Thin Skinned, Perhaps.

The pub I played in last night has a piece of comedy written in chalk above the bar, it runs the entire length of the bar, a list of house rules for bands. It is relatively funny, covers all the cliched mistakes young bands make, the bad jokes, apologies, complaining the stage is too small when they bring every piece of equipment they own, the standard stuff. It is funny until you think about it.

This pub is a craphole with nothing else to recommend it except the music. When we arrived it was empty, was empty an hour after we packed up. They promote themselves as a music pub, then take the piss out of the golden goose. One of the house rules explains that your band isn't Van Halen. For the pitiful amount of cash they handed us at the end of the night they shouldn't really be expecting Van Halen to turn up and play there, they should expect young, inexperienced bands who will learn their trade at pubs like this then move on.

I'm not being precious, over thinking a joke, this attitude is prevalent throughout the music business in Australia, the musicians are a joke. The result is that the good ones leave, go to places where musicians still earn terrible money but live happily on respect.

Most of us played around a thousand pretty average gigs before we played a good one. The inner city music pub is the dung heap where diamonds sometimes appear. These pubs are essential to get young bands started, it's what they are for. They get what they pay for, if they don't want monkeys they can replace the peanuts with wads of cash.

Treat anyone like a joke and they behave like one. Give them respect, a professional environment and most will respond accordingly. There are some funny jokes above that bar, old but funny. They certainly aren't the first thing I want to see when I enter a venue I'm about to practise my craft in. When the bands I'm playing with are ready we will move out and up from these pubs, find venues that welcome us for what we do, or other countries that welcome us for what we do.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

A Passion Satisfied And The Cult Of Busy.

Being exhausted after sex is amongst the best feelings on this planet, probably most planets. Being exhausted after performing work that you love is just about as good. Another word for this feeling is satisfaction.

When subscribers to the Cult Of Busy say they are tired they are really saying they are miserable. They aren't satisfied because they wore themselves out by doing busy busy things, not anything they truly love. I believe the problem is that these people have never found or followed their passions, due to lack of thought or lack of courage, easier to join a modern mass cult, repeat the mantras, I don't have time, I'm so busy, I'm so tired, I'll check my schedule.

All cults relieve their adherents of the burden of thought, keep them too busy to daydream. The Cult Of Busy has simply removed the god element, replaced it with busy itself. All praise being busy.

When we perform work we love we always find time for more, and for love itself. We find ourselves happy and loving everyone and everything. Of course it is exhausting, passion in every form wears us out, but it leaves us satisfied, sated, soon ready for more.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Youth, Talent, Enthusiasm.

Youth, talent, enthusiasm, irresistible forces.

I used to wonder why older musicians played with me when I was starting out. They didn't need to, they had plenty of great players to choose from, established players who had their shit together. My shit was all over the place, like a mad woman's.

Now I'm an older musician I understand. I'm playing with young, talented, enthusiastic people, sweethearts all, they are filling me up, restoring my joy in music, driving me to work hard, improve, play from my heart.

I thank them all, they are making me feel happy.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

A Human Experiment.

Place a human in an empty room, just one button to press for stimulus. That button mostly induces pain, occasionally pleasure. The human will continue to press that button, again and again, partly in the hope of pleasure, mostly just to feel something in that empty room. He will turn his back on that button, give it up, swear off it, come back and press it, again and again.

Place other buttons in that room, ones that mostly provide pleasure and the human won't even look at the first button again.

The last six months I've been pressing the same button again and again. I felt I was in a room alone with only one option. Of course I wasn't, that was just my perception. Once I lifted my eyes I saw all the other options, made new friends. When I press the buttons of these people I receive pleasure, warmth, kindness, enthusiasm, respect. I admire their work, feel involved in their worlds.

Now I don't even perceive the room. That original button has all but disappeared. I was never locked in a room alone, I just thought I was. Wherever you go in this world there are millions of buttons to press. There is certainly no room to be locked in. If you press those other buttons you may not always get what you want, you will get what you need.

If someone isn't giving you warmth, kindness, enthusiasm, respect, don't continue to press their button. Lift your eyes, see all the other buttons, let the walls of the room disappear. We all need emotional stimulus, to press buttons. You are not locked in a room with just one option, there are millions of other buttons to press.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

On Zen.

A Zen Saying becomes a Zen Saying when someone writes the words "Zen Saying" after some other words.

Zen Saying.


Everything is what we believe it is, including what is zen and what is not.

That's kinda' the point.

The moment a saying is believed to hold some undeniable truth it ceases to be zen, if it ever was zen.

Everything is what we believe it is.

Zen Saying.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Auguste Rodin On Patience And Action.

“Patience is also a form of action.”

Auguste Rodin.

I've been trying patience recently. It is foreign to me. It also seems futile. I think it is viewed as weakness, inaction. I think I'll give it up.

I can see the wisdom of waiting for the correct moment, that waiting is an action in itself. It comes with the risk of never getting anything done. I guess maturity and judgement are called for. Perhaps that is why it isn't working for me?

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Starting At The Bottom, Again.

So in the next three days I have three gigs and two rehearsals, I'll have to set up the P.A. for one of those gigs. As long as I get out in time to catch trams home, not have to lay out for a taxi, I'll take home around fifty bucks for the weekend. I could calculate my hourly rate but there is a risk I may cry.

You see, I am starting out at the very bottom of the music business, again, again. It's my own fault, I've never recorded, made a name for myself. There is a process to getting started again in a new city, I just have to jump through those hoops.

The challenge is to take the music seriously, not the nonsense that crap venues shout in my ear. These venues provide an empty room with a half arsed stage and a vintage P.A., they want the bands to do everything else. I could put the show on myself, in my lounge room, sell the beers and make some money, why do I need them? For now I need them so I am seen to be playing, just to be visible. They want to use me but I am using them.

The aim is to make this process as short and painless as possible, build my name, the names of the acts I'm with, in weeks, not months, certainly not years. Did you know that playing music is only a tiny part of the job? Most of it is public relations and politics, two jobs I despise.

On their first U.S. tour The Police were booked into a three hundred seat room, five tickets were sold. They decided to invite the tiny audience up close and put on a rock and roll show. One of those five punters was the local radio station owner, he probably didn't even pay. He did, however, know people in radio all over the country, told them these English boys could play and to get onto them early. In two days The Police were a big name in the U.S.

I ponder this tale every time I feel jaded and exhausted by all the bullshit. Get on the stage, make some noise, make something happen, no matter where I'm playing, to how many punters. One day that break will come, I'll be ready. For now it is the hard graft, climbing back up from the bottom again.

Now, how will I spend that fifty bucks?

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Cafe Shots, Closing Time, Maccaroni Trattoria.

Maccaroni Trattoria, Manchester Lane, Melbourne Australia.

Parkstreet.
iPad snaps.

P. J. O'Rourke On Youth.

“There are no kinder or better people in the world than those who listen to you when you are 18.”

P.J. O'Rourke.

This is a brilliant quote. Here in Melbourne we are mourning the death of Jim Stynes, a footballer who turned his enormous talent to listening to young people, helping them find a way to be "their own heroes". For someone who isn't a parent to tell us it matters what we do with our lives, as our adult lives are just starting, can make all the difference. By listening, compelling a young person to put their thoughts into words, we are helping them see themselves clearly, something kind and worth doing.

Raise a toast of Guiness for Jim Stynes Melbourne.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

That Was Bloody Art Mate.

Two lanes one way, two lanes the other, when our way was clear we walked to the tiny strip of concrete in the middle, without thinking. In unison we realized that two guitars, one saxophone and one bass, and four humans, were not going to fit, the traffic was coming from both sides at once. None of us would give up an instrument, our only assets, one of the humans had to go.

In less than seconds we acted in unison, like a band. The bass, in a solid road case, was laid down and stood upon, guitars held aloft, the strong young bass player held me as I leant over the edge of the turning lane. An impromptu statue, improvised genius, like a band.

The traffic cleared, we untangled, strode across the road as if nothing had happened. Something had happened. We had become one, just for a few moment. Sitting later at a cafe the bass player was the first to speak.

"That was bloody art mate."

And it was.

"Bloody lucky the drummer drove home."

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Is My Relationship A Song?

I'm allowed to poke fun at singer/songwriters, I've walked that lonesome path and will again. They are a funny breed, fair game for fun poking.

Songwriters need romantic relationships like power plants need coal, they just have to keep shoveling them in. The joy of new love, the pain of breaking up, they have to keep that fire burning. From the outside they appear to be starting and ending relationships on purpose, they aren't, they are just really bad at relationships because their minds are elsewhere, on the poetry not the sharing of household chores. The objects of their affections are wooed by the poetry. That never lasts long.

