Omission.

We all omit certain facts from our biographies.

In 2003 Kent spent six months playing country and western songs to Chinese tourists on a Sydney harbour lunch cruise boat. They didn't understand a word he sang, they just wanted a photograph with the guy in the funny hat and tropical shirt. He only worked for two hours a day, spent the rest of his time locked in a small hotel room curing himself of a nasty alcohol habit.

Instead I'd describe that as an interesting time of my life. A publicist might describe it as a time of personal discovery whilst working in the international tourism entertainment industry.

How much do we need to cough up? My business is based on big lies, anything to land the gig, if you believe you can nail the gig once you hit the stage it isn't really a lie. We all lie to employers, to some degree. In personal relationships the truth is a different matter. There is no job to complete, the truth is the job in a way. Yet we all try to present ourselves to a new lover at our best. We omit certain facts, expand others. It's a natural part of the mating dance and ritual.

How much of the truth can we omit? It will come out eventually, it always does. We all have quirks and weaknesses, most of them are actually endearing to the right person, it is the hiding of these things that feels like betrayal later.

Complete honesty is a delicate balance that none of us ever get right. Being completely and brutally honest from the first date is a recipe for a single life, omitting too much will end in a nasty break up soon enough. We all have to find our own way, some do it better than others.

There are big things that simply must be said before the other party signs on. I once dated a lass who disguised a drug habit, for a while. That should have been on the table. The fact that I enjoy watching kid's cartoons in the afternoon is a truth that can wait a little while before it is revealed. It's all a judgement call, I guess the way we judge it tells our lovers as much about us as anything else.

The best we can do is offer an open mind, an open heart. Tell me anything and everything and I'll be cool with it. Then hope that offer is returned. Of course we all dream of a relationship that is completely honest from the first kiss, I do anyway. Omitting too much is lying, being completely honest is hard, we all have to find our own balance.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Rocky And Bullwinkle On Theatre.

Rocky: (recognising Boris' voice) That voice. Where have I heard that voice before?

Bullwinkle: In about 365 other episodes, but I don't know who it is either.

Rocky And Bullwinkle Show.





The suspension of disbelief, even a hint of post modernism, all you need to know about theatre.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Virility Of The Mind.

"Your condoms are all too small, bring forth a variety more apt to my girth, and make haste, I am in a state of desire."

Yes, of course it was a dream, a twisted Gulliver's Travels kind of dream, set in a land where the people worshipped the phallus, and I was the largest in the land. A man can dream.

As it was my dream there was, of course, a tragic element. The Princess I fell for was my anatomical opposite, we were unable to consummate the affair. I know this is anatomically ridiculous, but it was a dream, reality doesn't apply.

Then Mr. Peabody wandered through my dream, bearing a sign, a cartoon image of a penis, an equals sign, an image of a brain. Mr. Peabody walked away lecturing on the Jungian school of dream interpretation, just in case I hadn't received the message. Did he think I was some kind of idiot so obsessed by my own bits that I would ignore his message and insist the dream was all about my cock?

Virility. Is the brain the organ where it really occurs? Was my Princess afraid of the size of my brain, or even repelled by it? Is my quest to find the land that contains the Princess who will be attracted, turned on by my brain?

The physical act of love making is magnificent, one of the joys of humanity. The meeting of like minds is rarer, I'm beginning to think that is where the real action is at. A virile, active, assertive mind can be the sexiest thing on Earth. It also does no harm when it comes to imagination in the bedroom.

Yes, it was just a dream, my time as Kent of the Monster Phallus was limited to a few minutes in an all too obvious parable. It was great while it lasted, and who knows, I might have learned something.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Sherlock Holmes On Motivation.

“My life is spent in one long effort to escape from the commonplaces of existence. These little problems help me to do so.”

Sherlock Holmes, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

As good a motivation as any other. I believe I do a similar thing by playing music.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Other Half Of Happiness.

Folks tell me I shouldn't look to external stimulus for happiness, that happiness should come from within. Nonsense. We all require external stimulus, otherwise being locked in solitary confinement would not be considered a harsh punishment.

The brain surgeon who finds happiness in his profession requires sick and injured brains to make that contentment possible. Those unwell brains give him purpose, the joy of helping others, the satisfaction of being excellent at his work. A human who finds happiness in actions is never going to be happy sitting under a bodhi tree.

Humans are compulsive communicators, we need interaction with our fellow humans. Lovers need a fellow lover, conversationalists need a fellow intellect, friends need friends, a musician needs an audience. We also require action, a labourer needs a shovel and a reason to dig a hole. Without purposeful work we flounder.

Yes, how we react to external stimulus is essential to happiness. How we perceive our universe is how the universe really is. Without communication and action we are observers of that universe, not participants. Of course we should know ourselves, find our own understanding of life, all the action in the world is just sound and fury without self knowledge, but the real happiness comes from the doing, not the contemplation.

Folks tell me all kinds of things that sound about right, look for happiness within sounds right. It's only half the truth. If that person, that place, that work, that play makes you happy don't deny it in an effort to fit what folks say. Love that person, enhance that place, perform that work, rejoice in that play, allow the external stimulus to be the other half of happiness.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Working For The Man.

So I believe I may have to get myself a j . . ., a j . . ., a job, there, I said it. I'm soul tired, poverty doesn't enhance my complexion, a new coat of green Is calling my name.

I'll go through the classified ads, see what sort of jobs are going, what I might be qualified to do, what forty four years on this planet has equipped me for. I'll employ a process of elimination, write off the jobs that require a recognised piece of paper, the jobs that would require normal eyesight, the ones where I'd be working under fluorescent light because my eyes give me massive headaches under those lights, the jobs that require a driver's license, time spent at a computer, and last of all the jobs that require scamming for a cut of charity dollars. I'm sure that will leave plenty of options.

I'll shave, get a haircut, take my earrings out, don my shabby suit and attend interviews with managers half my age, try to explain to them what I've been doing for the last twenty seven years since I left school. A change of image is due anyway.

I'll change the habit of a lifetime, rise with the sunrise, everyone else does it, how hard can it be? I'll laugh at the jokes my boss makes, wear a uniform, follow the script. If I ever waver from my course I will think of pay day, being financially secure will heal any wounds.

Who am I fooling? It ain't gonna' happen.

Instead I will continue writing this blog in the hope it will one day find a suitable sponsor. I will go in search of a working band that satisfies me musically. I will seek work as a freelance writer. I know this is what I'll do. It's what I do.

If everyone else can hold down a day job why can't I? Am I a pretentious idiot with a ludicrous sense of entitlement? Quite possibly. As Popeye said, I yam what I yams. A day job just looks like the fire to me, at least while I'm in the frying pan I might become something delicious. Turn me over, I'm nearly done.

A job. Now the pressure is off I can say it. I work enough hours each week, I just need to convert those hours into some cash. Being poor doesn't suit me but the way out is not a job, the way out is in working harder at being myself and doing what I do.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle On Recognition.

“Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself; but talent instantly recognizes genius.”

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

Mediocrity is a harsh word. Is any human really mediocre? I believe mediocrity is a learned behaviour, that we all possess gifts, that education should be aimed at discovering and enhancing those gifts, not repressing people into mediocrity.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Get A Good Price.

There is a tipping point when a well known, long established cafe becomes a tourist trap, a place to be ticked off a list of things to do, places to see. Where once there was impromptu conversation between strangers at the coffee bar there are now cameras and conversations about what an institution the place is.

I am worried that one of my favourite places on earth is losing it's soul, it's groove, it's essence. It might be twenty years before the fashion passes and this cafe is fit for the bohemians and open minded folk who made it what it was.

The old double edged sword of success. We've seen it with unspoiled beaches, unspoiled musicians, and now my favourite unspoiled cafe. How to maintain integrity in the face of dollars?

Even the suburb I live in has been bought out, the yuppie locust swarm have devoured every square inch of real estate so that none of the interesting folks who made the area cool can afford to live here any more. Now the yuppies go out in search of Bohemia and just see each other. Looking at each other does appear to make them happy so I guess it has worked out for them. Not so much for the essential people who made this place great.

I am unburdened by success. I don't know how I would react to it. If one of my songs suddenly became huge, somehow, would I fly around playing that same song again and again, cease exploring the new? I dare say I would, convince myself it was only for a while, that I'd make some money then get out. Eventually the trend would die, I would go back to obscurity, integrity and authenticity can be hard to get back once you've let them go.

So my favourite cafe will come back, some time, I wonder if it will ever be the same? We all strive for success, I reckon the secret is to demand it on your own terms, or deny it. The contract that seals mass appeal often requires an exchange of integrity, of soul. If I'm ever going to sign it I will demand a huge pile of money in return, at least get a good price for my essence.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Get Smart On Friendship.

Chief: How can we believe a man who would sell out his friends?
Siegfried: Dumkopf! Who else are you supposed to sell out? You can't betray enemies!

From 1960's comedy series Get Smart.




With friendship you pays your money and takes your chances. What else can you do?

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Leaders And Followers And Movements.

