who oppose it and are embarrassed by how their countrymen make a living would agree. I could be fined and/or jailed for creating perceived offence amongst a loud minority of people who are educated beyond their own capacity.
Anyone who would dispute my statement could stand up and refute it. Taking offence is the refuge of smug intellectuals who are so busy defining everything they can't see the truth any more. They employ buzzwords such as egregious lie, egregious generalization, egregious insult instead of arguing a case. A defined problem can be tackled. Defining degrees of offence achieves nothing.
The funny thing is that the original definition of egregious, from the Latin, was to stand out from the flock. Standing out with a point of view has become offensive.
My intellectual friend reluctantly passed me on her test. I defined enough stuff to join her system, to be trained, despite my egregiously offensive depiction of politicians and intellectuals.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Dr. Seuss On Love.
“You know you're in love when you can't fall asleep because reality is finally better than your dreams.”
Dr. Seuss.
Who knew he was a doctor of lurv too?
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Dr. Seuss.
Who knew he was a doctor of lurv too?
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I Like Your Bits.
I like your feet. They are small enough to be elegant, not so small as to be pretentious.
I like your ankles. Both sides. I do have a slight preference for the inside ones, they are slightly less world weary than the outside ones.
You don't like your knees. I like your knees.
I like your thighs. They are softer than a baby deer's belly.
I like your bottom.
That bit? Ooh yeah, I like that bit.
I like your ever changing belly.
Saying I like your back is like saying I like Van Gogh's work.
I like your boobs. Of course I do.
I like your neck. You can tell I like it because I keep kissing it all the time.
I like your nose. I threaten to lick it all the time to freak you out. I never will lick it. It's just cute, I don't like it that much.
Your lips, your ears, your eyes, your hair, your face. I like it all.
I'm kind of indifferent to your elbows. They seem fine, I just don't notice them so much. Other than your elbows I like all your bits. I'll remember to pay more attention to your elbows next time I see you. I'm sure they are charming.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I like your ankles. Both sides. I do have a slight preference for the inside ones, they are slightly less world weary than the outside ones.
You don't like your knees. I like your knees.
I like your thighs. They are softer than a baby deer's belly.
I like your bottom.
That bit? Ooh yeah, I like that bit.
I like your ever changing belly.
Saying I like your back is like saying I like Van Gogh's work.
I like your boobs. Of course I do.
I like your neck. You can tell I like it because I keep kissing it all the time.
I like your nose. I threaten to lick it all the time to freak you out. I never will lick it. It's just cute, I don't like it that much.
Your lips, your ears, your eyes, your hair, your face. I like it all.
I'm kind of indifferent to your elbows. They seem fine, I just don't notice them so much. Other than your elbows I like all your bits. I'll remember to pay more attention to your elbows next time I see you. I'm sure they are charming.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Tony Bennett On Idol.
"The young people look great on television. They're youthful and have a lot of zip and energy, but when you see them live, they can only do about 20 minutes because they haven't got the training to hold an audience for an hour and a half or so."
Tony Bennett.
I guess young people have adapted to the business, and fair enough. I'm not certain even live audiences want a ninety minute set any more, unless, of course, you are Tony Bennett.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Tony Bennett.
I guess young people have adapted to the business, and fair enough. I'm not certain even live audiences want a ninety minute set any more, unless, of course, you are Tony Bennett.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Fear And The Funny Humans.
In the history of the humans I can't think of a safer, more secure place and time than Melbourne Australia in 2012. We are fortunate. Most of us will die of self induced medical problems when we are old.
It is unfortunate that we don't appreciate this luxury, it makes us smug and complacent. A blessing isn't a blessing unless it is appreciated.
Surprisingly it makes many anxious, sends them off in search of fear to satisfy a need for intensity. These people don't need to look far, the mass tabloid media caters for every fear need, assures us we will all be raped, plundered and murdered before dawn. A very small number of people will be, we are not completely safe, but the odds are stacked so far on getting home safely that no bookie would take a wager against it. Others go in search of fear, jump out of perfectly good planes, pick fights, gamble, mess with drugs they know might harm them.