These songwriters sacrifice themselves to save us all. Hearing another human singing and playing our feelings, knowing we are not alone, is often the starting point of healing. Hearing someone else gloriously in love makes us feel less foolish. We all have at least one song we hold dear for these reasons, without the long suffering singer/songwriter we wouldn't. We owe them all our gratitude.

Imagine a romantic relationship that doesn't inspire a song. Can you? For me that is the saddest relationship of all. No joy, no pain, why bother? Is your relationship a song? Just because you don't know how to write it doesn't mean it isn't a song. I'm not suggesting you ruin your life by taking up your cross and becoming a singer/songwriter, plenty of other fools are doing that for you, but it's a question worth asking.

Is my relationship a song?

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

P. J. O'Rourke On Cats.

“Cats are to dogs what modern people are to the people we used to have. Cats are slimmer, cleaner, more attractive, disloyal, and lazy. It's easy to understand why the cat has eclipsed the dog as modern America's favorite pet. People like pets to possess the same qualities they do. Cats are irresponsible and recognize no authority, yet are completely dependent on others for their material needs. Cats cannot be made to do anything useful. Cats are mean for the fun of it. In fact, cats possess so many of the same qualities as some people (expensive girlfriends, for instance) that it's often hard to tell the people and the cats apart.”

P.J. O'Rourke, Modern Manners: An Etiquette Book for Rude People.

Cat owners tell me their darling kitty didn't mean to stick it's claw into my scrotum. When I push it off my lap they worry about the animal that always lands on it's feet, not about my ability to father children. There is definitely something in this Mr. O'Rourke.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Cafe Shots, Velvet Bar.

Velvet Bar, Bay St. Port Melbourne, Melbourne Australia.

Parkstreet.
iPad snaps.

Ch Ch Changes.

So most of you believe that I spend most of my time sleeping in, hanging around in cafes drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes and talking shit, right? Well, how do you expect me to fit all that in and write a blog every day? It's harder than it looks you know, the life of a bum poet.

But seriously, I have returned to some semblance of real life, I'm back working as a musician, and that is harder than it looks, takes up more time than you see on the stage. Practise? No, I don't do that, but I do perform a million e mails and texts and phone calls each day, and attend rehearsals in places that aren't my place, spend many hours on public transport. So my time for thinking about blogging is diminished, I need to make a living and the blog isn't pulling it's weight.

So I'm changing my approach. I'll still post most days. I'm still fascinated by modern culture, or the lack of it, so I'll be writing about my musical experiences, hopefully they will reflect something of where we are at, something of modern humanity. And I'll invite you to a cafe or two, sit down for a chat when I have a day off, introduce you to some people I meet along the way.

Yesterday afternoon I played a gig with an acoustic trio. A Sunday afternoon, acts on from midday in the lounge of a groovy inner city pub. When I arrived a terrific instrumental guitarist was playing to an audience of one. A mate and I made it three and applauded enthusiastically. The guitar playing was great, the act was terrible, the guy had no idea how to present a show, even to three people. Why would anyone get on a stage and not think about how to present their material? I don't get it.

We were fortunate enough to have a friend of the band celebrating a birthday so the joint filled up, an enthusiastically drunk audience, great fun. We played well, were offered a better gig another night, it was a successful evening all round. The guy who played guitar before us was a better player in every way than any of us, but we had an act, chatted with the folks, invited them in to our home and made them comfortable. Playing gigs is less difficult than you'd think, all you have to do is imagine how you'd like an act presented to you, then do it that way.

So I'll be out doing stuff most nights, some afternoons, tonight is a rehearsal with a folk act. There may be some more serious writing on days off, there may not. As I start playing again, recall the joy of that life, I'm not feeling the need to complain so much, this might be a happier, lighter affair from now on.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Cafe Shots, Amy Ganter At Cafe Lux.

Cafe Lux, Lux Way Brunswick, Melbourne Australia.

Amy Ganter, singer, songwriter, guitarist.

Parkstreet.
iPad snaps.

Cafe Shots, Anto Young At Cafe Lux.

Cafe Lux, Lux Way Brunswick, Melbourne Australia.

Anto Young, guitarist, singer, songwriter.

Parkstreet.
iPad snaps.

On Blues Flute.

The history of human flute playing is the history of our transition from wildness to domestication, from the wind through the river reeds to a pure silver instrument on a concert hall stage.

To play blues on the flute is to maintain the simple structure the modern human requires for communication then letting the last part of us that is wild, sweet and free come out. Blues flute is a raw expression of yearning for the truth of humanity, refined by self awareness.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Tiny Little Girl With The Great Big Dreams.

Tiny little girl with a great big guitar, walking up Fitzroy Street like she owns it. Tiny little girl is going to go far, she's striding up the street like she means it.

Determination is sexy.

Parkstreet.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Dusty Springfield On Sex.

“I have tried sex with both men and women. I found I liked it.”
 
Dusty Springfield.

Hooray!

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Indignation Enthusiasts And Matt Rendell.

So a recruiter for an Australian Rules football team lost his job for stating his view on indigenous Australian footballers in an imaginative and emphatic way. He said that if we don't put some effective programs in place to help indigenous players move from remote communities to big cities, if the same problems keep arising, we will get to the point that recruiters only seek players with one white parent and that would be ignorant and foolish. A few words, one white parent, were jumped on by all the usual indignation enthusiasts, a good man who has spent more time in remote communities actually helping indigenous footballers than anyone else lost his job.

If the same man had said that footballers from rich white families have problems adjusting to a professional football club culture and it might get to the point that we only recruit working class players the same indignation enthusiasts would have patted him on the back. The moment race was involved everyone was looking for offense, preparing the gallows.

This recruiter was in search of a method to help very young men move from tiny, poor, socially bereft towns where time barely exists to a big city, a professional business, where time means everything. He wants those young men to come to his club because they are brilliant athletes, he wants them to stay and make his club successful, I believe he wants those young men to succeed for their own benefit and the benefit of their families and their culture. Just because he was passionate, spoke colourfully in an attempt to make a point, the man has been attacked from all angles.

This pious nonsense makes everyone afraid to speak the truth. Good honest men will say nothing in future, turn their backs on indigenous people because whatever they say and do risks the consequence of public flogging. The only people we'll hear will be the hand wringing indignation enthusiasts who will tell us how terrible everything is but never actually do anything. Instead of helping indigenous people, giving them the respect of recognition, they will treat them as victims, no one will benefit apart from those who make a career out of being offended and upset.

We are being trained out of speaking our minds. We see a good, well intentioned man buried by angry do gooders and know that will be our fate if we try to help, if we speak the truth, if we act sincerely. The people who attack us will be proud of their work, sit smugly in their big city offices, build their petty empires, live off the fat of our tax dollars, fuck up everything for everyone else.

One man loses his job, the great game of Australian Rules Football loses some of it's greatest players, the nation loses the freedom to create a better nation.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Richard Dawkins On The Old Testament God.

“The God of the Old Testament is arguably the most unpleasant character in all fiction: jealous and proud of it; a petty, unjust, unforgiving control-freak; a vindictive, bloodthirsty ethnic cleanser; a misogynistic, homophobic, racist, infanticidal, genocidal, filicidal, pestilential, megalomaniacal, sadomasochistic, capriciously malevolent bully.”

Richard Dawkins, The God Delusion.

Once gods are written down in human language they become a reflection of a culture. The god of the Old Testament was well suited to his culture and his time.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Playing The City.

He wanders the laneways, listens to the buskers on his way to the cafe. Gypsy violin guy with his backing tracks, classical cello guy, Beatles covers guy, they are all great at what they do. He takes coffee, takes in the day, the mood of the day, the vibe. He finds his spot, sets up his flute, warms up with a couple of notes. He has no tracks to play on, no canon of work to draw on, no idols to sing for, instead he plays the day, the city, the coffee in his belly, that pretty girl and the rhythm of her walk, the sway of her tush, the frailty of that old man as he struggles proudly down the stairs, the hum of the traffic, the wind of a departing train, he plays the city. The flute is just the medium, connecting the man and the city, expressing it in music to the passing people.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Richard Dawkins On The Universe.

“The universe we observe has precisely the properties we should expect if there is, at bottom, no design, no purpose, no evil and no good, nothing but blind pitiless indifference.”

Richard Dawkins.

We often bestow human qualities on our pets, oh look, the dog is smiling. Bestowing human qualities on the universe is a step beyond sentimentality.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Back Of The Camel.