There are people who lead movements, other people who follow in the wake of those movements. I plan to lead a movement, one that aims to oppose the people who lead movements. I will eventually become corrupt and drunk with power, I will have to be deposed, the movement will falter. Those who followed the movement to oppose people who lead movements will never learn the lesson or get the joke.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

St. Francis Of Assisi On Being An Artist.

“He who works with his hands is a laborer.
He who works with his hands and his head is a craftsman.
He who works with his hands and his head and his heart is an artist.”

St. Francis of Assisi.

I like this, but I also believe that people who can work with their hands alone, without conscious thought, distraction or confusion, are often the happiest people.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Afterlife Divide.

Since us humans became civilized nearly everyone believed in, or had to say they believed in an afterlife of some kind. It is likely organised societies stemmed from this belief, and through religious authority. It's only over the last few decades that mixed romantic couples, believers with non believers, have become prevalent. I believe it is one of the great divides between people, between couples.

Those who believe in an afterlife live this life differently to those who don't. Us non believers are cursed with the urgency and passion of a dying man. Don't pity us, it makes us feel truly alive, and if, after we die, we are proven wrong, well, what the hell? Believers view this life as just another stage of the eternal. I don't know why they believe this so firmly, you'll have to ask one of them. In some ways it appears to make their lives richer, a sense of calm that this earthly toil isn't all there is. How can these two ways of life possibly get along together?

This is a new phenomena, it wasn't so long ago that fellow Christians of different sects couldn't marry, suddenly a committed Jew can shack up with a lapsed Roman Catholic and no one notices. For those of different faiths but similar beliefs the divide isn't so large, often they can enrich each others understanding. For the believer and non believer the divide is fundamental, goes to the heart of every thought and action.

They say love conquers all but it simply doesn't. Folks have to be able to get along as well as be in love. I don't see an obvious solution for the afterlife divide. I've recently experienced it, exploited every patient resource I possess in an attempt to be open minded, found myself frustrated and annoyed, how can she possibly know any of that, no one knows any of that, how can anyone know? I imagine she looked at me the same way, how can he not understand? I wanted stuff to happen now, to get on with the good stuff, to live and love like it might all end in a bizarre chicken bone incident tomorrow. She didn't see time as important, with eternity in play why would she?

I'm seeing a business opportunity, atheist singles nights, maybe a dating site online. Every religion has their own set up, why shouldn't the non believers? It does fall upon us to be accepting, tolerant, open minded when all we want to do is scream"what a crock" as loud as we can. I reckon things will go naturally this way anyway, non believers will find each other and breed little non believers. It won't cause social splits like the division of religious sects has throughout the world, folks won't kill each other over it. Non believers simply don't care that much and most believers are well enough educated to feel sorry for us and live and let live.

Of course the heart will choose, if we fall in love we fall in love, the afterlife is the last thing on our mind when we fall in love. Perhaps we should consider our beliefs about the next life before committing to living this life together?

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Al Capone On Persuasion.

"You can get much farther with a kind word and a gun than you can with a kind word alone."

Al Capone.

Thug, killer, funny guy.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Use Words Ladies.

I've always enjoyed many female friends, women are less competitive and smell better than men. Their various relationships are often discussed, past, present, future. I have finally come up with one useful piece of advice that nearly every woman I have ever known should know and understand.

Use words.

Speak words, out loud, simple words that can't be misunderstood, words that even a blundering man can understand. Us menfolk are always told when we are doing something wrong, we know full well what not to do. Use words to tell him what he is doing right. That way he will know what to do, how to make you happy.

Do not, I repeat, do not tell me that he "should just know". Isn't it apparent by now that he doesn't bloody know? How could he? Oh, that subtle sideways glance, that caress of his hand? Nonsense, men don't make that connection, we like words, simple words. Leave the subtle gestures for clever script writers and actresses, use words.

"It makes me happy when you do that."

"I like it when you say that."

Simple. A secure man is a confident, active, romantic man. Given some idea what is going on he will feel sure of his actions, your reward will be the complete man, the thoughtful, proactive guy you always wanted. If he has no idea what will make you happy, only hears what he is doing wrong, he will do nothing, he will stew, he will eventually give up and walk away.

Language is one of the great joys of civilization. It connects us, such a simple and useful form of communication.

Just use words ladies, simple words, please.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

This Very Moment.

So I'm sitting outside Cafe Pantheon in Sydney Road Brunswick, an ideal Melbourne Autumn day, t shirt and jacket, a scarf if you think you'll be out for a while. The coffee is great, the people in this old fashioned Greek cafe simply delightful, I've come from a pleasant afternoon of rehearsing flute parts on Amy Ganter songs, all is well with the world.

I have a feeling that this is the calm before the storm, in many ways. The awful Melbourne winter will settle in soon, the real playing will too. Moments like this, when I have time to sit and write, when it's not too bloody cold and wet to sit outside, will be rare for the next few months. I'm taking an extra coffee and soaking it up.

There is a charming murmur of conversation from inside, half in Greek, half in English. This is the street to shop for wedding dresses, I don't know why, the collectives of gushing and comely lasses planning Spring ceremonies are stopping in for coffee, delicious Greek biscuits and more gushing. They are all so young and beautiful and full of hope, annoying and inspiring at the same time. They believe that their whole lives are before them. They don't need me to tell them it will be series of lives, that nothing will happen as they expect it to, how disappointing it would be if everything happened as they expect it to.

My last new life was short lived, a feeling of frustrating limbo ensued. In this moment, this very moment, I can feel another new life beginning. It is impossible to feel bitter in this moment. I am awash with the sweet joy of possibility. Everything that needed to be said and done in the past life has settled to dust, this new life has been cleansed by that dust, everything is new from this moment.

Time to go, for this moment to end. It is precious, like birth.

Bring it on.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

You Have To Believe In Yourself More.

"You have to believe in yourself more."

What am I? A fictional character? If I clap my hands will I exist more?

I guess after you've heard the same advice more than one thousand times you really should begin paying attention. Yes, self belief, anyone who wants to get on a stage needs a giant Santa bag full of the stuff. Once I'm on the stage I've got plenty, you're paying I'm playing, let it rip. Off stage I apparently possess less self belief, or so it appears to others.

How does one achieve self belief, or at least the appearance of it? I can think of two methods. One is to receive enough positive external reaction that you believe you are good at what you do. The other is the tried and proven fake it 'til you make it routine. Having never achieved anything remotely resembling career success in the music business the first method feels distant. Individual people appreciate what I do, bless 'em, but the mass audience at large is yet to receive the memo. As for faking self belief? I'm not entirely sure how to do that. Isn't belief something you have or don't? Is it fakeable?

I'm not convinced there is some magical power that converts belief into reality. I've witnessed plenty of confident failures. In concrete situations, attending an audition, meeting a venue manager, an air of confidence is essential. I wouldn't be attending the audition if I didn't think I could do the job, why not be confident and reassure everyone that I am the man for the job? In the abstract I really don't think it makes one bit of difference what I believe.

I reckon I have a firm grip on what my musical strengths and weaknesses are. I bluff through some of the weaknesses, show off the strengths. I know I'm a good band member, reliable and solid. Yet still I receive this advice, time and again, you have to believe in yourself more. I do take it on board, ponder it, I'm just not sure what to do with it?

Perhaps it is my Australian sense of humour? There is nothing funny about I'm good and I know it. There is something funny about a bum like me sneaking through on the bones of my arse. Maybe in attempting to pull a laugh I give the impression that I'm putting myself down? I don't know, it takes some confidence to play for mirth at your own expense, not someone else's.

Whatever it is I've heard it too many times to ignore it. I'm going to play this self belief game and see where it takes me. I've always believed that if you point me at a stage and let me loose I can cut it, make something happen, I'm going to try giving that vibe off to the world at large. First I'll have to learn what giving off a vibe is and how it is done.

"You have to believe in yourself more."

Don't forget my friends, you created this monster.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Joseph Stalin On Control.

“Ideas are far more powerful than guns. We don't let our people have guns. Why should we let them have ideas?”

Joseph Stalin.

Our own governments adopt the ideas of history, they just don't speak them out loud.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Authenticity And Identity.

Some people are so awful we can't help liking them, others so nice we must despise them. We know this is wrong, we give ourselves a good talking to about it, but it's just the way us humans are. We admire authenticity, the truly awful person is most often just being themselves, the overtly nice being what they think they should be.

Then there is the person who gives nothing, no emotion, no opinion, no nothing, neutral. They possess a certain mystery for a while, not for long. Without some sense of identity a human isn't really a human.

Our culture tries to quell authenticity and identity. We are more easily managed consumers when we all think and act the same, governments, religions, corporations make it their business to make us all the same. They try to make us nice, neutral, bland, the same, that way they can tell us what to do, what is right for us, what is good for us.

Go out and spend a day being your most awful self. You'll find it is enjoyable, liberating. We're all awful in someone's opinion, I say good on them for having an opinion. I love them for it. And I know they'll end up liking me despite themselves.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Allen Ginsberg On Sex And The Intellect.

“My own experience is that a certain kind of genius among students is best brought out in bed.”

Allen Ginsberg.