It seems humans need some element of fear in their lives, I don't know why. The shallow answer is that fear makes us feel alive. Perhaps it has something to do with our mythology? The hero is a hero because he encounters fear and overcomes it. After millions of years of knowing not much but fear, an accurate response to fear is all that ensured our survival, it might take another million years for a brain that doesn't require fear to evolve.
We struggle for safety and security. Once we have it we don't know what to do with ourselves. Humans are funny critters.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
It is unfortunate that we don't appreciate this luxury, it makes us smug and complacent. A blessing isn't a blessing unless it is appreciated.
Surprisingly it makes many anxious, sends them off in search of fear to satisfy a need for intensity. These people don't need to look far, the mass tabloid media caters for every fear need, assures us we will all be raped, plundered and murdered before dawn. A very small number of people will be, we are not completely safe, but the odds are stacked so far on getting home safely that no bookie would take a wager against it. Others go in search of fear, jump out of perfectly good planes, pick fights, gamble, mess with drugs they know might harm them.
It seems humans need some element of fear in their lives, I don't know why. The shallow answer is that fear makes us feel alive. Perhaps it has something to do with our mythology? The hero is a hero because he encounters fear and overcomes it. After millions of years of knowing not much but fear, an accurate response to fear is all that ensured our survival, it might take another million years for a brain that doesn't require fear to evolve.
We struggle for safety and security. Once we have it we don't know what to do with ourselves. Humans are funny critters.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Marquis de Lafayette On Freedom.
"When the government violates the people's rights, insurrection is, for the people and for each portion of the people, the most sacred of the rights and the most indispensable of duties."
Marquis de Lafayette.
A government should fear it's people. At the moment it appears to be the other way around.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Marquis de Lafayette.
A government should fear it's people. At the moment it appears to be the other way around.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
What Hurts?
There is an old Jewish story, a young man leaves his village to go and study at the university in the big city. Upon his return to the village he boasts to the rabbi that armed with his new found knowledge he can argue and win any argument, he can argue that his nose is his ear and still win. The rabbi punches him on his nose, asks, "what hurts?".
It's a cute, folksy story, but I like it just the same. You can teach a human to believe anything given the correct stimulus. Pain, fear, approval, love, there is a list of punishments and rewards that can be employed to train a human, funny Pavlovian bipeds we are. No matter what we believe a punch on the nose hurts, a lot, your eyes water, most often you bleed.
In this culture of specialization most of us know a lot about one thing, not much about everything else. Like a hammer sees nails we see everything through our own limited prism. As the world becomes better educated we understand each other less, not more. We share the same three dimensional reality, the same laws of nature apply to us all, we all feel pain when our noses are punched.
Our civilization relies on the memory of pain, empathy with the pain of others. Without it we would revert to an uncivilized state. Getting lost in obscure beliefs about reality is a young person's game, we should all do it, for a while. Eventually we need to come back to a shared understanding, empathy, if we are all to get along.
A punch on the nose is a quick, painful lesson. Most of us learn more slowly, we lose lovers and friends, become solitary, lose ourselves before we accept this shared reality. The other option is a planet of separate, individual humans, constantly arguing about what is a nose and what is an ear. If you find yourself getting lost just seek out a friendly rabbi, ask him to punch you on your nose.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
It's a cute, folksy story, but I like it just the same. You can teach a human to believe anything given the correct stimulus. Pain, fear, approval, love, there is a list of punishments and rewards that can be employed to train a human, funny Pavlovian bipeds we are. No matter what we believe a punch on the nose hurts, a lot, your eyes water, most often you bleed.
In this culture of specialization most of us know a lot about one thing, not much about everything else. Like a hammer sees nails we see everything through our own limited prism. As the world becomes better educated we understand each other less, not more. We share the same three dimensional reality, the same laws of nature apply to us all, we all feel pain when our noses are punched.
