It was the best gig he ever performed.
They'd broken up a few months earlier, stayed vaguely in touch, one eye on getting back together, well, one eye each. He'd written a song for her, the song claimed that all he wanted was to truly sing the song, truly love the girl. She was the girl.
They met at a cafe, spoke a few words, spoke mostly in silence, walked a way down the road to a park, to sit on the edge of a fountain. He wasn't nervous, she had never judged him, even when he deserved to be judged.
He opened with Billy Bragg's The Price I Pay For Loving You The Way That I Do. It was a cheap shot at a captive audience. Then he played her the song written for her, the first he'd ever written.
It was the most real performance of his life, before or since. It was simply real. He was singing the song for the girl to the girl. It doesn't get more real.
Every misunderstanding, angry word, ill feeling melted, then dissolved. With one song they knew each other again, could see a way back.
Today he sits opposite the cafe where they met that day. He recalls the best gig he ever performed, wonders if he can perform an encore, for a different girl? Can he make it real again?
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Thursday, 31 May 2012
Slow Down And Feel.
"Slow down, you move too fast, You've got to make the morning last."
Paul Simon.
If you desire too much stuff you never have enough money. If you desire to do too much you never have enough time. Hurrying is a form of suicide, by rushing from one thing to the next you never take the time to feel anything. If you don't feel anything you are dead. Not feeling is kind of the definition of dead.
Of course there are real life pressures, compulsory hurry. Even God took a day off to chill after a long week of creating everything. Rest is what makes activity real.
I vaguely remember the last time I hurried. I was late for school, in the early 1980's. Along the way I realized I was late, in the minds of my teacher late was late, ten minutes, twenty minutes, just late. I took a few minutes to stop for a smoke, arrived later but relaxed, ready to accept the verbal assault of a small minded man.
There is no point to a series of unconsidered experiences. One experience blurs into the next, these experiences mean nothing. Five minutes watching the astonishing athletics of a seagull is a joyful experience. Noticing a seagull as you rush to your next appointment inspires no feeling, is in fact wasted life.
The fact is we control our own time. The helpless, headlong rush towards death is an illusion, a delusion. You'll be dead soon enough, desire less, make the morning last, feel something.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Paul Simon.
If you desire too much stuff you never have enough money. If you desire to do too much you never have enough time. Hurrying is a form of suicide, by rushing from one thing to the next you never take the time to feel anything. If you don't feel anything you are dead. Not feeling is kind of the definition of dead.
Of course there are real life pressures, compulsory hurry. Even God took a day off to chill after a long week of creating everything. Rest is what makes activity real.
I vaguely remember the last time I hurried. I was late for school, in the early 1980's. Along the way I realized I was late, in the minds of my teacher late was late, ten minutes, twenty minutes, just late. I took a few minutes to stop for a smoke, arrived later but relaxed, ready to accept the verbal assault of a small minded man.
There is no point to a series of unconsidered experiences. One experience blurs into the next, these experiences mean nothing. Five minutes watching the astonishing athletics of a seagull is a joyful experience. Noticing a seagull as you rush to your next appointment inspires no feeling, is in fact wasted life.
The fact is we control our own time. The helpless, headlong rush towards death is an illusion, a delusion. You'll be dead soon enough, desire less, make the morning last, feel something.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Polis.
Polis, polite, police, policy, politics.
Polis is one of those poetic Ancient Greek words, it's concrete meaning of a city state bleeds at the edges to mean of the people, or the people who are that city state.
Today we live in cities because they are convenient, cities have all the stuff we need in close proximity. The feeling of being an essential element of the city, part of the polis, is long gone from most cities. Most cities are generic, you could be anywhere.
I'm living in one of the generic cities right now, most people are just here. They may love or hate being here, but they don't feel any real relationship with the place, don't feel they contribute to the culture, have any influence over it's life, they are just here.
The moment you land in Paris you feel you are somewhere. Every Parisian is of the polis, involved, the feeling is undeniable. I feel the same in San Francisco. When writer Richard Brautigan was asked what he did he said he lived in San Francisco. In other cities there are pockets of this life, Kings Cross in Sydney, St. Kilda in Melbourne had it once but no longer.
I haven't visited enough cities in the U.S.A. to know how many generate this feeling of belonging, of being part of the essence. I feel it in Portland Oregon, even as a regular visitor, I can contribute to the culture, be a part of it.
Here in Melbourne a few skilled in politics have influence, most are passengers. Vast suburbs of quarter acre blocks, each with a small castle, each just there, the people drive in and out of open mouthed garages to take what they need from the city, contribute what they must to get what they need.
Romantic love brought me here, what a powerful force it is. Only romantic love could make me stay. I don't feel that romantic love for this place. To be part of the polis is to feel romantic love for it, to wake up happy to be in this city's arms.
I will go in search of a new city lover, a polis that includes me as part of it, a place where I am of the essence.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Polis is one of those poetic Ancient Greek words, it's concrete meaning of a city state bleeds at the edges to mean of the people, or the people who are that city state.
Today we live in cities because they are convenient, cities have all the stuff we need in close proximity. The feeling of being an essential element of the city, part of the polis, is long gone from most cities. Most cities are generic, you could be anywhere.
I'm living in one of the generic cities right now, most people are just here. They may love or hate being here, but they don't feel any real relationship with the place, don't feel they contribute to the culture, have any influence over it's life, they are just here.
The moment you land in Paris you feel you are somewhere. Every Parisian is of the polis, involved, the feeling is undeniable. I feel the same in San Francisco. When writer Richard Brautigan was asked what he did he said he lived in San Francisco. In other cities there are pockets of this life, Kings Cross in Sydney, St. Kilda in Melbourne had it once but no longer.
I haven't visited enough cities in the U.S.A. to know how many generate this feeling of belonging, of being part of the essence. I feel it in Portland Oregon, even as a regular visitor, I can contribute to the culture, be a part of it.