Despite the Summer Of Love, our allegedly modern view of sex, we still don't get that sex is part of the whole, the essence, it is a pathway to many things other than physical pleasure.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Lazy? Damned Right!

So the light in my bathroom comes on via a sensor, it is all very modern. Turns itself off too, my bathroom light is more clever than many people I've met.

I'm thinking of purchasing a foam rubber football, something soft so if I throw it inaccurately nothing will get broken. So armed I'll be able to turn on a gentle light during the night, by throwing a spiral into the bathroom. I'll be the reclining quarterback, calling the plays of my mood lighting.

Lazy? Moi? Oh yeah, never denied, never in doubt. As lazy as a Labrador. If there is an easy way to do something I will find it, that is the contribution of the lazy. Who do you think invented the light switch in the first place? Someone who said "I can't be arsed walking all the way over there to turn a light on", that's who. The sensor light, the football, just logical progressions, designed and created by the lazy people. Industrious people receive a lot of credit for their work. I'm sure they get some things done, but give a job to a lazy man if you want it done right.

In this iPad over PC world us lazy folk are the future, as we all crave easier ways to get the boring things done. All those industrious folks who are laughing at my naivety, how far back would you go? Before automatic dishwashers? Before automatic clothes washing machines? Of course these were thought up by lazy people, industrious people would have rolled up their sleeves and gotten on with the job, not sat down for a smoke and thought of an easier way.

So if you ever have the good fortune of staying overnight at my place and you see a couple of foam rubber footballs under the bed, no, I don't have children. When you want to get up in the night, for a glass of water, I'll simply toss a football through the bathroom door, you will be spared the harsh overhead light and be able to find your way. "Bless your laziness Kent", you will say.

And bless the lazy man who invented the sensor switch, bless all the much maligned lazy folk who make this world a more civilized place.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Words Love.

I don't want to talk about house prices, ailments, offices, gardens and the good old days. I really don't.

I want to hang out with people who know that language is a thing of beauty, who speak beautifully. I want conversations about ideas, stories told to illuminate an idea, verbal images created to illustrate an idea.

I want to converse with Jimmy, an hour and a half over coffees is never enough, we are still trying to get everything said as we walk away. I want to chat with Scott, who sums up vast ideas with one sentence. I want to talk with Elizabeth, the one real life conversation we've had, in between sets, she charmed me with her ideas and predicted my future.

The topics don't matter, as long as the real topics are truth and beauty. I want the wonder of the world to flow with words. Please, oh please, don't just give me the facts. How long do you expect to live? Do you think it will matter, on your death bed, who sold their house for how much? So many wasted words that could have been spent in real communion with a fellow human.

Words are spoken, ideas, truth and beauty. These conversations are real communication, the only expression that matters, they express love.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Post Two Thousand.

So I've written two thousand posts in around two and a half years. I'm thinking I have too much time on my hands. Post two thousand was about publishing the first collection from this blog. I guess that means I'm making progress.

Thank you to all who read regularly, or spasmodically. I'm enjoying the trip, and the fantastic people I've met along the way. I believe this blog has given me a new career, more importantly a new way of thinking.

All I need now is a generous sponsor for this blog so I can travel and write, write and travel, then my life will be complete.

Again, sincere thanks to all who have supported and encouraged, you'll never know how much you've helped me.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

My E Book.

So I've finalised plans for publishing my first little book online. It's been an interesting trip, some honest thought about commercial realities and what my place is as a writer. This whole writing lark is a relatively new trick, I'm still learning, hope to continue learning for the rest of my days.

From my teenage years I was a literary novel freak. Yep, I was the teenager who got through War And Peace, I really did. In my twenties people used to describe me as the guy with a book under his arm. As my vision failed through my thirties I ceased reading, missed it horribly, have come back to the second best of audio books now. I always viewed the novel as the ultimate writing, where I'd like to end up. To face the fact that I ain't a novelist was an interesting process, hugely disappointing, the beginning of working out what sort of writer I really am.

In music I am not a classical composer, I'm an improvisor, I bounce off the bass lines and play the moment. Short, to the point, eliminate the bullshit and play the essential notes. I've discovered that this is how I write too. Bounce off an idea, the fewest words possible, let it fly and land how it will. Improvising music doesn't always come off, some nights it is just o.k., not brilliant, other nights it flies beautifully, lands smoothly, expresses the love and joy of flight. So some days I write stuff that is just o.k., it isn't bad, but not great. Occasionally an idea and I hit it off, I hit publish and feel good that I've written something worthwhile.

So I've decided to publish an e book of just the good stuff from the blog, just twenty pieces at a time, send a new one out online every six months or so. This process won't make me any money, hopefully cover the costs of publishing and my internet bill. It will get me out there, an entry into the online lottery, a portfolio for future employers.

I reckon this short, sharp form of writing fits the spirit of the time poor times. Who knows, it might even be successful? For me it's just good to know where I'm at, feel a path to follow. I hope to continue learning, improving, eventually make something that I'll be happy to hand over to Richard Brautigan and say, "read this, it's pretty good".

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

New Cars, New Loves.

So there it is, a scratch, a dint on your gorgeous new car. How do you react? Has the car lost it's brand new lustre, it's perfection, is it just another car now? Or is it a relief, can you relax and drive the car with ease, park wherever is convenient? Your reaction probably depends on whether you love the car or just love the glamour of it.

Most lovers have a break up, at some point. The shiny newness is sullied, a little reality must be faced. I think that break up is when you find out if you truly love.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Allen Ginsberg On Truth.

“Candor disarms paranoia.”

Allen Ginsberg.

I prefer being told to fuck off to a false smile. I know what fuck off means, I've no idea what lurks behind the false smile.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

I Solemnly Vow.

I, Kent Parkstreet, do solemnly vow, that when my black Levi's make me look like a too old try hard rocker I shall cease wearing them.

I will heed the signs, give away the ludicrous and flamboyant shirts, retire to the black suit and collar of the senior musician. When my hair line recedes I shall visit the barber and request the clippers.

I promise I will not become an embarrassment to my craft as so many before me have. I believe I have five good years left in me.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Emotional Perspective.

I'm going through an interesting time with my eyes right now. In short, they aren't working very well, that makes life interesting.

The relationship with sensory organs is taken for granted until they don't do what you want them to do. It's not just the physical realities, how to get around safely, how to cook dinner, it alters your relationship with the world. Unable to see emotion on a human face the temptation is to guess, unable to see if the people approaching you are a threat you treat them as if they are.

Life is affected in subtle ways too. Frustration can be moved onto people, onto work. The feeling of being trapped can lead you to see other people as an escape, not actual people. The feeling of being incapable can lead to pushing harder to prove yourself. I'm guessing I'm not a lot of fun to be around right now.

I have some serious thinking to do, how to manage my life so I can achieve what I want to, how to know when I'm laying off my anger and frustration onto other people. For someone with very little visual perspective it's quite funny that what I need most right now is emotional perspective.

Within the next couple of years I'll be one of those guys with a white cane. I've always thought those guys have a romantic, cool kind of edge to them, so that's o.k. Soon enough the stem cell surgery I'm waiting on will be available to me, and a new life will begin.

If nothing else life is interesting. I see it differently as I see it differently. I can manage the physical realities. There is a fair chance I'm not managing the emotional realities as well as I could. I wouldn't go signing on to be my girlfriend until I've sorted a few things out. After that I encourage you to come and feel the gentle touch of a blind man, there are some good aspects to this blindness gig.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Milan Kundera On Reality.

"I think, therefore I am is the statement of an intellectual who underrates toothaches."

Milan Kundera.

It is essential to remain rooted in this three dimensional, concrete world we live in, no matter how high or airy our thinking might be. Pain is a reminder that we are human and real. By trying to be just a mind or just a spirit, we lose touch with our very real humanity, then we lose touch with our fellow humans.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

A.N.Z.A.C. Reflections.

A high school history teacher, one Gerry Melin, taught me about the history of Australians at war. His grandfather was involved in the great escape the movie made a mockery of, Mr. Melin served in Vietnam, he had a personal interest in the subject. The world he tried to teach us about seemed so far away in time and space I didn't really understand. Thirty years later I'm starting to get it.

Today is A.N.Z.A.C. Day here in Australia, a memorial day for all who served. We do it in our own way, remember, pay honour, then go out and live, express every freedom and joy that was paid for. Two of the oldest football teams in Melbourne play the hardest fought physical contest you will ever witness in peacetime. Returned servicemen don their best suits and medals, gamble, drink, laugh, become young men for a day.

I'm sitting outside a cafe that is usually packed at this time, I am the only customer. Everyone is visiting friends on this cold, drizzling, bleak day, settling in front of the giant television, fussing over grandfather. A few football supporters are passing, dressed in their team's colours like teenagers, otherwise this usually busy street is empty. There is a somber mood, it will soon pass, just after the bugler and the minute of silence the crowd will erupt in noise, pride, excitement. By this evening the city will be back to normal, perhaps a little drunker than normal.