Our civilization relies on the memory of pain, empathy with the pain of others. Without it we would revert to an uncivilized state. Getting lost in obscure beliefs about reality is a young person's game, we should all do it, for a while. Eventually we need to come back to a shared understanding, empathy, if we are all to get along.
A punch on the nose is a quick, painful lesson. Most of us learn more slowly, we lose lovers and friends, become solitary, lose ourselves before we accept this shared reality. The other option is a planet of separate, individual humans, constantly arguing about what is a nose and what is an ear. If you find yourself getting lost just seek out a friendly rabbi, ask him to punch you on your nose.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The Borg, The Storm Cloud, The Small Girl.
An enormous rectangular black cloud, sharp, distinct lines against the otherwise clear twilight sky. It's like a Borg Cube is looming on the horizon. Captain Picard must be wreaking havoc inside the ship, silent yellow flashes of lightning behind the black curtain. There is no thunder. Perhaps the black cloud is so black that sound can't pass through it, or even bigger than it looks, just further away? The light show is awesome, possibly frightening if it is headed my way. The storm cloud is so big I can't tell which way it is moving, if it is moving.
A small girl is excited, trying to gain the attention of her nearby grown ups.
"Look, the lights, there are lights flashing in the sky, look, Mummy, look!"
The adults don't have the attention span to look and wait for the next lightning flash, look away again. Finally she pesters enough at the correct moment, suddenly the adult folk gather around, ooh and aah like fools. The small girl is pushed to the side of the group.
The mother hears me perfectly well as I say a few words to the girl.
"Fantastic, isn't it?"
The mother hugs her child, asks her what the strange man said to her.
"Nothing, he just said it was fantastic."
"I saw it first!", I hear her claim.
All the adults frown at me as I walk away.
The Borg ship storm cloud moves on, drifts away to the south west. I'm guessing the Borg analyzed that group of humans who frowned at me for being friendly to their child, decided there was no intelligence worth assimilating down there.
The small girl, the weirdly squared cloud, sweet natural highlights of a walk along a city beach. The only real aliens I encountered were those strung out grown ups.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
A small girl is excited, trying to gain the attention of her nearby grown ups.
"Look, the lights, there are lights flashing in the sky, look, Mummy, look!"
The adults don't have the attention span to look and wait for the next lightning flash, look away again. Finally she pesters enough at the correct moment, suddenly the adult folk gather around, ooh and aah like fools. The small girl is pushed to the side of the group.
The mother hears me perfectly well as I say a few words to the girl.
"Fantastic, isn't it?"
The mother hugs her child, asks her what the strange man said to her.
"Nothing, he just said it was fantastic."
"I saw it first!", I hear her claim.
All the adults frown at me as I walk away.
The Borg ship storm cloud moves on, drifts away to the south west. I'm guessing the Borg analyzed that group of humans who frowned at me for being friendly to their child, decided there was no intelligence worth assimilating down there.
The small girl, the weirdly squared cloud, sweet natural highlights of a walk along a city beach. The only real aliens I encountered were those strung out grown ups.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
J. M. W. Turner On Self Expression.
"I don't paint so that people will understand me, I paint to show what a particular scene looks like."
J. M. W. Turner.
I think this quotation from this genius stands alone.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
J. M. W. Turner.
I think this quotation from this genius stands alone.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Navigation Light Blues.
The navigation lights on each individual fishing boat beat in perfect time, each boat in the fleet a different rhythm. The combination of order and chaos is hypnotic, he almost forgets to stop walking at the end of the pier. He sits, hangs his legs over the edge, leans against a post, stares at the red, green, green red light show reflecting off the water.
It's like a hamburger shop neon sign has gone nova, spread across the darkness of the bay. The fish below look up, the lights mean nothing to them, they don't seek signs from the universe, don't see death in the sky.
When he stares at one boat he can sing a song with the flashing metronome. When he takes in all the boats the song loses it's pulse, becomes abstract sound. He becomes Jackson Pollock, an Abstract Impressionist, the chaos of the lights and the chaos inside him colliding, splashing off the water, the song is unlike any he has sung before.