Once the back of the camel is broken it will no longer carry a load. A camel can carry an enormous load, there is a limit, the weight of one straw may be the difference between that camel continuing to serve faithfully and being broken.

I wonder about the people who take the chance, toss one more straw on? Are they simply cruel? Are they experimenting with how strong the camel really is? Or do they assume that if the camel has survived until now one more straw won't hurt, or not think about the camel at all?

To these people that tiny straw may not look like much, it might seem ridiculous that something so small could make any difference. Have they no memory? Can they not see the load the camel is already carrying? Apparently not.

One word, one action, the back of a faithful servant is broken. It will never serve you again. You'd best own many camels if you plan to keep breaking them, or be prepared to carry that load on your own back.

I recently witnessed the breaking of a camel's back. The size of the straw was insignificant in the overall scheme. The back was broken just the same. The load it was carrying was destroyed when it crashed to the ground. I've buried both.

It was just one straw too many.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Richard Dawkins On Atheism.

“We are all atheists about most of the gods that humanity has ever believed in. Some of us just go one god further.”

Richard Dawkins.

One god beyond. What the hell, we really don't know, won't know until we're dead. If you are a believer you can enjoy eternity telling atheists, "I told you so", won't that be fun?

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Day Is Done.

Day is done.
Pull the orange blind,
Pull the black curtain.

Day is done.
Shut the candle,
Blow out the door.

Day is done.
Squeeze out the last of the toothpaste,
Spit out the last of the feelings.

Day is done.
Shed clothes,
Shed skin.

Day is done.
Bed alone,
Bed alone.

Day is done.
Pull the black curtain,
Day is done.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Your Light Is On.

So you are about to leap athletically into your morning shower, full of the joy of life, or perhaps you are like me, grumpy until after the first coffee, and the shower is a step towards getting out the door and to a cafe? Either way you are naked, some bastard has placed a large mirror above the sink, some other bastard has placed an all too exposing light above that mirror. You see yourself in all your naked glory, just for a moment, take another moment to take a second look. You commit to sit ups and push ups, laugh at yourself, you always say that and never do that.

Today you look in the mirror and see something different, your light is brighter than the one above the mirror, you are shining, you are alive and you can feel it. Your life has brought you to this exact moment, naked, alone, about to start the day, you know who you are, why you are here, what you are here to do. Your physical reality, no matter how disappointing, suddenly doesn't matter, your light is on and shining so brightly, you are right here right now and everything is possible.

You step into the shower, go about your routine, step out, towel off, sneak one more glance at that mirror, double check what you saw was real. Your light is on, you don't need to check again. The person looking back at you is alive, and knows it, all that has gone before, all that will come, all just scenes for you to cast your light upon. Time to go out into the world and shine.

Your light is on.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Just Visiting.

When I moved to Melbourne I thought I was here to stay, for a decade or so. As it turns out I'm just visiting, this isn't my home any more. I'll stay another year, move on before the stinking winter next year. Today is the first day of drizzle, it won't let up for six months, the drizzle made up my mind for me.

I once wrote a song about returning to Melbourne, not until my body left my soul, fly me back to be incinerated. Now I don't think I even want that, just feed me to the sharks wherever I end up. It's not that Melbourne is a bad city, there is a lot to recommend it, it's just not for me.

In Melbourne I don't get the feeling of being anywhere, it feels generic, like every other city that has outgrown it's ideal size. There are pockets of civilization, small areas in a few inner city suburbs that have maintained the old Melbourne country town feel, not enough to excite me.

It's a strange feeling, settling into a place I know I'll be leaving. There is a strong music scene here, so I can get some good work done, otherwise I'd be gone by now. I feel that all I want to do is work, write, record, play, then get out, I have no desire for attachments or commitments. My good friends are spread out around the world, my iPad will keep me in touch, I'll seek them out in person next year. There will be no romantic relationships, other than brief ones, unless I meet a fellow traveller.

Then I'll be gone. I'll have a solid product in my bag, a recording, take it to the world, me along with it. I was raised here but this city has never done me any favours, I don't owe it anything. I doubt it will notice when I'm gone.

So I'm a visitor in my home town, here on business, I'll suck every possible advantage I can out of the next year, play the most beautiful music I can, write from the heart, all the time with one eye on the airport, the calendar, I'll circle April 1st in red, as good a day as any.

And I won't return, even when my body has left my soul.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Richard Brautigan On Simplicity.

"It's strange how the simple things in life go on while we become more difficult."

Richard Brautigan.

Simple, like a kiss, a chat, a smile, a tune.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

One Tiny Scratch.

Black vinyl beauty, the first track plays and you are flying. The scratch in the second track is a shock every time, the stylus jumps, back to the start, over and over again. You know the record is wonderful, the music is perfect, just that scratch. You may as well toss that record out, it's our of print now, you'll never find another the same. So you keep on placing that record on the turntable, hoping the scratch will be gone, that it will play past the second track and you will experience the joy of the whole record, you know you never will.

Place that record back in the rack, a memory, someone beautiful you once knew. It will never play, never satisfy you. It's only a tiny scratch, the rest is perfect, but it will never play again.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Sword Time.

There is a solitary moment, between the schling of a sword being drawn and the chaos of a sword being wielded, this one moment of instant contemplation. The warrior knows his blade is true, his preparation sound, his cause honourable, he knows that when he cleans his sword, returns it to it's scabbard, he will be a different man. His actions will create widows and orphans, in this one moment he mourns the dead even as he begins the killing. His own death may occur today, he leaves that mourning to others.

It doesn't matter which road you choose, warrior road, holy boy road, healer road, teacher road, there will always be a time for action, a moment when you know there will be consequences to your action but that is where your road leads you, the action must be taken. Some will say that this is the problem with choosing a road, I say it is the glory of choosing a road, the hard stuff under our feet, life and death, humanity.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

I've Got Nothin', Let Brautigan Say It.

“Boo, Forever

Spinning like a ghost
on the bottom of a
top,
I'm haunted by all
the space that I
will live without
you.”

Richard Brautigan.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Tom Wolfe On Finding Your Scene.

“Beautiful people blossomed forth from out of the polyglot, people who really had a lot to them, only it had been smothered by all the eternal social games that had been set up. Suddenly they found each other.”

Tom Wolfe, The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test.

We tend to wander along in the company of those we fall in with, a combination of habit and guilt compel us to stay. When we step away, go in search of the wondrous folk who make us feel, really feel, we feel alive, loved, real.

You've gotta' find your own scene.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

What Do You Mean When You Say Marriage?

When a couple decides to marry there is one question they rarely ask each other. What do you mean when you say the word marriage?

Do you mean two people being one, two individuals committed to each other's happiness, or we'll lock in until it isn't fun any more? Many enter the most important commitment of their lives not knowing what the other person is committing to, assuming the word marriage means the same to everyone. Clearly it doesn't mean the same to everyone, most marriages fail with one partner walking away saying, "this is not what I signed up for".

Many churches hold pre marriage retreats now, force couples to talk for an entire weekend without being surrounded by friends and booze and pot and all the other distractions. The first two years of love can be heady times, the good times, clear thinking isn't a priority. A couple who are thinking clearly can probably manage this conversation themselves, if being guided through it by a church you trust helps I say what the hell, attend the retreat.

Imagine you and I are signing a contract to erect a building. I'm thinking this building will be a Plastic Bertrand theme park, you are thinking it will be a chamber music recital hall. Surely we would discuss this before we signed the contract, wouldn't we? Wouldn't we? Of course we would, and I would convince you that a Plastic Bertrand theme park is what the world needs, but I digress. We would agree on the purpose of the building or not sign the contract. Why do people marry without agreeing on what they are building?

Amongst all the psychobabble about relationships I believe this one question could save more grief than any amount of counseling. What do you mean when you say marriage?

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Harper Lee On Introductions.

“As a reader I loathe introductions...Introductions inhibit pleasure, they kill the joy of anticipation, they frustrate curiosity.”

Harper Lee, To Kill A Mockingbird.

I witness singer/songwriters over explaining their songs all the time. I'm usually behind them on the stage trying to look interested instead of embarrassed. An introduction, if you must employ one, should be the aroma of the garlic and onions hitting the pan, not the main meal.

If the work doesn't stand up on it's own go back and rewrite the work.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Going Up The Country.

Australia allows backpackers to extend their working visa's if they agree to work for three months in the agricultural industry, doing the jobs we don't want to do. I reckon we should give them a taste of our convict heritage, make them drag a ball and chain around as they clean up the broken glass and vomit they leave around my area.