I recall Gerry Melin telling me that it wasn't a day to be sad, rather a day to celebrate all we have, to rejoice in the greatness of our forefathers. I recall that a massive percentage of a tiny population were wounded or killed, that we can't forget that, that we have to respect those men by living our lives fully. Today I can fly to all the places we have fought in the past, be welcomed. In some parts of France I would still be unable to pay for a drink once it was known where I'd come from. It all seems much closer now, and not so long ago.

I live in the hope that this is a wiser world, that we won't see the astonishing destruction of past wars. Right now Australians are fighting and dying in Afghanistan, conflict still exists, hopefully it will remain limited, continue to reduce in size and regularity. We are fortunate, this is a comparatively peaceful time in history.

Teachers like Mr. Melin are rare, those who make us think thirty years later, and count our blessings.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Brain, Repeat After Me.

Barry Humphries describes alcohol as one of life's pleasures he is allergic to. He doesn't break out in hives, rather he turns into a vicious tongued prick. I'm with Mr. Humphries, it's nearly ten years since I could blame alcohol for being a prick, now it's all me.

The only time I miss drinking is when I have the urge to drink to excess, when I want to blitz all consciousness for a few hours. Alcohol works well for blitzing. I never was one for "a couple of beers" anyway, always seemed like getting the kindling going then letting the fire go out, why not get some big stuff burning and make a Bon fire party of it?

Recently I've had that urge to decrease my awareness of all around, I'll never drink again so I let the urge pass. Before you suggest meditation let me tell you that it isn't in any way the same thing. Drinking unto uncoordination is a mental exercise all it's own. It is bringing in Red Adair to explode the well that is gushing annoying, persistent, oily thoughts of her. Beer and whiskey, combined, the old one two, slaughter brain cells until the brain gives up, begins thinking the thoughts you want it to think, like "let's try to have sex with that person, with any person".

Without alcohol to assist me I've had to face my problems. Facing problems is over rated. I don't recommend facing problems in any way, the bastards just stare back at you. Better to run so fast that problems can't catch up with you, to keep moving so erratically that problems can't predict your next move.

Some people jog, work out, punch a bag. I used to drink alcohol. It's all about stressing your body and mind into submission. Without it I am less wise, can't tell my brain to sit down and shut up. I'm not about to take up exercise, I'm allergic to that too.

Perhaps I'll just cut out the middle man, teach my brain to think what I want it to. Brain, repeat after me, let's try to have sex with that person, let's try to have sex with that person. Hey, it's working already! Anyone local feel like dropping in on this cold, too rainy to walk home night?

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Allen Ginsberg On The Weight.

“The weight of the world is love.
Under the burden of solitude,
under the burden of dissatisfaction
the weight, the weight we carry is love. ”

Allen Ginsberg.

This is wonderful, and sad. It speaks to me right now.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Yes Minister.

The state minister for housing and other stuff was at my place today. I didn't actually meet him or her. By the time I rose late, faffed about on Facebook, took a shower, played some guitar and left the house the evidence that he or she had been there was being packed up, there were soiled tea cups and a marquee being pulled down.

I live in a big old house that is managed by a co operative. This co op saves classic buildings, allows deadbeats like me to live in them cheaply in the name of maintaining cultural diversity in St. Kilda. There was a time when St. Kilda was a diverse neighbourhood by nature, now it must be manufactured, the property magnates have done their thing here.

Today was the official opening. The residents were not invited. We are just the ballast for the feelgood balloon that politicians enjoy riding in. Who knows how that unwashed diversity may behave at such an event? They'll probably eat all the best finger food and steal the teaspoons. The truth is they probably will. Best to leave such events for those who have the most to gain from them.

I wonder about such events. The people who save beautiful old houses and offer affordable accommodation to those who need it, including me, do an amazing job. They've given me a decent home in an area I've called home for over twenty years. I couldn't afford to live here otherwise. Perhaps some official recognition is a good thing, take a moment to look at the excellent work you've done, well done. I reckon most of them might prefer a small bonus in their pay next week, save the cost of the caterer, the equipment hire, the fleet of official cars, give everyone in the office a thousand bucks to say well done.

I know politicians try, they want to be connected to the people they represent, understand their hopes and desires. Just popping in, knocking on a few doors and saying hello would achieve that. The official ceremony is more comfortable for them, safe behind a microphone, surrounded by their own people, we all desire security.

I'm pleased the folks who run the co op were paid the respect they are due. They do the job that politicians find too hard, dealing with the people who struggle in the real world, who would live dirt poor lives if they had to pay commercial rent in this property obsessed culture. The minister will go back to his or her office, pleased with himself or herself. The stuff of ceremony will be packed away, everything will go back to normal.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Mirror Time.

At some point every musician needs to walk into the big room of mirrors and have a good hard look at themselves. As the great sage Clint Eastwood said, a man's gots to know his limitations.

There are those who are born gifted, it is obvious from a very early age. It is a gift, like being able to run fast or solve equations. Of course this talent must be tended, enhanced, placed into a context where it will bloom and be shared with the world. The rest of us have to work. It may come easier to us than others, there is some talent, but it isn't the gift that the lucky few are born with. The best we can hope for is to play with the gifted ones, to be the best we can, the best of the rank just below the gifted ones.

I'm one of the worker ants. I'm not putting myself down, it's where I'm at. I consider myself fortunate, I've milked a lot of music out of a limited talent, perhaps that is my gift? I've played with young African American kids who ooze natural talent, blow me out of the water, through hard work and experience I can hold my place on the stage with them, but I'll never have what they have.

At open mic nights I've witnessed musicians with very little talent, literally shaking before they play to a friendly audience of fifteen people. They love music so much that they face fear every time. They will never play professionally, they know it, week after week they butter up to play their three songs. I love these musicians, they are glorious, as much as any gifted genius they are real musicians.

There are real life assessments to be made in front of that mirror too. How will I live when I am old? Should this music business become a happy hobby, pay my way with a day job like everyone else has to? Am I good enough to justify sacrificing nearly every modern comfort in my life, do I offer anything to the world that makes it all worth it? Each individual musician has to answer these questions for themselves. I've tried asking for advice, it is fruitless, only you know.

Today, two days after playing at a street music festival on the hard pavement for three hours, my left knee hurts so much I can barely walk on it. I'm reaching an age when I have to be smart about what music I play, where and when. I truly have to assess the entire business. Is it time to pack my instruments back into their cases? That time will come, I believe I have a few good years left in me.

Standing in that room of mirrors is tough. Your ego won't like it. Don't forget that the music business is tough, seriously tough, look at all those who have fallen while you are still standing. Only you know if you have a gift worth sharing, are willing to pay the price to share it. Only you know what your real strengths and weaknesses are. Only you can assess which path will take you to where you want to go.

Am I good enough? Is it worth it?

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Two Tenormen.

So my old saxophone case just has some random stuff in it, all those little things that you stuff into any bag as you walk out the door of an old house when you are moving. My saxophone, in a flash new case, has already moved. The tram stops outside the shop where I buy all my instruments (www.temby.com), a lad of around thirteen years dashes out, lugging a case exactly the same as mine but newer, leaps onto the tram. We smile at each other, start chatting, already mates as fellow tenor players.

He listens to jazz on his iPod, wants to be a musician. His forty five minute music lesson this morning ran on for nearly two hours, he and his teacher lost track, he was very late for school. The kid is already on his way.

I'm moving home via the tram, he is on his way home from the poshest school in town, to a plush house. I was him once. It is difficult to imagine now. Open hearted, friendly kid, full of stories and hope, chatting with slightly weary journeyman, he is my past, I wonder if I am his future?

I realise that none of it matters, the similarities and differences between us. We talk about music and we are both naive schoolboys. If we meet again in thirty years, when he is my age, we'll probably have exactly the same conversation again, two tenormen, two schoolboys, just shooting the breeze.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Charlie Parker On Life And Music.

"Music is your own experience, your own thoughts, your wisdom. If you don't live it, it won't come out of your horn. They teach you there's a boundary line to music. But, man, there's no boundary line to art."

Charlie Parker.

So simply stated. Not so easy to live.





www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Bird, Work, Life, Me.

Charlie Parker was born on the same day as me. I'm the ultimate cynic when it comes to astrology but just the same this small piece of trivia amuses me, I like that I share a birthday with Bird. The great man created a new music then died stupidly young before he could fulfill that new music as he envisioned it. A headlong rush of genius like that rarely ends well.

We need people like Charlie Parker. I grew up knowing the music he created, can't imagine music without his influence. These brilliant, short lived flames illuminate decades ahead. To be so far above and beyond your own time must be alienating, frustrating, frightening. It is no surprise he burned so quickly.

Many of the musicians who followed Bird imitated his way of life successfully, not so much his creative spirit. Most of us, very nearly all of us, are never going to approach his musical genius, we need to be honest with ourselves, decide if our gift is great enough to warrant giving up the rest of our lives for? Finding that balance between being a decent human and creating stuff is difficult, the two are often in conflict. You can't tell your children to go away while you daydream lyrics, sing that melody to yourself one hundred times until you feel it is right. You can't pull out of your girlfriend's birthday dinner just because the ideas are flowing sweetly. Well, the truth is you can do these things, be a terrible parent, spouse, friend, if you put the music first, but is it worth it? Are you really going to make something so beautiful that it is worth hurting the people you love?