Here in Melbourne a few skilled in politics have influence, most are passengers. Vast suburbs of quarter acre blocks, each with a small castle, each just there, the people drive in and out of open mouthed garages to take what they need from the city, contribute what they must to get what they need.
Romantic love brought me here, what a powerful force it is. Only romantic love could make me stay. I don't feel that romantic love for this place. To be part of the polis is to feel romantic love for it, to wake up happy to be in this city's arms.
I will go in search of a new city lover, a polis that includes me as part of it, a place where I am of the essence.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
G. K. Chesterton On Travel.
“The traveler sees what he sees. The tourist sees what he has come to see.”
G. K. Chesterton.
Travel is a state of mind. The hard thing is to bring that state of mind home with you.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
G. K. Chesterton.
Travel is a state of mind. The hard thing is to bring that state of mind home with you.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One Sentence Stories, Correct.
Beside the lake, sunset, she thought for a moment he was fishing his inside pocket for a ring, knew he loved her when he produced a chunk of stale baguette so she could feed the ducks.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Wednesday, 30 May 2012
P. G. Wodehouse On Marriage.
“Marriage is not a process for prolonging the life of love, sir. It merely mummifies its corpse.”
P.G. Wodehouse, The Small Bachelor.
Poor cynical chap, marriage is a wonderful institution, if you go for institutions and the like.
For me the problem is the desire for marriage, for security. The genuine desire to commit to another person is beautiful, the desire for marriage that is filled with a suitably qualified person is something else altogether.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
P.G. Wodehouse, The Small Bachelor.
Poor cynical chap, marriage is a wonderful institution, if you go for institutions and the like.
For me the problem is the desire for marriage, for security. The genuine desire to commit to another person is beautiful, the desire for marriage that is filled with a suitably qualified person is something else altogether.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One Sentence Stories, Dilettante.
As he fishes the last of his change from the pocket of his Italian suit he notices how worn his cuffs are, knows it is time to earn some money, after this coffee.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Saki Versus Seinfeld.
Saki, the very British writer from early last century, depicts one of his side characters running away with the widow of a lion tamer, setting himself up as a golf pro somewhere on the Persian Gulf. His morality is questioned because he isn't a very good golfer. The tragedy for his abandoned wife is that her husband was the only member of the household who could manage the cook.
Jerry Seinfeld, the very American writer from late last century, wrote similarly clever scripts, tales of manners and morality, the difference is that most of his audience didn't get it. Seinfeld's characters were appalling humans, now folk heroes. People recall cliches and catchphrases, Soup Nazi, not the moral dilemmas and how poorly the four main characters faced up to them.
P. G. Wodehouse wrote short story sitcoms that have been copied time and again by allegedly original television writers. Problem, whacky, misguided solution to problem, ensuing hilarity, surprise solution. If Wodehouse were working for television today he would have to hype up his work with pop references and extreme escapades, subtlety and psychology have been forgotten.
Compare the early episodes of Two And A Half Men with the hashed rehash we witnessed last year. One character clinging to convention, the other disregarding convention, order versus chaos, simple, clever short story writing, a formula no doubt, but a good formula.
Are we, the audience, so stupid we can't comprehend subtlety? Yes, on the whole, we are. Television is the short story medium of our day, the producers know their audience, know better than to talk over our collective heads.
Saki and Wodehouse wrote light entertainment. Why not? It's light and entertaining. Seinfeld must sit back on his pile of money and shake his head, so successful yet completely misunderstood. We, the public, receive what we demand. We don't demand good writing.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Jerry Seinfeld, the very American writer from late last century, wrote similarly clever scripts, tales of manners and morality, the difference is that most of his audience didn't get it. Seinfeld's characters were appalling humans, now folk heroes. People recall cliches and catchphrases, Soup Nazi, not the moral dilemmas and how poorly the four main characters faced up to them.
P. G. Wodehouse wrote short story sitcoms that have been copied time and again by allegedly original television writers. Problem, whacky, misguided solution to problem, ensuing hilarity, surprise solution. If Wodehouse were working for television today he would have to hype up his work with pop references and extreme escapades, subtlety and psychology have been forgotten.
Compare the early episodes of Two And A Half Men with the hashed rehash we witnessed last year. One character clinging to convention, the other disregarding convention, order versus chaos, simple, clever short story writing, a formula no doubt, but a good formula.
Are we, the audience, so stupid we can't comprehend subtlety? Yes, on the whole, we are. Television is the short story medium of our day, the producers know their audience, know better than to talk over our collective heads.
Saki and Wodehouse wrote light entertainment. Why not? It's light and entertaining. Seinfeld must sit back on his pile of money and shake his head, so successful yet completely misunderstood. We, the public, receive what we demand. We don't demand good writing.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Cafe Shots, West Beach Bather's Pavillion.
West Beach bather's Pavillion, Beaconsfield Parade, St. Kilda, Melbourne Australia.
Man Needs Woman.
That it revolves around, needs Sun makes Earth no less mighty.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Conscience Makes Cowboys Of Us All.
Cattle, cattle, for weeks on end nothing but cattle. The cowboy has come to love the cattle like children, they'd be lost without him, has come to hate the cattle like a nagging wife, their constant moaning, day and sleepless night.
He wonders how he came to be here, a bovine family, tired, sore, yearning for a bath and a woman?
"How does anyone come to be here?", he ponders out loud. The cows moan in reply.
"Exactly, by listening to my conscience, by leaving all I know and love rather than cause pain to a loved one."
"The cattle have no conscience, they live happily enough, why can't I be more like them?"
He sits silently, knows there is something wrong with this logic. He recalls what awaits the cattle at the end of their drive, sudden death. He knows he will die, knows he won't go gently and thoughtlessly.
"So the price I pay for being a man is feeling a bad conscience, knowing honour, accepting my mistakes and how they affect others?" The cattle nod in affirmation.