An Irish mate of mine is just about to depart, off to milk cows and shovel cow shit on a farm that is a fair way out of a town I've never heard of. He is adopting a positive outlook, plans to commune with nature, give something back to the earth, enjoy a new experience, write some songs on those cold, cold, lonely, lonely nights. I'm betting one of those songs will include the words "cold, cold, lonely, lonely".

Most Australians pay lip service to loving the country life. Like me, most of us were born and raised in the suburbs of big cities, we wouldn't know which end of the cow to milk. Occasionally, driving between cities, we see a green field full of cows and say profound things like, "lovely, isn't it?". I say nothing, confident my genuine opinion will offend.

What I'm really thinking is that I want that cow to eat plenty of that grass, get fat, then I want a tough man to slaughter that cow. I then want a clean man to cut up that cow, then a clever man to purchase and cook the best bits for me. I then want a pretty lady to bring the best bits of that well fed cow, superbly cooked, to my table.

That's what I'm thinking.

I know I should love the idyll of the countryside, like everyone else. I really should. I'm unnatural. But I don't. The grass makes me sneeze, it's always too hot or too cold, there are too many flies and everywhere is too far to walk. When I do get to the closest town the coffee is crap and the people are all lacking brain cells or teeth or limbs. Perhaps I'm being harsh, but I believe I'm being fair.

I admire the spirit of my Irish friend, he must like being here to be willing to spend three months in a place where the cows are the best company. Better him than me. I'll enjoy his tall tales upon his return, that's as close as I want to get to the countryside.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Ken Kesey On Being Alive.

“To hell with that. A man goin' fishing with two whores from Portland don't have to take that crap.”

Ken Kesey, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.

A man with a lust for life is a force that is difficult to resist.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Desire And Self Awareness.

Desire? I'm for it. Desire keeps the cooking fires of humanity burning brightly, without desire our lives would still be short, painful, ignorant.

New agey fads have given desire a bad reputation. It has often been mistaken for greed or obsession. The desire to cure polio can't be seen as a negative emotion that will make you stray from your spiritual path. I'm very pleased there are people who desire to perfect a stem cell based corneal graft surgery that I will receive in a couple of years.

Those who are self aware know when a desire is false, not true to their nature. I once allowed desire for a woman become obsession, it became a negative emotion. When I took stock, saw that she offered me nothing, that I wasn't being true to my own well being, I could easily defeat the obsession, the desire soon died. I have been greedy on occasion, seen the money instead of the quality of the work.

Being self aware, knowing yourself honestly, takes some hard, often painful work. It is easier to write off desire as the bad guy, deny it. Of course you still feel it, if you are alive. Better to pursue sincere, genuine desire, to know yourself well enough to be able to identify it.

Wanting to excell, perform, achieve, these are things that make humanity beautiful and great. Denying natural desire is denying your humanity, can only lead to confusion and discontent.

Desire? I'm for it.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Ken Kesey On Love.

“People think love is an emotion. Love is good sense.”

Ken Kesey.

Love is all.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Bottom Of The Wife Of The Drummer.

It's a swinging affair, a party at the drummer's house, a dress rehearsal for the band, there are jazz cigarettes, wine, a buffet of fine food. The set is over, my guitar case is tucked away between the back of the couch and the wine rack, I want to put my guitar away, dive face first into that buffet. The wife of the drummer is kneeling on the couch, bottom up, head down, trying to fetch a bottle of wine from the rack. I stand patiently and wait. The wife of the drummer turns, looks at me, wonders why I'm standing looking at her bottom. I'm not really, I'm staring at the place where my guitar case is, I can't deny I have noticed an alluring strip of underpants above her jeans, but I'm really not staring. I decide to move, stand off to the side, at exactly the same moment the wife of the drummer decides to point her fine tush in another direction, choosing exactly the same angle I chose. Again she looks at me. This time she isn't pleased. All I want is into the buffet, right now, my lust lies in a completely different direction, how can I explain? The wife of the drummer snatches the closest bottle, stands, stares me right in the eye, saunters off, outraged.

I place my guitar in my case, head to the buffet, meet the wife of the drummer there. I make small talk, try to paddle the canoe back upstream.

The band never plays together again.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Her Head On His Shoulder.

An elderly couple on the tram, slender and frail her head is on his shoulder, eyes closed. He is still, erect, a monument to manhood, his shoulder won't move for anyone or anything. They are beautiful, I love them.

I imagine them sixty years ago, on their honeymoon, on a train, possibly arriving in Budapest, or a beach town a few hours from home. She is weary, content, sleeping on her man's shoulder. Somehow she knows his shoulder will be strong and firm for her in sixty years from now.

On the way home, late at night, a young couple on the tram. She is gorgeous, sleepy, her blonde head on her young boyfriend's shoulder. He holds her, smiles quietly. I imagine them sixty years from now. They are beautiful, I love them.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Harper Lee On Innocence.

“Atticus said to Jem one day, "I’d rather you shot at tin cans in the backyard, but I know you’ll go after birds. Shoot all the blue jays you want, if you can hit ‘em, but remember it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird." That was the only time I ever heard Atticus say it was a sin to do something, and I asked Miss Maudie about it. "Your father’s right," she said. "Mockingbirds don’t do one thing except make music for us to enjoy. They don’t eat up people’s gardens, don’t nest in corn cribs, they don’t do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That’s why it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.”

Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird.

Many of the mockingbirds I've loved are dead now, killed by a culture that couldn't hear their song.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

My Portland Oregon Suit.

I feel loved in Portland Oregon. By particular individuals and by the city itself. The first time I arrived there I felt like I'd tried on a thrift shop suit and found it fitted perfectly, like it had been tailored for me.

I wear that suit on the plane as I fly home, over the next year it wears thin, I need to return to Portland and see if I can't walk into another miracle. After four long visits the city hasn't failed me yet, this year I'll push my luck, try on some vintage fabric, feel that familiar comfort, like it was made for me.

Some places fit, others don't. Of course we can make the most of wherever we end up, tighten a belt or wear a jacket open, get by, but once you've owned a well fitted suit nearly right doesn't feel good enough. Right now I'm in a city that serves me well enough, does everything it is supposed to, but it doesn't thrill me. It isn't Paris, San Francisco or Portland.

Soon I'll work out a way to live in one of those cities, visit the others. Something will break, thrift shop luck, I'll walk in on the right day and walk out with a fine looking visa. Perhaps an advertiser for this blog will pop up, set me free to travel, write and play my life away. Until then I'll wear this city, this satisfactory suit that doesn't feel quite right.

Look out Portland, in a few months I'll be arriving stark bollocks naked, ready to be fitted with a new suit that makes me feel welcome and loved.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Ken Kesey On Fiction.

"But it's the truth even if it didn't happen.”

Ken Kesey, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.

I think this blog just found a new motto. Most of what I write did happen, perhaps I embellish the facts occasionally, to make them more true.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Prize Of Love.

On Dexy's Midnight Runners first record, Searching For The Young Soul Rebels, there is a spoken word piece, a disillusioned young man speaking directly to Love. "Am I the first to question you exist?", he asks. He talks of people fucking infatuation and calling it love so they feel safer. We've all felt this way at some time.

The piece ends with the line, repeated, "sometimes I envy the need but don't see the prize".

So what is the prize of love? In the last six months love has screwed my life royally, I find myself wondering if there is a prize? I pursue love to the cost of everything else, rarely stop to question if it is worth it.

Of course it is worth it. There is a prize. The feeling of being loved, that someone out there has a small part of their mind dedicated to you is the greatest feeling life can offer, along with feeling the same way about someone else. Nothing compares, no amount of personal success, no worldly wealth or status.

Any prize comes at a cost. Of course there will be pain, of course you will wonder if you'll ever hold that prize. You might even become disillusioned enough to perform spoken word diatribes against love, that passion just proves you still see the prize. Despite the last six months I still see the prize.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

We Are All Going To Die.

One piece of information informs every word and action of our lives, we are all going to die. This knowledge inspires urgency, to live while we have the chance, to appreciate every single moment. If we thought we'd live forever we would never do anything, there would always be another day.

Mighty stars are born and die, tiny humans too. Being aware of this fact is a double edged sword. We know fear, we know the beautiful poignancy of these few moments. We will all know what death is when the time comes. Until then I plan to live.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Barry Humphries On Australia.

"To live in Australia permanently is rather like going to a party and dancing all night with one's mother."

Barry Humphries.