Many choose to live a solitary life, free of commitment and distraction. It is a reasonable option, avoids the problem of letting other people down. Others only hang out with kindred spirits, those who understand, don't expect the normal, are often off on their own trips too. Some just barge through, damage everyone who dares come close, want their creative cake and to eat it too. Everyone has to find their own balance. If you can find a way to live a normal life, spouse, children, friends, and still feel free to commit fully to your work, well, I want to hear about it.

Charlie Parker is an extreme example, extreme talent, extreme life. Most of us don't carry such a weight. Next week I have a conflict in my diary, an important event I should attend, work with a band that won't play and earn unless I'm there. I know which I'll choose, already feel guilty. It's a small matter in the overall scheme, some people may be upset, a little. Every relationship comes with these decisions, I work when others socialise, I sleep when they want to get on with the day. The less human relationships I get involved with the easier my life is, but poorer too.

Please excuse my vanity, discussing my life and work in the context of Charlie Parker. He is at one end of the scale, I am near the other end. The fundamental problem is exactly the same, how to balance a creative life with a rich personal life? I still don't have any useful answers, perhaps you do?

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Encouragement.

"Everything gets better with time", so the message read.

This chin up soldier, go get 'em tiger brand of encouragement is so discouraging. What these people are really saying is "I can't be arsed discussing this problem with you, here, have a nice platitude".

Every creative type requires encouragement from time to time. Doubt is the mother of the new, without self doubt an artist never improves or evolves. The problems are often complex, multi faceted, if you are genuinely trying to create something your entire heart and soul as well as your bank balance and your personal relationships are entwined in the work.

Occasionally creative birds of a feather encounter each other, understand the questions the other is asking having asked those questions themselves. They know that some things get better with time, and a shitload of hard work and intelligent thought. Other things fall by the wayside, no matter what we try they simply don't ever get better.

The road less travelled is often the hard road, that's why it is less travelled. On that road you will meet the hardy folks who don't feel the easy road offers the truth and beauty they require. On that hard road you will meet the people who will pick you up and carry you when you fall down, find yourself inspired to do the same for them.

The first step to usefully encouraging a fellow human is trying to understand where they are coming from. Just making that effort is often encouragement enough, that you bothered. Often from the outside everything is clearer, you can see the light that a bowed head cannot. Saying get in there and fight means nothing if you don't even know what the person is fighting.

If you are at a loss, can't find the words, can't get a grip on the problem, there is one response that is encouraging beyond all words. It is called a hug.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

An Autumn Memory.

Eleven Autumns have passed since, hand in hand, we kicked through fallen leaves along Park Street together, on our way home. The leaves look and feel the same but they are different leaves. My hand is empty.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Tallest Woman I've Ever Seen.

I couldn't quite work out what was going on, I'd arrived at the cafe we were supposed to meet at, the door was locked, I could see some sort of movement through the shiny windows, like a flag waving or something. I suddenly saw the tallest, and one of the most beautiful women I'd ever seen leaning down to unlock the door. The flag was her billowing costume, she was on tall stilts, about to perform for the same busking festival as I was. It's not easy to lean down and unlock a door from such a height.

"I feel like such a hassle now."

I held the door open as two gorgeous acrobats, dancers, performers, whatever you call them, strode out past me. It's hard to tell when a performer's smile is real, I chose to believe the smiles were for me.

Later, I was playing with the band, one of the stiltwalkers came and danced in front of us. She caught me making an ooh la la gesture to the bass player. Performing on tall stilts for hours takes a fit body, an amazing, desirable body, the sort of body that would inspire a monk to kick his way through a stained glass window to get to it. I was in love with the tallest woman I'd ever seen.

She blew me a kiss, smiled prettily. Again I chose to believe it was real, for me. When she returned I walked over and played saxophone at her lovely wooden knees. It felt fitting. Compared to her beauty I was just a poor boy playing on the street. We mouthed thank you's and goodbyes as she sauntered up the street, her wonderful wings spread, her taut tush undisguised by her costume.

I'll never see her again. If I did I wouldn't recognize her. The combination of her height and my poor vision, she was too far away for me to really see properly. Her beauty was other worldly, not dependant on eyes, lips, hair. Perhaps she will recognize me? I'll be the same poor boy on the street that she saw the first time. I guess I'll find out if her smiles, blown kisses were for me or not.

Another girl on the infinite list of girls I've fallen in love with and will never see again, the tallest woman I've ever danced with.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Michael Leunig On The Media.

“Sometimes I wonder if the semi-conscious agenda of the media is to get between people and their souls. It is the the soul with its myriad tiny nerve endings that notices the neglected pathos, poignancy and practicality that lies at the heart of life. It’s as if the media are somehow irritated and envious that anonymous people should have the quiet brilliance of their rich and sustainable inner lives...”

Michael Leunig.

I dare not comment on the work of the master. Thank you Mr. Leunig.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Cafe Shots, The Work Of The Devil.

Vending Machine Of Alleged Coffee, SAE Studio, South Melbourne, Melbourne Australia.

Parkstreet.
iPad snaps.

So Long Courageous Sparrow.

"So Long, courageous sparrow."

A wooden bench outside the recording studio, NO FOOD OR DRINK IN THE CONTROL ROOM, lunch on the run is taken here. A tiny, fearless sparrow is at my feet, feasting on the crumbs of sandwiches past.

He looks up at me. I look back at him. I don't have a problem with him, he doesn't seem to have a problem with me. He eats some more, looks up again.

"Hello courageous sparrow."

He promptly flies away, two stories to the roof in less than a second. He doesn't mind me sitting quietly, not in the mood for conversation. I finish my cigarette, stand up to go back inside.

I look back as the door closes, the bird returns, now he can dine in peace, without the stupid human and his talking.

"So long courageous sparrow."

He ignores me.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Allen Ginsberg On Talent.

“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of the night.”

Allen Ginsberg.

We all make choices in life. Knowing that losing your mind is a possibility when you start on this path you can't complain when it happens. Once you have gone there you never really come back, not fully. For some it is a risk worth taking.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

May As Well Shave A Monkey.

You can give a musician a haircut, dress him in a suit, send him to work, you may as well shave a monkey, the experiment will be just as successful. The true musicians, the ones who truly feel it in their being, are no good for anything else, they are blessed and cursed from birth.

I've seen dozens of musicians try to get out, they all come back. I've seen them open their own businesses, a cafe, a plant nursery, every type of business. Most do fine at first, then fall apart due to lack of interest, the business is the same every day, boredom sets in, music changes every minute. I've seen them take jobs, from insurance sales to labouring, left alone to do their own thing they sometimes last a year, with a boss on their shoulder no more than three months.

It really is taking a monkey from the jungle, even with the right nutrition and a mate the monkey withers and dies. He might still walk around, pretend to be alive, but the essential, wild monkey dies. It's the constant change of the jungle that keeps the monkey alive and interested, even the fear.

Successful musicians for whom music becomes a business often lose their essence too. They yearn for the freedom of playing their hearts, not their hits. How can it be that success can be a burden, take away the original love of music? How can it be that the only truly happy musician is the unknown who can express himself fully, even if it's to empty rooms?

They say you gotta' stay hungry. The wild monkey is always hungry, searching for the next meal. A hungry musician has to keep adapting, creating. Take him from his element, give him a suburban home, a mate, all the comforts, he will survive, he will die inside.

So, you're off to get a day job, settle down? May as well shave a monkey. See you in six months.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Greg Ham.

Greg Ham died yesterday. He was a great musician and a great guy.

I only had the good fortune to meet him twice, a friend of a friend. He was the woodwind player from a world famous band, I was the flute player in a duo in a local bar, he treated me as a comrade and an equal, while everyone else talked he listened, came over after the gig to talk flute playing.

He was cool, definitely cool. Greg knew how to dress himself, how to talk, had that air of a well travelled man who was unsurprised by everything but never bored by people. He was an example of how a musician should carry himself.

Greg Ham was also the golden ticket, the guy who all us instrumentalists looked at and thought, "that could happen to me, I could land that one band that sets me up for life". His death, the way he died, has many of us questioning going on in this business we call rock and roll. Even with his massive success the business, the life, was too hard. I'm considering my future as I write this.

Greg was a Melbourne legend, everyone knew him, everyone who knew him liked him. He was a great guy, a great musician, a cool man.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Jack Kerouac On Life.

“Life must be rich and full of loving--it's no good otherwise, no good at all, for anyone.”

Jack Kerouac, Selected Letters, 1940-1956.

They should write this in big letters above the doors of maternity wards, parents should be reminded that this is their self appointed task, to at least tell their children this, by example, every day.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

A Beautiful Fuck Up Of A Life.

So I'm sitting at my table, on one of the two wooden chairs that make up the furniture in this, the world's smallest studio apartment. I'm looking through open windows over the red tiled Edwardian roof tops of beachside St. Kilda, Melbourne Australia. I really don't want to be here, but there is poetry everywhere if you open the windows and let it in.