He looks back to a single boat, feels his heart beat in time with it's lights, the solidity of the pier beneath him, he feels solid and connected. He takes the wider view, there is no beat to hang onto, he is floating, there is no reference point, pure expression.
Finally he focuses on one boat, allows his peripheral vision to take in the rest of the fleet, they become a background. There is order, a song, coloured by the joy of chaos, a beautiful blend, all an impression distorted by the moving water.
He stands, walks back along the pier, towards land. He is singing the solitary song of himself, the harmony of the universe. He looks up at the night sky, each star beating it's own rhythm, the people on the street. He smiles, sings to himself, walks into the night.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
It's like a hamburger shop neon sign has gone nova, spread across the darkness of the bay. The fish below look up, the lights mean nothing to them, they don't seek signs from the universe, don't see death in the sky.
When he stares at one boat he can sing a song with the flashing metronome. When he takes in all the boats the song loses it's pulse, becomes abstract sound. He becomes Jackson Pollock, an Abstract Impressionist, the chaos of the lights and the chaos inside him colliding, splashing off the water, the song is unlike any he has sung before.
He looks back to a single boat, feels his heart beat in time with it's lights, the solidity of the pier beneath him, he feels solid and connected. He takes the wider view, there is no beat to hang onto, he is floating, there is no reference point, pure expression.
Finally he focuses on one boat, allows his peripheral vision to take in the rest of the fleet, they become a background. There is order, a song, coloured by the joy of chaos, a beautiful blend, all an impression distorted by the moving water.
He stands, walks back along the pier, towards land. He is singing the solitary song of himself, the harmony of the universe. He looks up at the night sky, each star beating it's own rhythm, the people on the street. He smiles, sings to himself, walks into the night.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
John Cleese On Democracy.
“Laughter is a force for democracy.”
John Cleese.
Of course a comedian would say this, hammers and nails and all that, but I do believe Mr. Cleese is correct. Despots repress comedy, when people relax and see the funny side they most often also see the truth.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
John Cleese.
Of course a comedian would say this, hammers and nails and all that, but I do believe Mr. Cleese is correct. Despots repress comedy, when people relax and see the funny side they most often also see the truth.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Normal Lessons.
Today I witnessed a lady in a wheelchair pushing herself along with a young girl in her lap. To me it appeared to be mother and daughter, I can't be sure. I do know it was a beautiful image, one of those moments that reminds me how cool humans can be when they just do what comes naturally.
Stephen Fry once said that you can hang a child upside down in a cupboard every day, beat him with rhubarb, the child will assume this is normal. The little girl today didn't seem to notice she was riding in a wheelchair, it wasn't a special treat, a fun ride, it was just how she got around.
Our parents teach us what is normal. At some point in our adult lives we have to decide what we want to be normal for us, whether we agree with our parent's interpretation. Years of intensive, live in training enforce the parent's view. Amnesty International instigate campaigns against this sort of brainwashing when it happens to adults. It takes a lot of self awareness and honesty to break habits installed from birth.
I've spent years on this process, so much of what I believed was an unholy crock that it took years. I've also had to unlearn the nonsense that came into my life as a reaction to believing that unholy crock. I had to learn to trust my own instinct again, my own judgement.
I'm at the point where self examination has to end, real life begin. There is no point finding your own truths if you aren't going to live them. For me the biggest problem was valuing myself, a Victorian attitude of stoic acceptance was the hardest habit to break. Those who don't offer me the respect I'm due don't get much time now. I used to let that sort of thing go, I've realized that people who don't respect themselves give the same thing out to other people, so why waste my time? It has cost me relationships that might have limped along for longer than I allowed, but so what? Who wants a one legged relationship anyway?
I see parents teaching children anger as a first response. I see parents teaching children that laughing when things go wrong makes life easier. Every parent passes on worthy and unworthy habits. Filtering those habits, choosing which ones you respect, is a difficult process, brings up many conflicts, am I being disloyal to my family?