Unpatriotic? I guess so. There is so much out there, places where real life takes place. I want to spend some time in those places, have saxophone, will travel.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

A Note For Every Raindrop.

The death throes of Summer, the last warm days, one final storm to clear the air. There will be an Autumn, of sorts, the air will become thinner and colder, the drizzle will follow. Nothing I consider satisfactory will occur in the sky for more than six months.

Coat, scarf, gloves, my plan this winter is to play a note for every raindrop that falls on my head. A constant stream of music will keep me dry and warm inside, even when I'm shivering. This city has been cold to me in the past, romantically, socially, it hasn't changed. The only places I feel welcome are the cafes and the stages, so these are the places you will find me.

I welcome the change of season, I'm changing season too. It is playing season, a note for every raindrop, making love with music in the place of a woman, the music always responds, snuggles in close, tells me I am loved.

The city will be a series of dashes between shelters, a hopscotch game to and from cafes and stages, nothing else, the people a blues chord for me to play over.

Bring on the storm, the last of Summer, the beginning of a new season, a note for every raindrop.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Cafe Shots, Leo's Spaghetti Bar.

Leo's Spaghetti Bar, Fitzroy St. St. Kilda, Melbourne Australia.

Parkstreet.
iPad snaps.

Ernest Hemingway On Paris.

"If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast."

Ernest Hemingway.

This quotation is often misquoted and abused. Here it is, this is what he wrote.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Paris, Again.

So I heard Woody Allen raving about Paris as he once raved about New York. I can't recall his exact words but he described the city as a colossal achievement of civilization. I'm inclined to agree.

It's been twelve years since I visited Paris. It is a moveable feast, you do take it away with you when you leave, but I'm feeling I wouldn't mind another helping, thank you for offering.

I want that buzz again, I'm in Paris, from here anything can happen. I want an incognito impromptu jam with a piano player across the courtyard at the back of my hotel. I want restaurants where they tell me what to eat, you must have the roast beef today. I want to see and feel beauty with every step, architecture, food, clothes, shops, even the Metro station signs are gorgeous. I want my tiny, tightarse hotel room, curved wall tucked in beside the staircase, the elevator clunking outside my only window. I want the lightest croissant and the creamiest hot chocolate delivered to my room on a cold morning, matter of fact service, doesn't everyone take breakfast in bed given the opportunity?

I want to ride the Metro, land in a new part of the city in minutes, egalitarian service to all. I want to burn my tongue on a crepe with sugar at three in the morning on my way home, spread soft cheese on baguette as I watch the river go by. I want to be invited to every gig, exhibition opening, party and dinner just because I've come so far to be in Paris and folks want me to feel welcome.

I want to be in a city that agrees with me about what is important in life, a place that celebrates humanity and civilization. Hearing Woody Allen reminded me how much I miss Paris.

Wanna' come with me?

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Workbench.

So I had to choose between two studio apartments, one a classic third story attic in the mansion, the other in the old servants quarters out the back, a square, less dramatic space. The romantic wanted the attic, I would be Van Gogh, the sloping ceiling would inspire me. The man wanted the space that would fit a double bed.

Wassily Kundinski.

A cool girl would see a single bad as romantic, surely, squeezing in on winter nights would be so charming? Perhaps not. I chose the practical accommodation, a man needs a workbench that fits his craft. I'll light some candles, put some flowers in a vase, that will cover the romance.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Tom Wolfe On Mothers And Sons.

“Dear Mother,
I meant to write you before this and I hope you haven't been worried.... I have met some Beautiful People and...”

Tom Wolfe, The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test.

Every wanderer I've known has felt bad about not calling his mother often enough. A man has to be a man, yet he always feels guilty, it is the revenge mothers begin from the day we are born, knowing we will one day go wandering.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Motel Bathroom Door Handles And Friendship.

The handles on motel bathroom doors are in constant need of repair and replacement. Everyday a stranger flicks the lock, twists the handle, a push and a pull, checks to ensure the lock worked. This constant irritation eventually breaks the mechanism. It's only because people are in unfamiliar territory, they don't need to do this to the bathroom door handle at home, if they lock it at all.

I took coffee with an old friend last night, a sweet and relaxing experience. I've been in a city of strangers for six months, all giving me a push and a pull to find out what I'm about, the familiarity of a mate felt like an unlocked door.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Cafe Shots, Tiny's Coffeehouse.

Tiny's Coffeehouse, S.E. 12th and Hawthorne, Portland Oregon.

Parkstreet.
iPad snaps.

Andy Warhol On Beautiful People.

“If everyone isn't beautiful, then no one is.”

Andy Warhol.

Lovely lovely.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Twenty Seven Gap Years In A Row.

I've recently run into a bunch of folks I knew around the time I left school. Since then I've enjoyed twenty seven gap years in a row, looked around for what I want to do when I grow up. My friends have made some money, born children, floated careers, bought houses, they have grown up. It's a funny situation. My friends possess the wherewithal to pursue almost any dream short of space travel, but no time to follow such a dream, or even to dream it in the first place. I'm finally finding my dream and I can't rub two scheckels together.

One year is such an arbitrary notion for a time to find your passion. Who said it it takes one year? Some folks are born with it, others take decades to find it. One gap year is the tradition but it makes no sense.

After twenty seven years I've unlearned all the nonsense my head was full of, now my head is empty enough to let new stuff in. I believe this is the primary purpose of the gap year, unlearning rather than learning. How can anyone find their own way if their head is full of someone else's rules? They can't. The gap has to be large enough to let all the crap out. I had a lot of crap in there, hence the twenty seven years.

My own dream is finally finding it's way in. Now I need to find a way to make it pay. I want some of that financial security all my friends have. They have worked hard for theirs, I congratulate them. I've been on gap years. It has been work in it's own way, it's about time that work paid off.

I have a friend who wrote a relatively unsatisfactory novel, then appeared to do nothing for ten years, bludged off his boyfriend and his mother. As if by magic he suddenly produced an award winning documentary film, completed some academic work, was invited to Oxford to lecture, made a bunch of other films and wrote scripts and articles and generally became a creative working machine. He was just lying fallow before he yielded a harvest, for ten years.

I hope that's what I've been doing, lying fallow, not just lying around.

I've always played and made stuff, now I'm ready to make my stuff. I envy my friends, I won't pretend otherwise, but I know they have worked for what they have. I'm certain I will understand and appreciate security when I finally achieve some.

If it doesn't work out for me I'll take some time off, a gap year or two, find something new, another dream. There will always be time for dreams.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Cafe Shots, Cafe Pantheon.

Cafe Pantheon. Sydney Rd. Brunswick, Melbourne Australia.

Parkstreet.
iPad snaps.

Andy Warhol On Keeping It Real.

“I never fall apart, because I never fall together.”

Andy Warhol.

The desire to set the controls at "happy" then never change leads to more unhappiness than most things I know.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Sex Is Pretty Good, I've Noticed.

Sex is pretty good, I've noticed. Folks often say this is better than sex, that is better than sex. I rarely believe them, but for anything to become a benchmark for how good an experience is it must be pretty good.

I can only think of a handful of experiences that were better than sex, most of them would have been improved by having sex afterwards. Some nights when the music was flowing right, freshly shucked oysters, that third section of Heart Of Darkness, a few others. Given the choice between most experiences and having sex I'd mostly choose sex.

Of course I'm talking about good sex. Most experiences are better than bad sex. Boring sex is a crime against life itself, there oughta' be a law against it. When you can lie back and happily die in that moment you know it's right, and there aren't many other experiences that leave you feeling that fulfilled.

I reckon we should all chill a bit, learn something from our brothers and sisters the dolphins. They dedicate a lot of time to frolicking and having sex. It appears to make them very happy. I'm sure we'd all be much happier if we spent more time doing it and less time talking about it, stressing out about it, making excuses why we are too busy to do it. Don't you think?

We know sex is great, why don't we just shut up and get on up on that thang and enjoy ourselves, just a little more often? Sex is pretty good, I'm sure of it. If you find something better than sex you can do that too.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

There Is No Diamond In The Sand.

He dreamed the most precious diamond in the world was buried on a beach. He set himself the task of sifting all the sand on all the beaches in all the world until he found that diamond.

He soon realized he didn't have time to sift all the sand on all the beaches in all the world, he would be lucky to complete one beach in his lifetime. He searched his memory for details of the dream, sought a clue, a hint, any reference that might at least tell him which beach. He found nothing, just a dream of himself sifting a handful of sand, finding the most precious diamond in all the world.