Despite the protests of friends, bless them, I have fundamentally fucked up my life. I've drifted, screwed every romantic relationship, never settled into anything for any length of time. It has been a beautiful fuck up, I don't regret a moment. Along the way I've picked up and carried more emotionally broken people than most folks will ever meet, I've played some sweet tunes, I've witnessed the destruction of most of the coolest people I've known, and I've learned. I've been lucky enough to live a whole bunch of different lives, dwell inside so many realities, suck out the marrow of all of them.

Every day every drifter makes a choice, to settle or continue on. It seems my time for settling isn't here yet. I thought it was, but I was wrong. Now is the time to let the poetry in, and let it out. They say you have to be someone before you can do something, it is time to accept that all my experiences have shaped me into someone, that now I can do something. It takes courage to do something, to make something and send it out into the world. I believe I finally possess that courage, that I've seen and been enough to know fear, to know I can defeat it.

It is also time to accept my drifting life. In every real sense it defines me as a fuck up, no loving relationship, no money, no fame. My own definition is all that matters, if I can feel the poetry of this life that is enough for me. The rest, the trappings, the security, it's all bullshit.

So I rent this tiny box that I will call home for a year, sit at my little table, on one of two chairs, and write, and dream, and seek truth and beauty in all. Here's to another year of fucking up beautifully.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Gotthold Ephraim Lessing On Laziness.

“Let us be lazy in everything, except in loving and drinking, except in being lazy.”

Gotthold Ephraim Lessing, German Dramatist, Critic and Writer on philosophy and aesthetics. 1729-1781.

I don't drink now, I did my share, but I'm for all the rest.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Modern Nomad.

One of my main ambitions in life is to pare down the amount of stuff I own. I call it an ambition it's probably the closest I'll ever come to an actual ambition. Most ambitions revolve around obtaining more stuff, perhaps there is another word for it?

Right now I fit into a taxi, including the back seat. Given a clean out of clothes, if you've seen my clothes you'll know that is overdue, I could fit into the trunk of a taxi. Eventually I want to be able to carry everything I own, one instrument, one iPad, one bag of clothes and personal essentials. I have a plan and eventually I will get there.

Strangely it costs money to live so simply. You have to stay in places that supply everything, towels, linen, kitchen stuff. Or you have to eat out a lot. So making more money so I can have less is the plan. Does that make sense?

The last six months have taught me that settling in somewhere isn't for me. I tried, I really tried, I just can't do it. I get restless and incredibly annoying. The connotations of this are obvious, financially, romantically, musically. Fortunately this digital world is opening up new possibilities to live and work on the run. I can write and record anywhere, let my online manager cdbaby take care of the rest.

So I have a plan, of sorts. I've just moved into a new home, I'll stay there one year, by the time I hand the keys back I want to walk out the door carrying everything I own. I'm calling it an ambition.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Journeys End In Lovers Meeting.

Journeys end in lovers meeting, so some bloke named Shakespeare reckoned. How many cool things did that guy say in one life? Respect William.

So is this why some continue to travel, from lover to lover, I guess it follows that when lovers split a new journey begins? It seems some guys just can't settle down. It seems I'm one of those guys.

Why do people wander? Most don't, why are some blessed and cursed with this urge to move on? I'd like to think it's down to some wide eyed romantic notion, I'm beginning to believe it is because they are searching for love, a lover to end the journey.

I've been in Melbourne nearly seven months, my lover is no longer my lover, my first thought is to move on again. Perhaps if I sat still for a while that wonderful journey ending lover would find me? Perhaps I'm just more in love with wandering than with any woman I've met?

Conflicting desires, to wander and to love. But wandering isn't just a physical action, it occurs more in the imagination than anywhere else. The physical journey could end happily ever after with a lover with imagination, someone with the wonder in her eyes.

Love is a sense of wonder, how can this person make me feel so good? Wandering, every journey, is a search for that wonder. My journey is starting again, being honest with myself it never really stopped, my last love was never going to be a journey ending affair, the wonder was never there for her.

So, another journey, ending in another lover. I hope this time a fellow traveller.

I'm up for it.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

One Sentence Stories, Pain.

With every downward stroke the rings on her fingers, given to her by other men, would grip, burn just enough to bear the name Pain.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Music And Getting Laid.

If I didn't play music I'd never get laid. I'm not putting myself down, it's a statement of fact. I lack the social skills to convert interest into shagging, the only women who struggle through my ineptitude are those women into music. On those rare occasions I realise I will never give up playing music, to do so would also be giving up getting laid.

The girls who fall for the musician image, the stage presence, are generally not interested in the man. They might like him and all but they don't want the image spoiled by a guy who washes his own dishes, eats cornflakes in the morning. That he can't afford to take them to dinner, or to run a car, soon wears thin, the pretty girls move on to more successful musicians, the others just move on.

Being desired for an image rather than the reality is a glimpse of another world, I'm told this happens to some women too. What? All of you? Well, it sucks, doesn't it? It discounts who you are.

I am the musician who proves the rule, mindless one night bonking doesn't really interest me. For most of my seedy old musician friends this system works well, play rock star and get laid. I've done it, it is fun, but compared to true love it ain't nothin'.

I want to date a deaf girl, anyone who doesn't have much interest in music. Like everyone else I want someone who will take the time to know me.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

My New Cave.

So I'm finally moving to my new home, a saga that has gone on for months. I have my possessions stripped down to the size of a taxi, moving is easy, the difference in my life will be immense.

A small space, the basic essentials, a place to cook, shower and sleep, but so much more. The feeling of freedom, emotional and intellectual, is essential to anyone who wants to create anything. Control over volume, fresh air, food, these simple things allow the freedom to think and feel, the time to work.

Tomorrow I pick up my keys, move small loads by public transport over a couple of days, in between other engagements. By the end of the week I will find myself sitting on my new bed, crying with relief, then wondering what I will cook for my dinner? I'll play my guitar quietly at three in the morning, sit at my table in my underpants and write, sing happily to myself, not miss small talk in any way.

This simple man will again have a cave to retreat to, a place to daydream and live.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Tom Baker On Dumbing Down.

“Plenty of clever children have to pretend to be not clever or else they get bullied by the thick.”

Tom Baker, The Boy Who Kicked Pigs.

Not just children.




www.kentparkstreetblog.com

First Recording, First Draft.

The first draft of the first of some spoken grooves I'll be recording over the next few months. I'll tighten up the rhymes and the rhythms as I go, give them punch. The final line will be sung as a riff in parts of the song.

These grooves are an excuse to lay down some saxophone and flute improvisation, they'll mainly set a tone for me to play on. I'll be bullying all the musicians I know into adding their flavour, promise them a share of profits that will most likely never appear.

1st tune.

I'd like to apologise, on behalf of the management, for any disappointment.

We are truly sorry if all the wonders of this universe are not enough for you, that the human search for truth and beauty doesn't satisfy you, that love doesn't fulfill you.

We deeply regret that medication trumped dedication, that drinking usurped thinking, that distraction distracted you from passion.

We are sorry that your inane pursuit of medieval apparitions and superstitions lead you astray, caused you dismay, didn't pay off.

Being born into the most affluent culture on this earth, in the history of this earth, wasn't sufficient, we should have done more.

We are sorry, we are sorry, we are sorry.

If you check the fine print on the inside of your belly button, there is no refund, you were born, the deal was done.

We are sorry the wonders of this universe are not enough, close your eyes, say your goodbyes, it will soon be over.

There is love in this world and that is enough.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Carlos Antonio Jobim On Femininity.

“It is difficult to distinguish where the feminine ends and nature begins.”

Carlos Antonio Jobim.

I'm not sure how to comment on this quotation, except to say that it sounds about right to me.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Music People.

The music people are alive, truly alive, they have their lights on, they are living, breathing humans expressing themselves, on stage and off. The music people live for the groove, for that moment of excitement, when the joy and love inside them flows out to everyone.

I love the music people.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Taking It To The Streets.

Today I played on the street, with Divina Providencia, part of a busking festival in St. Kilda. I don't know what a busking festival is, I just turned up and played, the band was offered a gig for our efforts, it was a good day all 'round.

Playing on the street allows permission to stare at the passing people. From behind wrap around sunglasses and a big shiny saxophone you are allowed to stare at anyone. I love the people who edge by, afraid they may catch some nasty disease, like poverty, if they get too close. I love the dancers who can't help themselves, the serious appreciators, the pretty girls who donate a smile instead of money.

Not many people are allowed this privilege, to stand and stare at the general public. On the whole they are a lovely lot, scurrying about doing their thing on a Sunday afternoon. It was a pleasure to share a pavement and a planet with them.

I've decided that taking music to the streets is essential if we are going to claim our cities back, give them some soul again. Watching how people react, light up, why shouldn't we all have some of that each day? Why should car noise be our only background music?

So today was a joy, we are doing it all again next week. Whatever a busking festival is I'm for it, bring the music back to the streets.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Escaping The Middle Class Bubble.

He pressed his face up against the flimsy wall of his middle class bubble, staring out. He was surrounded by other middle class bubbles, the people inside looked so content and comfortable, and why not? Their bubbles floated so nicely, so gently, why would they lift themselves up and look out?