"And these lonesome, hard days are better than being one of the cattle?"
"Yah, get along, get along, keep on rolling now."
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
He wonders how he came to be here, a bovine family, tired, sore, yearning for a bath and a woman?
"How does anyone come to be here?", he ponders out loud. The cows moan in reply.
"Exactly, by listening to my conscience, by leaving all I know and love rather than cause pain to a loved one."
"The cattle have no conscience, they live happily enough, why can't I be more like them?"
He sits silently, knows there is something wrong with this logic. He recalls what awaits the cattle at the end of their drive, sudden death. He knows he will die, knows he won't go gently and thoughtlessly.
"So the price I pay for being a man is feeling a bad conscience, knowing honour, accepting my mistakes and how they affect others?" The cattle nod in affirmation.
"And these lonesome, hard days are better than being one of the cattle?"
"Yah, get along, get along, keep on rolling now."
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Tuesday, 29 May 2012
Sherlock Holmes On Modesty.
“My dear Watson," said Sherlock Holmes, "I cannot agree with those who rank modesty among the virtues. To the logician all things should be seen exactly as they are, and to underestimate one's self is as much a departure from truth as to exaggerate one's own powers.”
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Australians are wary of anyone with a high opinion of themselves, a throwback to a young nation's determination to be class free. This habit lets us down, we are inclined to think of ourselves as less than we are.
Self honesty is the most difficult honesty of all.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Australians are wary of anyone with a high opinion of themselves, a throwback to a young nation's determination to be class free. This habit lets us down, we are inclined to think of ourselves as less than we are.
Self honesty is the most difficult honesty of all.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Jack Kerouac On People.
“the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.”
Jack Kerouac, On the Road.
I'm drawn to these people. They excite me, make me aware of all the possibilities. These mad people pay the price for their intense lives, the least I can do is learn from them.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Jack Kerouac, On the Road.
I'm drawn to these people. They excite me, make me aware of all the possibilities. These mad people pay the price for their intense lives, the least I can do is learn from them.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One Sentence Stories, Songwriter.
As the hydraulic brakes of the Greyhound bus release, emit exactly the same noise as they always do in the movies, he rests his head on his folded coat knowing he and his suitcase and his guitar will wake to a Paul Simon sunrise.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The Abortion Debate Is Simple.
Yeah, so I'm male and here I am writing about the abortion debate. Give me credit for courage if not wisdom. For me this debate is hypothetical, I'll never be in the position of making the final decision in real life.
For me it is simple. Is a fetus a life or not? It all stems from there, whether you believe abortion is taking a life or just removing some unwanted cells, like clipping toe nails. You can undertake your own research, make your own decision on whether a fetus is a life or not, the morality of the decision to terminate a pregnancy is simple from there.
I could paint a pretty word picture, let us say a sweet four year old boy. I could have him pulling the lining out of the pocket of his little blue shorts, folding it back in again, looking pleased with himself for being so clever. I could make him adorable so the enormous black figure of Death towering over him would be all the more frightening. I could then say that the decision is yours, let the scythe fall, live a life free of compromise and responsibility for another, or sacrifice your own desires to save the cute little boy's life? This image would only make sense if I offered the alternative image, of Death swinging his scythe at empty air, at a life that doesn't exist yet.
If you believe there is a living child there you must save and protect him. If you don't believe the child yet exists there is no moral problem with removing an inconvenience.
Of course I would never resort to such a heart wrenching image, not just to make a point. I prefer to leave the decision to every individual. Is a fetus a life or not? This is the only question you need to answer for yourself.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
For me it is simple. Is a fetus a life or not? It all stems from there, whether you believe abortion is taking a life or just removing some unwanted cells, like clipping toe nails. You can undertake your own research, make your own decision on whether a fetus is a life or not, the morality of the decision to terminate a pregnancy is simple from there.
I could paint a pretty word picture, let us say a sweet four year old boy. I could have him pulling the lining out of the pocket of his little blue shorts, folding it back in again, looking pleased with himself for being so clever. I could make him adorable so the enormous black figure of Death towering over him would be all the more frightening. I could then say that the decision is yours, let the scythe fall, live a life free of compromise and responsibility for another, or sacrifice your own desires to save the cute little boy's life? This image would only make sense if I offered the alternative image, of Death swinging his scythe at empty air, at a life that doesn't exist yet.
If you believe there is a living child there you must save and protect him. If you don't believe the child yet exists there is no moral problem with removing an inconvenience.
Of course I would never resort to such a heart wrenching image, not just to make a point. I prefer to leave the decision to every individual. Is a fetus a life or not? This is the only question you need to answer for yourself.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Stephen Fry On Religion.
“I am a lover of truth, a worshipper of freedom, a celebrant at the altar of language and purity and tolerance. That is my religion, and every day I am sorely, grossly, heinously and deeply offended, wounded, mortified and injured by a thousand different blasphemies against it. When the fundamental canons of truth, honesty, compassion and decency are hourly assaulted by fatuous bishops, pompous, illiberal and ignorant priests, politicians and prelates, sanctimonious censors, self-appointed moralists and busy-bodies, what recourse of ancient laws have I? None whatever. Nor would I ask for any. For unlike these blistering imbeciles my belief in my religion is strong and I know that lies will always fail and indecency and intolerance will always perish.”
Stephen Fry.
I'm with Mr. Fry. Perhaps I wouldn't call it a religion, just being a free, adult human, but whatever you call it, I'm with him.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Stephen Fry.
I'm with Mr. Fry. Perhaps I wouldn't call it a religion, just being a free, adult human, but whatever you call it, I'm with him.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Monday, 28 May 2012
Pressure.
When asked about pressure Australian cricketer and World War Two fighter pilot Keith Miller stated that, "Pressure is a Messerschmitt up your arse, cricket is not". I think of this quotation every time someone tells me their job is stressing them out.