He tried to dream the dream again, to no avail. The man gradually went completely mad, all he could think about was sifting sand, finding a diamond. While he was incarcerated he wrote a self help book, Dreams Are For Fools, taught people how to avoid dreaming, how to avoid disappointment. "There is no diamond in the sand" became his catchphrase during television interviews.

The book sold, and sold. The man became insanely wealthy, could buy any diamond he desired. He failed to detect the humour in this.

One morning he awoke from a beautiful dream. He knew what he had to do. He purchased the most precious diamond in all the world, started a rumour that he had buried it on a beach, a beach somewhere. He travelled the world just to watch people on all the beaches in all the world sifting all the sand, trying to find his dream diamond.

"There is no diamond in the sand", he would say, but no one would listen.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Andy Warhol On Humanity.

"During the 1960s, I think, people forgot what emotions were supposed to be. And I don't think they've ever remembered."

Andy Warhol.

The evidence for this statement is in the number of humans who take pills for their heads.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Evolution Is Not A Faith.

The theory of evolution is not a faith, it is a theory that to my mind fits the facts satisfactorily. Fundamentalist types have successfully portrayed evolution as another faith so they can fight it on their own terms. Evolution is not a faith. I'll say it again, evolution is not a faith, or a religion.

When I rise each morning I place some water in a pot, place the pot over heat, wait for the water to boil. My belief that the water will boil is not a religious faith, it is simply evidence based. Every morning when I place water over heat it boils. As evolution occurs I don't believe "in" it in a religious sense, it's just something that happens, the evidence fits.

By confusing people about what evolution is fundamentalist types can employ their own text to dismiss it. My god is the only god, he said he created everything, he said not to believe any other faith, therefore the faith of evolution is false. It's a silly argument. Muddying the waters is one of the oldest propaganda tactics, it has been remarkably successful in this case.

Evolution and religion can live side by side, they cover completely different fields of human understanding. Only those who believe their god literally created the world can't accept both. Some use the theory to prove how brilliant god is, his wondrous design. If that floats your ark then go for it, just don't confuse a fact based theory with a religion, it's a false argument.

Tomorrow the water for my tea will boil, the universe will continue to adapt to ever changing circumstances. Whatever we believe about god and religion will have no effect in any way.

Evolution is not a faith.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Nothing Tastes Right.

For a few days after someone we love dies it seems nothing tastes right. Nothing as dramatic as food being like ashes in our mouths, just . . . not right.

There might be a physical explanation, something to do with salty tears. It might be that our senses feel dulled, blurred, a defense against feeling too much.

The saddest part is that at some point everything goes back to tasting like it used to.

It would somehow be easier if everything kept on tasting not right for the rest of our lives.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

What Would Miles Do? Revisited.

I recently wrote a post asking the musicians version of what would Jesus do? What would Miles Davis do? What was troubling me was what music is next for me, what is true for me right now.

Upon reflection the obvious answer is he would have gotten on with it, not crapped on about it, certainly not write blog posts about it. Upon further reflection I recalled that even Miles had his moments. Drug addiction, long periods when he did nothing. Of course he had the financial luxury to do as he wished, and the credibility to pick up again whenever he desired.

Just the same, Miles would have shut up and searched for inspiration, perhaps waited for it. We all go through these patches, when it all feels pointless and silly. As a blogger it is cool to talk about these things, another musician will know he isn't the only one. As a performer I should shut up and get on with it.

This might be my real choice, writer or performer? I never have a problem getting on with the writing. Perhaps writing is the next, true thing?

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Clothes And The Man.

He's a middle aged man who doesn't own a suit. He believes other people should know him for his actions, for how he lives, not for his clothes. I can see where he is coming from.

I believe having a pressed, black suit ready to wear to a funeral or a church wedding is part of my actions, how I live. It is a token of respect for the occasion, for the people I am attending a funeral or wedding for.

Clothes may not make the man, they do express his beliefs.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Billy Joel On Sex And P.B.J.

"There's nothing better than good sex. But bad sex? A peanut butter and jelly sandwich is better than bad sex."

Billy Joel.

I risk making myself unpopular by stating that I'm not a fan of Mr. Joel's music. He has had some moments, but since Captain Jack he has become pretty soft. I did, however, happen to see him interviewed on The Actors Studio. He was charming, funny, modest, sweet, I genuinely liked him. He said many memorable things, which I can't quite recall right now, told funny stories at his own expense. I like this quote a lot, agree with it wholeheartedly. Boring sex is heartbreaking, against the laws of nature. A P.B.J. is a much better option.

I figure Mr. Joel has no opinion on my music, doesn't give a crap about mine on his. I just don't want anyone believing I'm a fan. I couldn't stand it.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

I'm Simply Walking.

Just because my vision is so poor I can't see past the bonnet of a car from behind the steering wheel the fascist state won't allow me to drive a car. Oh, the injustice! The way most folks drive I don't think I'd be better or worse, but them's the rules.

So I walk. I walk and walk and walk. I don't walk as a leisure activity, or to get fit, I walk as a method of transport. I don't think anyone in history has ever employed this method of transport before, I'm pretty sure I invented it. I don't know anyone else who does it.

Walking is surprisingly cheap, I can't remember the last time I had to pull in to a service station. I gaze in wonder at Greenpeace bumper stickers as they fly by me on the back of automobiles. Hilarious. Walking takes me right to the front door of wherever I'm going, I never encounter any problems finding a park. It is legal to talk on the phone as I walk, quite safe to smoke, eat, drink, the low speed ensures I won't crash into anything.

When I see someone I know as I'm walking I can pull up without anyone blowing a horn at me, stop for a chat. I do see people I know because I'm walking. I get to know more people. I get to know the city, enjoy it's changes, feel it's character. I can choose a different route every time I walk, like a true lover I know my destination, don't mind how long it takes to get there, sometimes the long way is the best way.

I walk in the rain, I walk in the sun, I walk with my saxophone on my back.

When a motorist tells me something is five minutes walk away I allow fifteen to twenty minutes. Motorists have no idea how long it takes to walk anywhere. They've never walked anywhere. Their sense of time, all their senses, are blurred by the television experience of the windshield.

On occasion I board a train, a tram, a taxi. My culture often doesn't allow time for walking. It can be a pleasant change from walking, it can be unpleasant too, so many people in a confined space. On the whole I'd rather walk.

So I'm setting up a new show, my own show. One of the parameters I have to work within is being able to walk to work with my gear. Musical equipment is notoriously heavy, so heavy. The show will have to be an acoustic show. I can't write many props into the script, how would I carry them? My walking method of transport is forcing me to strip back everything to the necessities. Walking is compelling simplicity. Walking is simplicity.

Walking is more than a method of transport, it is a way of thinking. I still object to the state denying my right to drive, but only on principle.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Hector.

He'd forgotten more about music than I'll ever know. From being the star violinist in the orchestra at the posh high school we attended he was always the star, yet he always served the music, didn't expect it to serve him. In our last conversation he said he wanted me to show him a couple of things on the guitar, a ridiculously generous thing to say.

I hadn't set eyes on him for years, occasionally heard his name on the arty music radio show, he'd ended up in Athens playing with the greats of Greek music. In modern style we found each other on Facebook, I discovered he'd become a brilliant, funny, accomplished man. I missed him when he visited Sydney, his show was sold out, the rush for the airport the next day always happens. I guess I assumed we'd bump into when the time was right.

His family loved him. His musical family loved him. I think people mostly loved him.

Vale Hector Cosmas, there was nothing I could have taught you about music, or life. You followed a passion to the full, a life superbly lived.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

What Would Miles Do?

Miles Davis played himself. As he changed, no longer found what he was doing satisfying, his music changed. He bravely dropped an audience, created a new one each time.

I'm at a happy point in my life where I don't have an audience to lose, so I'm free to play the music that feels right for me right now, I won't be leaving anything behind. It is tempting to go back to something I know works. Of course it is. What's the point in experience if it doesn't pay the rent?

Rent schment.

Facing my own talents honestly, knowing what I do well, what I don't, is always a humbling experience. Searching my heart and soul for the music that moves me, that plays me, is just an old fashioned slog. A tiresome slog. I'll never be Miles Davis, I'm certain he would tell me not to try to be Miles Davis, rather to be Kent Parkstreet, to play myself.

There are many practicalities to consider. I can't play in front of a loud band any more. I just can't. I don't drive so I need a portable, taxi and train sort of act. Until the act can pay for a roadie's van and a limousine these facts are essential.

The weird thing is that I've had a bunch of songs written for a few years now, and I never play them. Why not? My own songs couldn't be any more playing me if they tried. The answer seems pretty damned obvious, doesn't it? Record and play my own songs, let them find their own audience if they will.