One day he looked down, lay flat on the bottom of the bubble, fascinated by what he saw. He saw dancers and singers and magicians and people who worked with their hands, people who made things of truth and beauty.

What he saw excited him, turned him on, his erection popped his middle class bubble, he fell on his face on the hard Earth. It's a little known fact that desire is one of the few ways to escape a middle class bubble. He picked himself up, walked around a new, real, intense world, such wonders, he couldn't work out which desire needed fulfilling first. He tried to cram them all in at once, for years, until he finally realised he was here to stay, that he belonged here, he had all but forgotten the bubbles that floated inanely above.

So he became one of the other people, a maker of truth and beauty, if it weren't for his manners you would never have guessed where he had come from.

Don't be embarrassed by what turns you on, that simple desire might be your only way out.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Shared Experience Of Friendship.

I've recently changed my early afternoon coffee, breakfast and blogging venue. Every day at the table beside mine a group of male friends get together to take coffee and complete a quiz from one of the daily newspapers.

I listen in as the fellow who plays master of ceremonies reads out the questions, answer as many as I can, listen in to the answers that are offered by the group of four to eight participants. They debate, come to a consensus, sometimes wander off in a discussion. The quiz really isn't the point. This daily meeting is about friendship, the quiz is just the medium.

When someone takes down a difficult question there is praise all around, today someone remembered which month the Melbourne 1956 Olympic Games started. When they get one wrong they laugh heartily. Once the quiz is completed, the answers checked, one of the questions becomes the topic of conversation.

It's a shared experience. It wouldn't matter what that experience is, the sharing is the essential part. One of the guys is in a wheelchair so they can't play a game of soccer, the quiz suits them all. Sharing experiences of any kind is what builds friendships. Time together, a mutual undertaking. Real friends always find something they can do together.

It's a lovely atmosphere to sit beside, a wonderful spirit. I sit alone, I'm doing my version of work. My shared experiences mainly involve playing music with people I love. I do that later in the day.

I've recently noticed that the reason old friendships have died is the lack of this shared experience, time together doing something, anything. One in particular is dying right now due to a lack of time and the lack of a common interest. So it goes.

These guys at the table beside me have given me a string of trivial facts, and an understanding of friendship. I like my new coffee venue.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Studio Is An Instrument.

I've never enjoyed recording music, always enjoyed the energy of an audience, the fragility of a live performance, here then gone, like us. I've never had that desire for a permanent record of my work, never really understood why that moment in an ever evolving musical life is worth keeping? Perhaps I'm getting old, looking mortality in the eye, I've lived more than half my life, or perhaps I just want to make some money, whatever the reason I'm getting the urge to record.

It's possible I've gone through some personal changes and I'm beginning to value my work, myself. I think a big part of it is that I'm beginning to understand the studio, how to use it, how to play it, like a conductor plays an orchestra. There is an art to recording music, you don't just repeat what you do live, it requires vision, like an architect seeing the building then working out the details. I've always been an improvising musician, played off the groove, this vision idea is a giant leap.

I've learned to play other instruments, now I'll learn how to play the studio. The vision is becoming clear in my mind. I'll work out the details, the building materials, the instrumentation and arrangements as I go, the main thing is that the vision is in place.

I think I've always associated recording studios with ego, my music is so good it should be kept for eternity. By thinking of the studio as just another instrument, a way to play and spread the joy and the love over distance, I can approach it with a clear head. I've written my own metaphor so now it makes sense to me.

Or maybe I just want to make some money?

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Clint Eastwood On Perspective.

“Take your work seriously, but don't take yourself seriously”

Clint Eastwood.




Not a new idea, simply and well stated. The work is important, it is your verse in the human play. You will be gone tomorrow.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Thank You Ladies.

Two very different women, both from a past life I left behind six months ago. One in her twenties decided to get an education, she picks up her degree on Saturday. The other in her thirties pursued her love of music, continuously produces great songs, live performances and recordings. Both are an inspiration to me and are very cool chicks.

Both women, within a couple of days of each other, wrote me an e mail. Gorgeous e mails that affirmed my value in this life, reminded me who I am. I know at my age I shouldn't need reminding of who I am but sometimes I do, and they picked one of those times. Like beautiful ghosts they appeared, bringing me glad tidings and joy.

It seems I am the luckiest man on Earth.

More and more I find this connection with people who have searched their hearts for their dream, then pursued that dream. They speak to me in a language I understand, cut through all the bullshit, speak from their hearts, spread positive vibes wherever they go. Our conversations remind me that I can be one of these people too, that I'm not so far away from where I want to be.

I can only recommend this path, searching your heart for a dream then pursuing it. I see the results in my two wonderful friends, how beautiful and joyous their lives are. I've allowed distractions to slow me down in this process. I am blessed with friends who kick my lazy arse, ever so gently, whenever my lazy arse needs kicking, if they know they are doing it or not.

Thank you ladies. Two simple e mails, a few minutes of your thought and time, have made a vast difference to my life at this time.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Dr. Sigmund Freud On Religion.

“Thus I must contradict you when you go on to argue that men are completely unable to do without the consolation of the religious illusion, that without it they could not bear the troubles of life and the cruelties of reality. That is true, certainly, of the men into whom you have instilled the sweet -- or bitter-sweet -- poison from childhood onwards. But what of the other men, who have been sensibly brought up? Perhaps those who do not suffer from the neurosis will need no intoxicant to deaden it. They will, it is true, find themselves in a difficult situation. They will have to admit to themselves the full extent of their helplessness and their insignificance in the machinery of the universe; they can no longer be the centre of creation, no longer the object of tender care on the part of a beneficent Providence. They will be in the same position as a child who has left the parental house where he was so warm and comfortable. But surely infantilism is destined to be surmounted. Men cannot remain children for ever; they must in the end go out into 'hostile life'. We may call this 'education to reality. Need I confess to you that the whole purpose of my book is to point out the necessity for this forward step?”

Dr. Sigmund Freud, The Future of an Illusion.

I'm staying out of this one, it stands alone.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Umbrellas, Selfishness, Portland.

I don't hold with umbrellas, I'm against them. I live in the city, there is not enough room for them and their pointy edges and me. The people who wield them assert their right to three times their usual space without noticing it is taking that space from someone else.

A strong stance? Perhaps. Is there any point raging against mass lunacy? No there isn't. As the sense of self importance, of entitlement becomes larger so do the umbrellas, what was once an invitation to lightning strike on a golf course is now standard issue on the city streets. Can I stop every idiot on the street and explain to them? No I can't.

So we live and let live. There is nothing to be done about umbrella tyranny on the city streets, just as there is nothing to be done about all the other inane pushing and shoving and me me me. One voice in a wilderness of crass, dry haired self obsession is drowned out by the choir of me me me, my space, my umbrella.

No one in Portland Oregon carries an umbrella. Folks wear a hood or get wet hair. It is indicative of a real attitude to the world. It is raining therefore I will get wet. So what? I get wet in the shower every morning. It follows that most of the other nasty pushing and shoving doesn't happen there either. The umbrella on city streets is a symptom, not a cause.

I know, raging against the eye gouging obstacle course of umbrellas in the city is such a small thing. I won't mention it again. I just wanted it noted that I'm against them, against the people who wield them. They are symbolic of an insanely selfish culture, a desire to control the world, shape it to our own petty desires.

The sooner I get back to Portland the better.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Your Own Little Dance.

I'm no good at guessing how old kids are, so this little girl wearing her best dress dancing in front of me on the pavement might be about three years old. She is a great little dancer, her own secret music, unaware of me, of anyone else. I pause until she dances out of my way, enjoy the show, her mother smiles a thank you. It's a beautiful dance, pure, real.

We lose this beautiful dance, somewhere, some time, somehow. Of course only a sweet little girl can get away with dancing in everyone's way in the middle of the pavement, as adults we have to stop and think. Why not stop and think then dance in your own space anyway? Your own little dance, your own secret music.

Sing your own little song, write your own little poem, paint your own little picture. It's yours, not for anyone else. Find that three year old inside you, he or she is still there, and let him or her dance.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Nobody Likes A Smartarse.

It's not some magical power, just the ability to see what is going to happen. Given this ability, a natural thing, the temptation is to try to control the outcome. The forces at work, the workings of a human mind, are too powerful to control. No man can hold back a flood, all he can do is direct the water to where it will do least harm, hopefully away from himself.

Knowing the result of the game while the game is being played is a curse, and kind of boring. Betting feels like cheating, telling others feels like spoiling the end of the film. This is the true loneliness, knowing but not saying, watching the action unfold, eyes closed, picking up the pieces.

Some are born playing piano, solving equations, running fast. These people are recognized and loved. Seeing the patterns, feeling the flow, no one loves these things. Nobody likes a smartarse.

Parkstreet
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Dr. Sigmund Freud On Covering Up.

"When the wayfarer whistles in the dark, he may be disavowing his timidity, but he does not see any more clearly for doing so."

Dr. Sigmund Freud.

The Problem of Anxiety (1925)

I travel alone, let's face it, no one will come with me. Sometimes the act of carefree whistling actually cures the fear, I don't know how, I don't care how, let Freud's mates work that out.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Dr. Sigmund Freud On Repression.