Musicians talk about the pressure of performing. I've done gigs that have gone horribly wrong, plenty of them, and I'm still alive and kicking. Nothing really bad happens. The only real pressure I've experienced in the music business has been entering the office of a venue owner who really makes his money selling cocaine and keeps a gun in his desk drawer, having to demand the payment for myself and the band.
How we perceive our lives is how they are. If we see our job as stressful it is. Most often it really isn't. Right now I am stupidly poor, feeling the stress of that. When I step back and think about it there is nothing to be stressed about, the answers to my problems are obvious, the stress itself prevents rather enhances the remedies.
Some situations are genuinely stressful, they are pretty rare in our easy, peaceful time. We need a certain amount of stress to feel fully alive, invent it if it isn't present. If there isn't a man with a gun threatening your life it probably isn't real pressure.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Musicians talk about the pressure of performing. I've done gigs that have gone horribly wrong, plenty of them, and I'm still alive and kicking. Nothing really bad happens. The only real pressure I've experienced in the music business has been entering the office of a venue owner who really makes his money selling cocaine and keeps a gun in his desk drawer, having to demand the payment for myself and the band.
How we perceive our lives is how they are. If we see our job as stressful it is. Most often it really isn't. Right now I am stupidly poor, feeling the stress of that. When I step back and think about it there is nothing to be stressed about, the answers to my problems are obvious, the stress itself prevents rather enhances the remedies.
Some situations are genuinely stressful, they are pretty rare in our easy, peaceful time. We need a certain amount of stress to feel fully alive, invent it if it isn't present. If there isn't a man with a gun threatening your life it probably isn't real pressure.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Sin.
In a one sentence story (Artiste) I recently depicted a young girl preparing small sins to confess, like a magician's silk kerchiefs to be pulled from her sleeve. This idea was based on a girl, a woman I once knew, as a child her greatest sin each week was lying to her priest so as not to appear to be lying.
Sin is in the soul of the beholder, how we see it is how it is. That sad little girl was forced into sinning by a culture much bigger and stronger than herself, as a mature woman she expressed a desire to enter a confessional, lift her skirt and masturbate in order to shock the man on the other side of the screen. That this idea was in her mind meant she had never freed herself from that culture, her rebellion was reaction, not her own pure soul.
We are all trapped by learned beliefs about what is right and wrong. A lot of these beliefs just make sense, I want everyone to believe that driving drunk is wrong so I can get home safely. Our civilization relies on some shared beliefs in right and wrong, I guess that is as useful a definition of civilization as there is.
Other beliefs are aimed at controlling us. Every perverse dictatorship, from medieval church to Pol Pot to Taliban to Arab royalty takes control of social beliefs, defines right and wrong in it's own image. It doesn't matter what form these beliefs take, their aim is not to control behaviour but to control us, to keep us afraid and off balance. Frighten a small girl into believing herself a sinner and she is yours for life.
We owe it to ourselves as free humans to resist any form of control, any ridiculous dictation of what is sinful and what is good. The right to question is just that, a right. When you question why driving drunk is wrong there are simple, logical answers. When you question why your church dictates that masturbation is wrong there is no reasonable answer, other than that church wants to control your life via your innate desires. If a strange act of rebellion is required to free your mind then go for it, freak that priest out, but don't allow yourself to be controlled by making acting in the opposite your only rebellion, in that case they still have you.
Governments, churches, parents, teachers, so many people will try to tell you what sin is. Only you know your heart and soul, only you know what is truly sinful for you. The more people who stand up, who refuse to perform tricks of illusion in order to fit in, the easier it becomes for others to be free.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Sin is in the soul of the beholder, how we see it is how it is. That sad little girl was forced into sinning by a culture much bigger and stronger than herself, as a mature woman she expressed a desire to enter a confessional, lift her skirt and masturbate in order to shock the man on the other side of the screen. That this idea was in her mind meant she had never freed herself from that culture, her rebellion was reaction, not her own pure soul.
We are all trapped by learned beliefs about what is right and wrong. A lot of these beliefs just make sense, I want everyone to believe that driving drunk is wrong so I can get home safely. Our civilization relies on some shared beliefs in right and wrong, I guess that is as useful a definition of civilization as there is.
Other beliefs are aimed at controlling us. Every perverse dictatorship, from medieval church to Pol Pot to Taliban to Arab royalty takes control of social beliefs, defines right and wrong in it's own image. It doesn't matter what form these beliefs take, their aim is not to control behaviour but to control us, to keep us afraid and off balance. Frighten a small girl into believing herself a sinner and she is yours for life.
We owe it to ourselves as free humans to resist any form of control, any ridiculous dictation of what is sinful and what is good. The right to question is just that, a right. When you question why driving drunk is wrong there are simple, logical answers. When you question why your church dictates that masturbation is wrong there is no reasonable answer, other than that church wants to control your life via your innate desires. If a strange act of rebellion is required to free your mind then go for it, freak that priest out, but don't allow yourself to be controlled by making acting in the opposite your only rebellion, in that case they still have you.
Governments, churches, parents, teachers, so many people will try to tell you what sin is. Only you know your heart and soul, only you know what is truly sinful for you. The more people who stand up, who refuse to perform tricks of illusion in order to fit in, the easier it becomes for others to be free.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Waitress.
It would be rude to stare, an affront to all that is beautiful in this world to not sneak an occasional admiring glance. Proportion, style, elegance, presence, eyes that make me stutter, somehow that black apron enhances her slender, desirable figure, I don't know how. Her easy, wondrous smile at my fumbling words assures me that she is sweeter than that tira misu at the next table.
And she brings me coffee. She is perfection.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
And she brings me coffee. She is perfection.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One Sentence Stories, ABBA.
"Like most psychics I work for the government, when hostile aliens land my job is to hang around them singing ABBA songs in my head until E.T. despairs and goes home, usually takes about an hour."