I see a content child half asleep in her mother's lap. It makes me smile. That little girl will learn so many ideas about what is normal, what is true. Then one day she will have to start again.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Stephen Fry once said that you can hang a child upside down in a cupboard every day, beat him with rhubarb, the child will assume this is normal. The little girl today didn't seem to notice she was riding in a wheelchair, it wasn't a special treat, a fun ride, it was just how she got around.
Our parents teach us what is normal. At some point in our adult lives we have to decide what we want to be normal for us, whether we agree with our parent's interpretation. Years of intensive, live in training enforce the parent's view. Amnesty International instigate campaigns against this sort of brainwashing when it happens to adults. It takes a lot of self awareness and honesty to break habits installed from birth.
I've spent years on this process, so much of what I believed was an unholy crock that it took years. I've also had to unlearn the nonsense that came into my life as a reaction to believing that unholy crock. I had to learn to trust my own instinct again, my own judgement.
I'm at the point where self examination has to end, real life begin. There is no point finding your own truths if you aren't going to live them. For me the biggest problem was valuing myself, a Victorian attitude of stoic acceptance was the hardest habit to break. Those who don't offer me the respect I'm due don't get much time now. I used to let that sort of thing go, I've realized that people who don't respect themselves give the same thing out to other people, so why waste my time? It has cost me relationships that might have limped along for longer than I allowed, but so what? Who wants a one legged relationship anyway?
I see parents teaching children anger as a first response. I see parents teaching children that laughing when things go wrong makes life easier. Every parent passes on worthy and unworthy habits. Filtering those habits, choosing which ones you respect, is a difficult process, brings up many conflicts, am I being disloyal to my family?
I see a content child half asleep in her mother's lap. It makes me smile. That little girl will learn so many ideas about what is normal, what is true. Then one day she will have to start again.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Dudley Moore On Motivation.
“I certainly did feel inferior. Because of class. Because of strength. Because of height. I guess if I'd been able to hit somebody in the nose, I wouldn't have been a comic.”
Dudley Moore.
This is a common story for most performers, the desire to express themselves comes out in performance because it can't come out any other way. It's not a choice.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Dudley Moore.
This is a common story for most performers, the desire to express themselves comes out in performance because it can't come out any other way. It's not a choice.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Adrift.
Adrift. The word has romantic connotations, untethered, boundless possibilities. Will I wash up on an idyllic island or be picked up by a yacht crewed by lingerie models? As long as I am adrift my imagination is the only destination.
At some point a man must paddle his tiny boat towards land, find food and water and company. Drifting too long can lead to a lonely, salty death. There is a time for feet to stand on solid ground, for arms to hold, for culture to flow through. Right now is the time to drift, just a few more days, nothing but endless ocean and possibilities.
I'm adrift. Will I wash up next to you? Will the tide pull me back to where I started? Will someone paddle out to get me? An endless sea of imagination, no destination.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
At some point a man must paddle his tiny boat towards land, find food and water and company. Drifting too long can lead to a lonely, salty death. There is a time for feet to stand on solid ground, for arms to hold, for culture to flow through. Right now is the time to drift, just a few more days, nothing but endless ocean and possibilities.
I'm adrift. Will I wash up next to you? Will the tide pull me back to where I started? Will someone paddle out to get me? An endless sea of imagination, no destination.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The Dalai Lama On Sex.
"Buddhist sexual proscriptions ban homosexual activity and heterosexual sex through orifices other than the vagina, including masturbation or other sexual activity with the hand... From a Buddhist point of view, lesbian and gay sex is generally considered sexual misconduct."
The Dalai Lama.
Really? Blow jobs are out? I wonder how many adherents of Lamaspeak stick to this teaching? Then I wonder why?
This is one of the less outrageous comments on sex from His Holiness. Why do those who claim holiness always want to control our sex lives? By controlling our natural desires they can control us.
I demand the right to enjoy oral sex if I desire it, with anyone of any gender who wants to join in the fun. I won't be told it is "misconduct" by anyone, not even a celebrity cleric.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The Dalai Lama.