"Conscience is the internal perception of the rejection of a particular wish operating within us."

Dr. Sigmund Freud.

Totem and Taboo: Resemblances Between the Mental Lives of Savages and Neurotics| (1913)

If wishes were fishes I would be woken by mermaids bringing me coffee.

Why are we all so embarrassed about what we really want? Most of what we want is pretty tame, why not say it out loud?

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Melbourne Winter Girls.

Pretty face peeking out between hat and scarf, like a nun, concealment is the attraction. The layers of clothes accentuate her curves, don't hide them. Her tall boots make her tall, powerful, her gloves are a little sinister, her coat gives her wings.

She is a gorgeous, sexy super nun, just one of the wondrous Melbourne Winter girls who pass me by.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Let's Talk About Sex.

I often write about love on here, sometimes about how it relates to sex. This afternoon a sexy girl squeezed past my cafe table, her pert young tush, tight black jeans, roughly a tongue's length from my face. She turned, caught me looking, smiled. In that moment I received a profound insight into life. I realized that sex is bloody fantastic.

The whole heave ho, in and out business is terrific, but my mind raced through all the variations, the seductive, the cheeky, the sultry, the raw, the sophisticated, the sweet, the relaxing, consoling and desperate, the lusty and the lazy, the friendly, the bored so why not? Like a dying man the short film that is my sexual experience reeled, how amazing is all that stuff? How much beauty have I been fortunate enough to experience up close and personal? Aren't we the luckiest creatures in the universe, having sex as a recreation? It's a magnificent gift, we should let it flow freely and beautifully and kinkily and honestly.

We all know sex is good. Take a moment, remember how blessed we are, sex is better than good, it's bloody fantastic.

Whoever that girl in the tight black jeans was today, wherever she is, I thank her.

Come to think of it I seem to recall writing about how good sex is just a month or so ago. You know what they say, those who are talking about it the most are doing it the least. Just the same, it's bloody fantastic, I don't mind saying it again.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Isaac Asimov On Morality.

“Never let your sense of morals get in the way of doing what's right.”

Isaac Asimov.

The difference between an intellectual decision and a heartfelt emotion.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Cafe Shots, Cafe Lush.

Cafe Lush, South Parade Blackburn, Melbourne Australia.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com
iPad snaps

When You Come Back, An Open Love Letter.

When you come back, from wherever you are, I'm yours. I'm the only Parkstreet in the book, I'm easy to find.

When you come back to desire, to passion, come back to this living, breathing man, I will take your call.

When you come back from the search, from the other places which are as much illusion as any other, from the snake oil paperbacks that sell spiritual schtick, when you recall the earthly joy of this life, I will be there.

When you come back to humanity, the wonder of us, to the truth and beauty of human art and love, made with human minds and hands, I will play for you, write for you, live for you. When walking on the beach together, cooking and eating together, making love together are enough, and these things are enough, do these things with me.

If you want to move objects move my heart. If you want to connect with a spirit connect with mine. If you want peace, kindness, love, take mine, they are yours.

When you come back, I'm yours, an honest man, come back to me.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Cranky Old Hippy Advice.

You get one shot at this gorgeous, freaky, scary, sometimes boring life. No matter what you believe, afterlife, reincarnation, this life you are experiencing, right now, happens once. Right now it is happening, it's still happening right now.

Am I dead yet? No? Then this life is still happening, right now.

This life is an improvised performance, the original stream of consciousness, we are all making it up as we go along. What you were then you aren't now, and again now. Holding on to what you were is impossible, the ultimate illusion, the person doing the holding on is changing too.

When you find love say it, do it, be it. When you find work that satisfies you say it, do it, be it. That love, that work, is here right now, this is what this short, painful life is for. If you don't know what you are doing do it anyway. It doesn't matter why you love him or her, it doesn't matter why the work satisfies you. Now is the time, your life may be over before you decide to start if you stop to ask why.

One life, right now, love, work, say it, do it, be it.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Cafe Shots, Holli On My Roof.

Journalist Holli Thomas taking coffee and the view of Sydney Harbour on my roof, a cold, early morning music video shoot.

Springfield Ave. Potts Point, Sydney Australia.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Parkstreet.
iPad snaps.

Milan Kundera On Metaphors.

"Metaphors are dangerous. Love begins with a metaphor. Which is to say, love begins at the point when a woman enters her first word into our poetic memory."

Milan Kundera.

My culture has become so literal, so damned literal, perversely literal. Everything means exactly what it means, the poetic memory has amnesia. No wonder love rarely lasts, without poetry to sustain it.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Lack Of Empathy, Unawareness Of The Lack Of Empathy.

So we've all encountered people who lack empathy, feeling and understanding for other people's emotions. The interesting thing is that this very lack of empathy makes them unaware that they lack empathy, try to tell them and they look at you like you are mad.

If I had any sort of command over this iPad I'd draw a circle here, with an arrow on either side, pointing the same way, one marked Lack Of Empathy, another marked Unawareness Of Lack Of Empathy. Round and around she goes, infinitely. An intimate relationship with this never ending circle? Masochists please line up here.

These aren't bad people, they are often delightful and fascinating. They often live very moral lives, morality is an intellectual choice, not a feeling. They are most often attractive, different, interesting to be around. At the same time their words and actions will hurt you, or their lack of words and actions.

Breaking this circle involves finding a way to explain that this lack of empathy is a problem to other people, even if the person themselves doesn't know it. I have no idea how to do this. We all have parts of our character that don't work very well, imperfect machines we are. Living with this lack of empathy is possible, if you don't take it personally, if you have an honest enough relationship to be able to say when it is a problem, if both parties agree to work with it. But therein lies the rub, if one party is unaware of the problem how can it ever be addressed?

We take empathy for granted, it's the basis of all our relationships with others. When it is absent confusion abounds, how can this person speak to me this way? Knowing that they don't know is at least a start to reaching some understanding, the possibility of a loving relationship, of breaking that circle.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Chris In The Morning On Flinging Things.

“It's not the thing you fling, it's the fling itself.”

Chris In The Morning, Northern Exposure.

Chris was going to fling a cow, with a catapult. Instead he flung a piano. The process, building the device, setting the scene, attracting an audience, art. Everyone should fling something, sometime.




www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Natural Balance Of Denial And Delusion.

I've recently worked out that people who live with denial, who deny knowledge of themselves, balance that denial with delusion. In other words, they have to make stuff up so they can process the denial, fill in the gaps that denial opens up. The bigger the denial the bigger the delusion.

You probably already knew this. To me it is a revelation, explains so much of human behaviour that I never understood. They say knowledge is power, this knowledge is already serving me well, I feel better about the world today than I did yesterday. If you didn't already know this you do now, it will become obvious as you notice it in people around you.

I just wanted to share this idea which is new to me, do with it what you will.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Divina Providencia Flyer.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

http://soundcloud.com/divinaprovidencia-band

Cafe Shots, eurodore.

eurodore, Bay St. Port Melbourne, Melbourne Australia.

Parkstreet.
iPad snaps.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Milan Kundera On Gender And Creativity.

"All great novels, all true novels, are bisexual."

Milan Kundera.


In an age when the masculine is superfluous I find myself wondering what gender means? To be a man once meant something, now it means nothing. If we accept that we are all a mix of male and female the male must be an equal half of everything. To write, create anything, both aspects of the writer are involved, must be present in the work. I hope there is still room for the male, the masculine, the guys who venture out into the world and make stuff, make stuff happen.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Books, Audio Books, Television, Imagination.

So it's been years since I could read print books, I've taken to sharing my bed with audio books, I've heard the set up but not the solution to dozens of Sherlock Holmes stories now. I know full well that I will sleep before the conclusion, so I choose writers who can amuse with a turn of phrase, an atmosphere, with style.

Last night I heard one character's occupation described as "danseuse at The Allegro". The beauty of this description was that it wasn't over explained. The young lady was somehow involved with Lord St. Simon, second son of the Duke of Balmoral, a middle aged bachelor, I was left to imagine how this relationship worked, and why the young lady was witnessed raising her voice when the lord decided to marry, someone else.

This subtlety has almost completely disappeared from television scripts. The last example I can recall was The Sopranos, where much was left unsaid. Television must appeal to a mass market, it is expensive to make. The assumption is that the mass market is dumb and needs everything explained, over explained.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's tales were the television entertainment of his era. He never assumed that his audience was stupid, lacked imagination, yet he was hugely popular. Either the audience has changed or the assumptions of television producers are incorrect.

Television producers are no dummies, I reckon they know their audience. If Horatio were to say the young lady is a danseuse at The Allegro the action would have to exhibit a neon light outside a strip club, The Allegro, and a pole dancing routine just to hammer the point home. In the Holmes story she was an incidental character, was treated as such, an insight into the lead character's character, if you will.

Audio books aren't ideal, they sure beat television. Until we, the audience, demand something better on out screens we'll continue to be fed gauche nonsense. Just a little style, some credit for our imaginations might make me turn that box back on. Until then I'll go to bed with Holmes and Watson and that danseuse.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com