For any artist the crucial point is commitment. Saying out loud that you do what you do, being prepared to let the stuff you used to do pass by, even if it is paying a month's rent in advance. Once you begin wavering, a little bit of this, a little bit of that, the arrow head becomes blunt.

Some folks ask themselves, "what would Jesus do?". By asking "what would Miles do?" I found the obvious answer. Now to commit to playing myself like the great man did.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Floating Away Like A Supermarket Plastic Bag.

Right now I am a stray supermarket plastic bag, the breeze is lifting me, soon I will dance and drift with the wind, amusing all, then floating away to somewhere else. The heavy tins of her that once filled me have been put away in her cupboards, I am empty, all that is left is to float on the wind and delight the children and the young at heart.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Henrik Ibsen On Authenticity.

"The devil is compromise."

Henrik Ibsen.

I currently require money. An easy way to earn that money is to play awful, compromising music. How badly do I require money and what will earning it cost me? Best I read the small print on that contract before I sign.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Manners Mirror.

A rare paradox, two polite people facing each other in a confined space. One steps to the right, the other to the left, like a mirror they find they are still facing each other. They repeat the process in reverse, one goes left, the other right. They giggle, smile, apologise, offer after you's, finally step past each other. A comical, charming dance of manners, a glimpse of humanity in a pushy world.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Romance Of Choosing.

There is a wonderful romance in choosing to be together with someone. Movie romance depicts destiny, folks who need each other and come together despite the odds. Real life is often less exciting, it sometimes just comes down to a choice.

Out of all the options in my easy modern life I choose to be with you and all that entails, all you are, all you say, all you do.

That choice is honest and daring, it requires self knowledge and courage. Waiting for a perfect love is a great thing to do, good luck with that project. Recognising the perfect person, with all their imperfections, and creating a perfect love, that is a thing to do.

She might have an annoying child, she might listen to Nick Cave, you might see that one day she will have a fat arse like her mother, she might have a boring job that consumes her time, she might have one leg, when you are perfect yourself you can dismiss her for any of these reasons, to love her, to choose to see her not her imperfections, this is true romance.

When we buy a house we think long and hard, consider what needs fixing, it is the biggest financial decision most of us will make. When we choose to be with someone we need to feel long and hard, there is no fixing the problems, she is what she is, if you are thinking renovation you should buy a house instead.

To feel the essential human, to love him or her completely, to choose to not look elsewhere, to choose to be together, it doesn't get any more exciting, any more romantic. We make choices every day, where shall we take lunch? This decision, to be together, is the big one, the choice that can make or break your life. It requires two people who know themselves and are brave enough to choose.

Choosing who you want to spend your precious, limited time with is the stuff of life. It really is the essential decision, everything else revolves around it. It's a daunting choice, all the more reason to take it on, walk away if it doesn't feel right, choosing not to is the other option and perfectly valid. Sitting around waiting for the choice to be made for you, for the perfect time, for circumstances to change, not choosing, is a certain method to loneliness.

Look at her one night when she is doing the dishes, pink gloves, track pants, hair tied up, look at her and imagine waking up to her every morning. If it feels right make a choice, decide, choose to be with her. Allow yourself to fall in love with the romance of choosing to be with her. This is the most beautiful thing you will ever do in your life.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Her Street, Our Street.

Kicking through Autumn leaves already, down the street that was her street, then our street. Where we used to cross over I now go straight ahead, turn left, end up just two blocks from our place. How did I end up back here?

We'd talk, all the way to and from wherever. She'd never talked much before, I guess I'd never listened much before, we were both learning. We agreed that even on our worst days we couldn't imagine not chatting, at least a little.

The feeling I recall, in this street, kicking these leaves, is confidence. She loved me. It was the one thing she hadn't learned how to say, but she said it with every word, with every gesture. She loved me and I knew it and we'd walk and talk and nothing and no one else mattered. I felt the confidence of being loved in this street.

Sure it's melancholy, Autumn leaves and memories of love, walking in silence alone, but I smile as I walk down her street, our street. I feel confident again. She loved me.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Ginger Rogers On Love.

“When two people love each other, they don't look at each other, they look in the same direction.”

Ginger Rogers.

A funny thing for a dancer to say.

That feeling of a shared purpose is essential, I still think a little time looking at each other and counting blessings doesn't hurt a bit.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

I Can Almost Taste It.

Right now my own laziness is catching up with me. All I really want to do is travel, write and play, as we all know travel requires money. I could be earning that money if I'd ever gotten my shit together and recorded some music, given myself a product to sell as I travelled. It's completely my own fault. I was always busy chasing the new idea, the old ideas I should have been recording were always left behind, seemed less exciting than the next thing.

Even though I'm paying the price now I'm not unhappy about always being on the hunt for something new. I've lived several lives, I can't complain about that. I guess I've always seen recordings as a millstone, like buying a house, I'd feel weighed down by the permanence of it all. Whatever I recorded would have been something that I used to do, not something I wanted to do again, and again.

I have an odd feeling, that I'm very close to being ready to record, that I finally have a feeling in my mind that I'll be happy to stay, to remain in the digital world for as long as the digital world remains. Weirdly it has come through writing this blog each day, sorting and filtering ideas, perhaps discovering who I am? There is so much that can't be said with words, that needs to be played musically, without words. I'm nearly at a point where I'm ready to express something.

Who knows, maybe waiting until I feel ready is the best idea? Like a middle aged first novelist, having lived a few lives, sorted wheat from chaff. It's so very nearly here, on the tip of my saxophone playing tongue, in my breath and my lips, of my body, not my brain.

I can almost taste it.

The time is coming, I feel it, it's slowly filling me up, soon there won't be space for anything else. It will come when it is ready.

Perhaps it wasn't laziness, rather good judgement. I can travel next year with a recording, the recording, in my wandering hand.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

John Cage On The New.

"I can't understand why people are frightened of new ideas. I'm frightened of the old ones."

John Cage.

The old ideas are just plain scary from our lofty modern perspective. Hell, inherited power, nuclear bombs, all crazy and frightening ideas. Just as well no one believes in that crazy shit any more.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Hot Air Balloon Love.

Two hot air balloons drifting lazily across the city of Melbourne at dawn. Against the grey skyscraper backdrop they look so old world, elegant, unhurried, yet to climb over those buildings someone has to fire up the gas, flame, heat, action.

Just as even the most serene love affair needs to be set on fire occasionally.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Mr. Spock On Exercise.

"On my planet "to rest" is to rest, to cease using energy. To me it is quite illogical to run up and down on green grass using energy instead of saving it."

Mr. Spock in 'Shore Leave'.

The urge to exercise can be placated by sitting down with a cup of tea for a while, the urge will pass.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Wile E. Coyote, True Love And Me.

I want you to stretch your imagination, take a leap with me here. Imagine, if you will, The Roadrunner playing the role of True Love. And now, follow me here, Wile E. Coyote playing the role of Me.

So The Roadrunner of True Love has evaded Wile E.'s cunning plan once more and the poor, hapless coyote has gone off the edge of a cliff, stuck out his hand and caught hold of a solitary, improbable tree. He is looking down at the abyss, up to the tree roots which are slowly, torturously tearing free. There is a rumbling from above, Wile E.'s contraption is about to roll off the top of the cliff carry him, tree and all, to the canyon floor. He looks at the camera, his eyes say, "oh no, not again".

The Roadrunner of True Love peeks over the edge, witnesses the comical puff of agony dust, makes that annoying "meep meep" noise, turns and runs cheerily and inanely off into the distance.

Because I too am a cartoon character, after the ad break you'll find me up and chasing True Love yet again, as if nothing ever happened.

As a kid I used to wonder why Wile E. Coyote didn't just abandon his pursuit, go vegetarian, spare himself the pain? Now I am older and wiser I know that chasing The Roadrunner is in his nature, he has no choice.

Right now Wile E. Coyote, playing Me, is hanging onto that tree, hoping for a miracle, that the script will change, just once.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Jesse Owens On Positive Thinking.

“Find the good. It's all around you. Find it, showcase it and you'll start believing in it.”
 
Jesse Owens.

Simple, huh? Mr. Owens was no simple man. This simple idea is pretty much what highly qualified therapists tell their patients.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Potato Based Happiness.

Potatoes and other root vegetables, a few herbs, that's all he sells, mostly potatoes. Whatever you are cooking you can ask him. Roasting? These ones here. Mash? Definitely these ones. The Potato Man knows, he is always correct.