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Stephen Fry On Depression.
“If you know someone who’s depressed, please resolve never to ask them why. Depression isn’t a straightforward response to a bad situation; depression just is, like the weather.
Try to understand the blackness, lethargy, hopelessness, and loneliness they’re going through. Be there for them when they come through the other side. It’s hard to be a friend to someone who’s depressed, but it is one of the kindest, noblest, and best things you will ever do.”
Stephen Fry.
I've recently had call to live with a thoroughly depressed person. My only addition to this quotation is that to expend the energy required to help you must believe the person wants to get better. Not all the time, hopelessness is implicit in the illness, but there must be that light of hope, that desire to live again, if that isn't present helping isn't helping, the effort will just hurt you.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Try to understand the blackness, lethargy, hopelessness, and loneliness they’re going through. Be there for them when they come through the other side. It’s hard to be a friend to someone who’s depressed, but it is one of the kindest, noblest, and best things you will ever do.”
Stephen Fry.
I've recently had call to live with a thoroughly depressed person. My only addition to this quotation is that to expend the energy required to help you must believe the person wants to get better. Not all the time, hopelessness is implicit in the illness, but there must be that light of hope, that desire to live again, if that isn't present helping isn't helping, the effort will just hurt you.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One Sentence Stories, Care.
He stands on the patio, swearing brutally at the potted cumquat, like a soldier emptying his side arm into a bucket of sand, puts his key in the lock, "hi honey, I'm home".
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Sunday, 27 May 2012
Everything Here Is So Brown And Literal.
Everything here is so brown and literal.
I want my life to be pink and clitoral.
I desire the moist, warm wetness of imagination, anticipation, stimulation, conversation, and yes and yes and yes, syncopation, the off beat variation.
Keep the accounts, keep safe, keep secure, keep the other at bay. Lustless, listless, lustreless life, a place for every thought and emotion and every thought and emotion in it's place, that isn't the eternal sex of life, the lush, sweet joy of a lover's heartbeat felt in places other than the heart.
I want to exchange ideas like fluids, hot and excited, smitten and delighted, the bisexual Yin Yangness of the universe flowing like hips.
Everything here is so brown and literal.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I want my life to be pink and clitoral.
I desire the moist, warm wetness of imagination, anticipation, stimulation, conversation, and yes and yes and yes, syncopation, the off beat variation.
Keep the accounts, keep safe, keep secure, keep the other at bay. Lustless, listless, lustreless life, a place for every thought and emotion and every thought and emotion in it's place, that isn't the eternal sex of life, the lush, sweet joy of a lover's heartbeat felt in places other than the heart.
I want to exchange ideas like fluids, hot and excited, smitten and delighted, the bisexual Yin Yangness of the universe flowing like hips.
Everything here is so brown and literal.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Give Me The City.
The city, the city, give me the fast heart beat of the city.
Give me a tenor saxophone wailing, a double bass purring, the footstep drumbeat of people on the street.
Give me cafes, clubs, bars and dubstep, footstepping from life to life in the timeless night. Give me neon haloes and the sainted sinless glory of people who live and love in the city, the city.
Give me the energy that comes free of charge, charged with fear, fearless and wild. Give me the pulse of a few million humans and I won't feel so alone.
Give me the city, the city, give me the fast heart beat of the city.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Give me a tenor saxophone wailing, a double bass purring, the footstep drumbeat of people on the street.
Give me cafes, clubs, bars and dubstep, footstepping from life to life in the timeless night. Give me neon haloes and the sainted sinless glory of people who live and love in the city, the city.
Give me the energy that comes free of charge, charged with fear, fearless and wild. Give me the pulse of a few million humans and I won't feel so alone.
Give me the city, the city, give me the fast heart beat of the city.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Stephen Fry On Language.
“Language is my whore, my mistress, my wife, my pen-friend, my check-out girl. Language is a complimentary moist lemon-scented cleansing square or handy freshen-up wipette. Language is the breath of God, the dew on a fresh apple, it's the soft rain of dust that falls into a shaft of morning sun when you pull from an old bookshelf a forgotten volume of erotic diaries; language is the faint scent of urine on a pair of boxer shorts, it's a half-remembered childhood birthday party, a creak on the stair, a spluttering match held to a frosted pane, the warm wet, trusting touch of a leaking nappy, the hulk of a charred Panzer, the underside of a granite boulder, the first downy growth on the upper lip of a Mediterranean girl, cobwebs long since overrun by an old Wellington boot.”
Stephen Fry.
Language is good.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Stephen Fry.
Language is good.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One Sentence Stories, Foreigner.
World weary eyes take in drab grey sky over drab grey suburbs, the train is taking him back to a childhood that wondered what else was out there.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Ukelele Delivery Mission.
So I'm on a suburban train, on a very important mission, to deliver a brand new ukelele to my Mum. She is a couple of years shy of eighty, sings with a choir that goes out to sing for old people.
She played uke as a kid, sang with Maori kids in a small New Zealand town. Deciding to pick it up again six decades later is just very cool. She wants to spice up the act a little. My Mum is a more talented and natural musician than I, never saw it as a career, nice girls didn't do that kind of thing in her day.
Turns out my paternal grandmother was some kind of pianist in her day too. She won her state piano competition, her family wouldn't allow her to accept the prize, a fully paid scholarship to study in London. She became a country town church organist, part time piano teacher. I feel sad whenever I think of her father saying no to her dream.
So here I am, free of silly social rules, single, childless, every opportunity to do whatever I want to do. I will deliver the new instrument to my Mum, she will insist on paying for our Chinese lunch, she will try to convince me to get out of the music business. I will explain that it isn't my fault, music is in my blood, that I owe it to a couple of fine ladies to have one last crack at doing something beautiful.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
She played uke as a kid, sang with Maori kids in a small New Zealand town. Deciding to pick it up again six decades later is just very cool. She wants to spice up the act a little. My Mum is a more talented and natural musician than I, never saw it as a career, nice girls didn't do that kind of thing in her day.