Really? Blow jobs are out? I wonder how many adherents of Lamaspeak stick to this teaching? Then I wonder why?
This is one of the less outrageous comments on sex from His Holiness. Why do those who claim holiness always want to control our sex lives? By controlling our natural desires they can control us.
I demand the right to enjoy oral sex if I desire it, with anyone of any gender who wants to join in the fun. I won't be told it is "misconduct" by anyone, not even a celebrity cleric.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Meditation? I Don't Know.
Your brain is kind to you. It produces happy chemicals that help you drift off to sleep. Some people's brains are kinder to them than others, those people drop off to blissful sleep night after night. Others are less lucky, more stressed or have interfered with their brain chemistry with other introduced chemicals.
Meditation can help the brain learn to produce the happy chemicals again. Don't be fooled by what you sense and feel when the happy chemicals are being produced, take as much notice as you would of a pot dream. Naturally produced chemicals are similar to the recreational and prescription chemicals folks use to help them sleep. Interesting hallucinations and emotions result from both. Enjoy them, but don't take them seriously.
Meditating in the morning will put you in a happy, sleepy mood all day. This is incredibly annoying for those around you. Meditating at night is just learning to sleep again, training your brain to give you the good stuff.
Folks tell me they can do all sorts of amazing things when they meditate. They can't. They just think they can. They can never actually show me these amazing things they can do. No one levitates, walks through walls, moves objects with their minds, the happy chemicals induce beautiful fantasy. People who meditate go to pieces under pressure just as rapidly as anyone else. It's true, they do.
I'm in favour of messing with your own brain. It's great fun. It can help you see the world through new eyes, feel it differently. Meditation can calm your mind, free it from worldly nonsense, retrain what was once a natural state. It's a good thing to do, it just ain't magic. The observable laws of nature apply no matter what state your brain is in. The guru cannot live without food and water. If the guru appears magical it is a stage magic trick like any other.
Meditation is an industry, self help showbiz, theatre and box office. Follow the money, reject those who are turning a quid out of books, dvd's, lectures, all the standard cons. Find your own way.
Go on, be nice to your brain, meditate, your brain will be kind to you in return. It's just happy chemicals, cheaper than drugs and better for you. Don't believe the hype, it won't make the impossible possible, lift you from this life to a higher plain, it will just feel that way for a while.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Meditation can help the brain learn to produce the happy chemicals again. Don't be fooled by what you sense and feel when the happy chemicals are being produced, take as much notice as you would of a pot dream. Naturally produced chemicals are similar to the recreational and prescription chemicals folks use to help them sleep. Interesting hallucinations and emotions result from both. Enjoy them, but don't take them seriously.
Meditating in the morning will put you in a happy, sleepy mood all day. This is incredibly annoying for those around you. Meditating at night is just learning to sleep again, training your brain to give you the good stuff.
Folks tell me they can do all sorts of amazing things when they meditate. They can't. They just think they can. They can never actually show me these amazing things they can do. No one levitates, walks through walls, moves objects with their minds, the happy chemicals induce beautiful fantasy. People who meditate go to pieces under pressure just as rapidly as anyone else. It's true, they do.
I'm in favour of messing with your own brain. It's great fun. It can help you see the world through new eyes, feel it differently. Meditation can calm your mind, free it from worldly nonsense, retrain what was once a natural state. It's a good thing to do, it just ain't magic. The observable laws of nature apply no matter what state your brain is in. The guru cannot live without food and water. If the guru appears magical it is a stage magic trick like any other.
Meditation is an industry, self help showbiz, theatre and box office. Follow the money, reject those who are turning a quid out of books, dvd's, lectures, all the standard cons. Find your own way.
Go on, be nice to your brain, meditate, your brain will be kind to you in return. It's just happy chemicals, cheaper than drugs and better for you. Don't believe the hype, it won't make the impossible possible, lift you from this life to a higher plain, it will just feel that way for a while.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
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