Food addicted weirdos from all over Melbourne come to see the Potato Man. We respect his expertise, admire his dedication, find ourselves wanting his approval, assuring him we will cook his potatoes with love.

The Potato Man loves what he does. He sells potatoes, the best potatoes. That's what he does.

What he really does is remind us how simple a happy life can be. The Potato Man is always happy. The Greek music he has playing is happy, his smile is happy, customers leave his market stall happy. Potato based happiness.

The Potato Man is the best kind of guru, the guru who doesn't know he is a guru. He just sells potatoes.

The Potato Man knows.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Audrey Hepburn On Paris.

“Paris is always a good idea.”

Audrey Hepburn.

Correct.

Paris is an idea that appeals to me right now, it's been twelve years, too long.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

A New Friend.

Despite the might of the infrastructure of a major city public transport system I found out there was a tree fallen on the light rail line from an old homeless guy. It took me a few attempts to comprehend his derelict dialect, finally received the message that I'd have to walk to another tram line.

I'd seen the guy around, suspected he lived in the bushes down below my daily light rail stop. Most days I pick up a small bag of hot chips on my way to the station, can never finish them. Since the day my slightly deranged friend became my informant I've taken to leaving about one third of the bag resting on a bluestone wall on my way up the ramp to the platform. They were always gone when I returned, I was never sure if a cleaner took them or if the old man picked them up.

Today I saw him crossing the tracks, checking a rubbish bin for treasure, clutched in his filthy hand my brown paper bag of leftover fried potato. He ate a few as he shambled off. Last thing before he disappeared into the bushes on the other side of the line he looked straight at me, raised the bag, a toast, shouted something I couldn't understand, then was gone.

You can never have too many friends.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Mae West On Satisfaction.

“Good sex is like good bridge. If you don't have a good partner, you'd better have a good hand.”

Mae West.

I was blessed with the hands of a musician, it still ain't the same thing.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

It's Just A Blog, There Are Other Blogs.

Whatever I write on this blog, don't take me too seriously. It's all just an entertainment, mainly entertaining me. If you disagree with anything feel free to say so, that's always entertaining.

I'm not about to begin apologising for anything I have written, anything I will write. I'm certainly not going to write in an apologetic style. If I have a problem with processed cheese, god, Plastic Bertrand, I will say so in my own way, there is absolutely no reason to take offence, you have your own views, they hold the same weight as mine.

A few folks have been a little upset with me recently. I'm bored with it. This is a public blog, climb on board and say what you want to publicly, or shut up.

There is no point writing a blog and not stating a case strongly, making a few gags, stirring the pot some. I, um, maybe have a feeling that I might think, just a little bit, that I don't really like, all that much, . . . Blah blah blah, kill me now. Why bother?

It's all just an entertainment. Read it or not, it's just a blog, there are other blogs.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Gypsy Rose Lee On Marriage And Prostitution.

“Women who marry men they don't love or aren't attracted to, men who are older, unattractive or unlovable, such women cannot validly look down on prostitutes. That is to say, on honest prostitutes.”

Gypsy Rose Lee.

Keeping the hours I do I've met more than my share of hookers, we used to drink in the same bars. Many do it to feed a drug habit, others just realized they could be the fat man's personal assistant for a small wage or fuck him once a week, for an hour, for a similar wage.

A girlfriend once left me for a rich, fat, old whale. I imagined her waking up and wondering how he became beached in her bed? I imagined her lying back and thinking of the money. I prefer an honest prostitute.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

What Is Regret?

Regret is fear.

Regret is not looking back and feeling bad that we behaved badly, it is looking forward, being afraid that when faced with a similar test of character we will fail again. We all know there is nothing we can do about past actions and words, it is the future we are afraid of.

People feeling regret promise themselves they will never again behave how they did in the past. They may, they may not. Being afraid of how we might act at some future date is a certain method to feeling miserable.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Mae West On Freedom.

“I never said it would be easy, I only said it would be worth it.”

Mae West.

Being oneself, being free, some folks make it look easy.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Which Way At Albuquerque?

You know those moments, when you turn right instead of left at Albuquerque, look back later knowing it was a terrible mistake, or look back later knowing it was a brilliant mistake? It's not often we are actually in Albuquerque, make a choice, take a turn, know in that instant whether it was a terrible or brilliant decision. Usually the bitter or joyous experience that follows defines that moment posthumously.

Tonight I had such a moment, made a decision, took a turn, knew in the moment that it was good. I feel like a new venture has already succeeded, that some crap has been left behind, that a corner has been turned. I've taken up something that I know will serve me, dropped something that has, and will serve to cause me pain.

Some coffee, some rain, a trusted partner in crime, everything is sorted.

I have no choice but to revel in this moment, boast about it just a little. It's a rare and beautiful thing when instinct and judgement combine to provide direction, purpose, confidence.

One day the show I've decided to write will tour, we will arrive in Albuquerque, I'll smile to myself and know exactly when this crazy trip began. It began tonight.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Martina Navratilova On Commitment.

"The difference between involvement and commitment is like ham and eggs. The chicken is involved; the pig is committed."

Martina Navratilova.

Would you die for it?

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

It's All About The Dopamine.

In this self indulgent, self analysing culture many of us are aware of dopamine, how it affects us. Just a happy chemical in the brain, we all naturally maintain different levels. Given the porridge test, most are just right, some of us run too hot or too cold.

My levels are naturally low, I need constant stimulus, travel, climbing onto stages with instruments, buoyant people. It's not a good or bad thing, just who I am, although I'm guessing it makes me a little irritating to live with. That's a lie, I know it makes me a lot irritating to live with.

There are drugs that inhibit or enhance dopamine levels. They can save lives in extreme cases. I refuse to have anything to do with them. I prefer to accept some dark days, work a little harder at making my environment a happy one for me. So what if I need constant change? If that's how I am so be it.

Others with too much dopamine risk going off the deep end. They need to calm their environment, search for serenity. It is who they are, exuberant people are a joy to the world, they just have to be careful not to hurt themselves along the way.

Before we knew what dopamine was we just called it our nature, the way we were. People at the extremes lived extreme lives, not always long lives. These people dragged us from the caves, ran with fire, made stuff happen.

If my nature, my dopamine levels drive me to seek happiness in a different way to the ordinary I really don't mind. I'm one of the lucky ones who lived long enough to learn and enjoy my nature. I'm still learning. And I'm still irritating.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Bugs Bunny On Authority.

"Shhhhhhhh! I'm about to defy you."

Bugs Bunny.

We love Bugs because he won't be told how to live. And he's funnier than Che.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Honesty Versus Morality.

So we have a collective social sense of what is moral and what is not. The easiest option is to subscribe to that morality, everyone knows where everyone stands. We all do this to some degree, break the code when we are under pressure, find excuses, blame circumstances. We are humans after all, we all do our best.

Another option is to be honest, to say out loud that we plan to break the collective code of morality, take care of ourselves first, others can accept it or not. It seems to me more moral to inform others of our plan to behave in a way that is considered outside the normal standards, that our motivation is purely selfish.

If we are going to break the rules why not just say so? My experiences tell me that most people find this approach surprising yet refreshing. They can choose if they want to deal with me or not. It saves inventing a whole lot of excuses and nonsense that everyone just pretends to believe.

I'm very curious to hear other people's thoughts on this. I believe we are all going to do and say things that step outside the socially accepted standard of morality. I believe being straight up on these occasions offers others the respect of the truth.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Whitnail And I On The 1960's.

"Marwood:Give me a Valium, I'm getting the FEAR!
Danny: [very calmly] You have done something to your brain. You have made it high. If I lay 10 mils of diazepam on you, it will do something else to your brain. You will make it low. Why trust one drug and not the other? That's politics, innit?
Marwood: I'm gonna eat some sugar.
[he goes to the kitchen]
Danny: I recommend you smoke some more grass.
Marwood: No way, no fucking way.
Danny: That is an unfortunate political decision. Reflecting these times.
Withnail: What are you talking about, Danny?
Danny: Politics, man. If you're hanging onto a rising balloon, you're presented with a difficult decision - let go before it's too late or hang on and keep getting higher, posing the question: how long can you keep a grip on the rope? They're selling hippie wigs in Woolworths, man. The greatest decade in the history of mankind is over. And as Presuming Ed here has so consistently pointed out, we have failed to paint it black."


Whitnail And I.

I love this film. I guess it feels like my heritage, where me and my idiot hippy bohemian comrades came from. The sadness of missed opportunity, the struggle to find the context for whatever talents we possess.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com