Turns out my paternal grandmother was some kind of pianist in her day too. She won her state piano competition, her family wouldn't allow her to accept the prize, a fully paid scholarship to study in London. She became a country town church organist, part time piano teacher. I feel sad whenever I think of her father saying no to her dream.
So here I am, free of silly social rules, single, childless, every opportunity to do whatever I want to do. I will deliver the new instrument to my Mum, she will insist on paying for our Chinese lunch, she will try to convince me to get out of the music business. I will explain that it isn't my fault, music is in my blood, that I owe it to a couple of fine ladies to have one last crack at doing something beautiful.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One Sentence Stories, Romance.
"He actually tossed pebbles against my window, I mean, I live alone, he could have called, or texted, or just rung the door bell, but he actually tossed pebbles against my window, so I said yes."
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Saturday, 26 May 2012
Love Is The Only Reality.
Love is the only reality, all else is illusion.
So what if love is illusion too?
Love is the only reality.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
So what if love is illusion too?
Love is the only reality.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Douglas Adams On Teaching And Learning.
"What really is the point of trying to teach anything to anybody?" This question seemed to provoke a murmur of sympathetic approval from up and down the table.
Richard continued, "What I mean is that if you really want to understand something, the best way is to try and explain it to someone else. That forces you to sort it out in your mind. And the more slow and dim-witted your pupil, the more you have to break things down into more and more simple ideas. And that's really the essence of programming. By the time you've sorted out a complicated idea into little steps that even a stupid machine can deal with, you've learned something about it yourself."
Douglas Adams, Dirk Gently.
I tried teaching flute once, unsuccessfully. I'm not really sure what I do myself, so don't know how to teach it to someone else. Some things are best left a mystery.
I believe a love letter serves this purpose, by saying out loud what we feel the feeling becomes real, we begin to comprehend it's immensity.
The master/apprentice relationship is part of our culture, it works. Perhaps we can be both, master and apprentice, in every human interaction? Learn when we teach, learn when we are taught. Us humans are compulsive communicators, we need to express our knowledge and emotions to truly understand them.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Another Big Red Balloon.
The boy was presented a big red balloon, thanked for coming. It was the best party ever, he wanted to keep that balloon forever, tied it to the end of his bed, played with it before school, then again after school.
Who knows why balloons slowly deflate? Within a week they go from a symbol of joy to a shrivelled scrotum of indifference.
The boy's mother removed the sad, red yesterday from the end of his bed one day when he was at school. He noticed, but didn't say anything. He couldn't bring himself to get rid of it, he knew his mother had done the right thing.
Years later the man thought about that red balloon, the best party ever, fetched a cardboard box, untied all the deflated balloons from his life, a whole box full, left them out with the garbage.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Who knows why balloons slowly deflate? Within a week they go from a symbol of joy to a shrivelled scrotum of indifference.
The boy's mother removed the sad, red yesterday from the end of his bed one day when he was at school. He noticed, but didn't say anything. He couldn't bring himself to get rid of it, he knew his mother had done the right thing.
Years later the man thought about that red balloon, the best party ever, fetched a cardboard box, untied all the deflated balloons from his life, a whole box full, left them out with the garbage.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One Sentence Stories, Loyalty.
As the ship sank the band played on, all except the tenor saxophonist who felt he had other ships to sink.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Douglas Adams On Mediocrity.
"He was a dreamer, a thinker, a speculative philosopher... or, as his wife would have it, an idiot."
Douglas Adams.
Here's a toast to all the beautiful idiots.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Douglas Adams.
Here's a toast to all the beautiful idiots.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One Sentence Stories, Protection.
Like a boy walking through the forest at night, whistling confidently to keep the monsters at bay, he pulled the covers up to his chin and declared, "I'm over her".
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Friday, 25 May 2012
One Sentence Stories, Patience.
He lights a cigarette, a time stick, after six months, after twenty five years, he knows that by the time the tobacco is burned, butted out, a dream will have died.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Douglas Adams On Life.
“You live and learn. At any rate, you live.”
Douglas Adams, Mostly Harmless.
I believe that if I enrolled in the school of life today, filled out the aptitude tests, the results would come back with a diagnosis of "learning difficulties". I reckon I learn about one new thing a year. Clearly when it comes to relationships I have forgotten more than I have learned, I have negative knowledge.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Douglas Adams, Mostly Harmless.
I believe that if I enrolled in the school of life today, filled out the aptitude tests, the results would come back with a diagnosis of "learning difficulties". I reckon I learn about one new thing a year. Clearly when it comes to relationships I have forgotten more than I have learned, I have negative knowledge.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Ideas And Action.
In his Hitch Hiker's Guide series Douglas Adams comes up with an alternate origin of us humans. An advanced culture needs to lose dead weight off an overcrowded planet, sets up a scam, tells the populace that everyone is being shipped off the planet before a disaster hits, instead just ships off all the telephone sanitizers, people with jobs that aren't really needed. These people crash into Earth, have no idea how to get by, become our incompetent forefathers and foremothers.
It does explain a few things.
I love that Adams got stoned enough to come up with this idea, then had the gumption to write it down. Most people can do one or the other, dream up concepts or have the discipline to write stuff, the combination of the two is rare, therefore valuable.
I come up with great ideas all the time, bacon sushi for instance, then do nothing about them. Rednecks the world over install extra car horns that emulate the Duke boys car from the television series The Dukes Of Hazard County. Whoever thought about making and selling those horns knew his redneck market. I reckon there is an untapped market of nerds, an extra car horn that sounds like Doctor Who's TARDIS taking off would sell like iPhones, do you think I'll get around to making and selling those?
The worst ones are the late night ideas, forgotten by morning. How is it I can remember that I had an idea, not the idea itself? Life is cruel. I had one the other night, sheer genius, guaranteed wealth, I know I did. I have an iPad beside my bed, do you think I clicked it on and wrote the idea down? No, I didn't.
There is a definite line between the dream like state that brings on ideas and the ability to do something about them. Those who possess both faculties in unison are rich and successful people. I was only born with one of the talents, I need to work on the other, the getting stuff done bit.
What I'm admitting here is that you only receive the B grade ideas in this blog, the best ones are left on my pillow.
The sweet pay off in Adams' tale is that the advanced culture that culled all the telephone sanitizers was wiped out by a disease caught from a dirty telephone. He took a simple, funny, beautiful idea and rounded it perfectly.
I have some work to do.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
It does explain a few things.
I love that Adams got stoned enough to come up with this idea, then had the gumption to write it down. Most people can do one or the other, dream up concepts or have the discipline to write stuff, the combination of the two is rare, therefore valuable.
I come up with great ideas all the time, bacon sushi for instance, then do nothing about them. Rednecks the world over install extra car horns that emulate the Duke boys car from the television series The Dukes Of Hazard County. Whoever thought about making and selling those horns knew his redneck market. I reckon there is an untapped market of nerds, an extra car horn that sounds like Doctor Who's TARDIS taking off would sell like iPhones, do you think I'll get around to making and selling those?
The worst ones are the late night ideas, forgotten by morning. How is it I can remember that I had an idea, not the idea itself? Life is cruel. I had one the other night, sheer genius, guaranteed wealth, I know I did. I have an iPad beside my bed, do you think I clicked it on and wrote the idea down? No, I didn't.
There is a definite line between the dream like state that brings on ideas and the ability to do something about them. Those who possess both faculties in unison are rich and successful people. I was only born with one of the talents, I need to work on the other, the getting stuff done bit.
What I'm admitting here is that you only receive the B grade ideas in this blog, the best ones are left on my pillow.
The sweet pay off in Adams' tale is that the advanced culture that culled all the telephone sanitizers was wiped out by a disease caught from a dirty telephone. He took a simple, funny, beautiful idea and rounded it perfectly.
I have some work to do.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One Sentence Stories, Condescension.
Well, your honour, yes, I know the victim of my assault, my punch on his nose, is a great philosopher, it was just, well, his benign smile, you know?
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Milan Kundera On Slowness.
“There is a secret bond between slowness and memory, between speed and forgetting.
A man is walking down the street. At a certain moment, he tries to recall something, but the recollection escapes him. Automatically, he slows down.
Meanwhile, a person who wants to forget a disagreeable incident he has just lived through starts unconsciously to speed up his pace, as if he were trying to distance himeself from a thing still too close to him in time.
The degree of slowness is directly proportional to the intensity of memory; the degree of speed is directly proportional to the intensity of forgettin”
Milan Kundera, Slowness.
A beautiful friend gave me this book. I found her "with all my love" inside the front cover years later. I read it again, very slowly.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
A man is walking down the street. At a certain moment, he tries to recall something, but the recollection escapes him. Automatically, he slows down.
Meanwhile, a person who wants to forget a disagreeable incident he has just lived through starts unconsciously to speed up his pace, as if he were trying to distance himeself from a thing still too close to him in time.
The degree of slowness is directly proportional to the intensity of memory; the degree of speed is directly proportional to the intensity of forgettin”
Milan Kundera, Slowness.
A beautiful friend gave me this book. I found her "with all my love" inside the front cover years later. I read it again, very slowly.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Thursday, 24 May 2012
Yearning.
Of course I'm yearning for what I can't have. Why would I yearn for something I can have? If I can have it there would be no point yearning, I'd just have it.
Yearning for the impossible is what makes us humans great. Without crazy, hopeless yearning there would be no great achievements, no great loves, no great works.
So what if it is impossible? Yearn, strive, give it the old college try knowing you will fail, try anyway.
One day the river will run dry and you will walk across it, one day she will wake up knowing she loves you, one day you will look back at the impossible and laugh.
Of course I'm yearning for what I can't have.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Yearning for the impossible is what makes us humans great. Without crazy, hopeless yearning there would be no great achievements, no great loves, no great works.
So what if it is impossible? Yearn, strive, give it the old college try knowing you will fail, try anyway.
One day the river will run dry and you will walk across it, one day she will wake up knowing she loves you, one day you will look back at the impossible and laugh.
Of course I'm yearning for what I can't have.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One Sentence Stories, Transferrance.
Ankle deep in a puddle his failing eyes denied him knowledge of, again, he remembers to not take the weather personally, seeks something or someone more tangible to hate.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The Sheer Cliffs Of Sanity.
Some people can walk up to the sheer cliff, sit and dangle their legs, crack open the sandwiches and relax. Others can approach the edge, take a peek, decide that devastating drop isn't for them. I'm one of those who has that weird, innate desire to throw myself off and plummet, so I keep my distance.
Sanity is a sheer cliff. There is a definite edge. Most I know who have gone over never come back, the few who have scrambled their way back onto to solid ground are never the same again.
It's worth knowing which type you are, knowing yourself and your relationship with the edge. I know some folks who live their entire lives right on it, intense and real. Others are comfortable living safer lives, and they should, there is no rule that says risking everything is a good idea, especially if you feel you have something to lose. Some are drawn to that edge and beyond, these people must be careful, aware where they stand at all times.
There is no rule that says mad is bad. If you are wealthy enough to support madness then go for it, live right on that edge. Most of us have to support ourselves in a culture that denies madness, shuns the mad. If you have to support children, get along, leave the crazy shit to those who have nothing to lose.
Just once it is worth edging up to the edge of sanity, checking out what is down there, it is a beautiful abyss. You can truly see yourself down there, you are looking back up at yourself.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Sanity is a sheer cliff. There is a definite edge. Most I know who have gone over never come back, the few who have scrambled their way back onto to solid ground are never the same again.
It's worth knowing which type you are, knowing yourself and your relationship with the edge. I know some folks who live their entire lives right on it, intense and real. Others are comfortable living safer lives, and they should, there is no rule that says risking everything is a good idea, especially if you feel you have something to lose. Some are drawn to that edge and beyond, these people must be careful, aware where they stand at all times.
There is no rule that says mad is bad. If you are wealthy enough to support madness then go for it, live right on that edge. Most of us have to support ourselves in a culture that denies madness, shuns the mad. If you have to support children, get along, leave the crazy shit to those who have nothing to lose.
Just once it is worth edging up to the edge of sanity, checking out what is down there, it is a beautiful abyss. You can truly see yourself down there, you are looking back up at yourself.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Milan Kundera On Self Respect.
“There are moments in life when a man retreats defensively, when he must give ground, when he must surrender less important positions in order to protect the more important ones. But should it come to the very last, the most important one, at this point a man must halt and stand firm if he doesn't want to begin life all over again with idle hands and a feeling of being shipwrecked.”
Milan Kundera, Laughable Loves.
For me Mr. Kundera is the great writer of the last few decades. He speaks to me. In this quotation he has summed up the position I had to take over the last few months, a man can only retreat so far and still call himself a man.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Wednesday, 23 May 2012
One Sentence Stories, Crime.
He did what he could to make his prison cell a home, having done what he could to make her home a prison.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Milan Kundera On . . . I'll Be Crucified For This One.
“It was futile to attack with reason the stout wall of irrational feelings that, as is known, is the stuff of which the female mind is made.”
Milan Kundera, Laughable Loves.
I know I shouldn't agree with this.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
You'd Think By Now.
You'd think by my age I'd have the whole romance thing sorted out, wouldn't you? Wouldn't you? Forty four, old enough to know better, right? I understand less now than I did as a teenager, and I knew nothing then.
I recently realised that I read too many old novels as a teenager. They gave me foolish notions about honour, respect, and the idea that if both parties feel the same way they will work it out, somehow. I guess I've always expected the same honour and respect in return, expectation makes fools of us all.
One day I'll meet a girl who cares enough to be patient with my stupidity, who will employ simple words to tell me what I'm doing wrong, who will recognise what I bring to her, faithfulness, honesty, authenticity. Or perhaps I won't? Perhaps I am living in a past era when those things mattered?
I'm not sure if I understand too little or understand too much? There is a fair chance my one true natural talent, to see through human bullshit, doesn't serve me well. Love takes a certain amount of blindness. Just as I can't ignore annoying background music in restaurants so I can't ignore crap excuses and lies of omission. Perhaps I expect too much?
As a teenager I thought I'd have it all sorted by now. Instead I find myself asking more questions than I have answers for.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I recently realised that I read too many old novels as a teenager. They gave me foolish notions about honour, respect, and the idea that if both parties feel the same way they will work it out, somehow. I guess I've always expected the same honour and respect in return, expectation makes fools of us all.
One day I'll meet a girl who cares enough to be patient with my stupidity, who will employ simple words to tell me what I'm doing wrong, who will recognise what I bring to her, faithfulness, honesty, authenticity. Or perhaps I won't? Perhaps I am living in a past era when those things mattered?
I'm not sure if I understand too little or understand too much? There is a fair chance my one true natural talent, to see through human bullshit, doesn't serve me well. Love takes a certain amount of blindness. Just as I can't ignore annoying background music in restaurants so I can't ignore crap excuses and lies of omission. Perhaps I expect too much?
As a teenager I thought I'd have it all sorted by now. Instead I find myself asking more questions than I have answers for.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One Sentence Stories, Upstairs Downstairs.
The doctor felt confident he had cured Lady Tarrington's sleep walking condition, was surprised at the look of disappointment on the butler's face.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One Sentence Stories, Compatibility.
The fire is burning low, dawn breaking, if she wakes before the sun fully rises he will take her with him, if she sleeps on he will leave her with provisions and directions back to town.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Tuesday, 22 May 2012
Niccolo Machiavelli On Motivation.
“Men are driven by two two principal impulses, either by love or by fear.”
Niccolò Machiavelli, The Discourses.
One of the two will prevail. A true and successful life is driven by love, fear diminishes us and our ability to love.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Niccolò Machiavelli, The Discourses.
One of the two will prevail. A true and successful life is driven by love, fear diminishes us and our ability to love.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Power, Truth, Beauty, Another Beer And Chaser Please.
"You see, she felt powerless, so when I fell powerlessly in love with her she suddenly had some power. Her only experience of how power is exercised was cruelty, that is how others have exercised their power over her. Her silent cruelty was immense. Another beer and chaser thanks, anything for you mate?"
I politely declined.
"So she knew the way to drive me crazy was silence, to tell me nothing, so she joyously allowed me to stew for months, despite my pleas for mercy, always the assumption that something was wrong but never the confirmation. Of course it drove me crazy. Another beer and chaser, you sure I can't buy you a drink?"
The bartender looked doubtful about serving him another drink, I nodded my assent, my new friend was miserable, not drunk.
"So of course I eventually lost it, shot my mouth off, walked out . . . now it's over."
A gloomy silence ensued, I offered him a cigarette, didn't have much else to offer him.
"So she felt powerless, suddenly had the power to make me happy or sad, had no idea what to do with it. If I'd known it was a power game I could have squashed her like a bug. I'm good at power games. Did I tell you I'm a banker? I am. I'm good at power games. I just didn't know that's what it was. I thought it was love. It was for me. Only worked out all this stuff later, too late. Another beer and chaser please."
Again we smoked in silence. My heart was breaking for this guy, I had nothing to offer him, no solace, no method to feel better.
"My final words were pretty harsh, can't see any way back from there. Of course I still love her, or I wouldn't be sitting here drinking, would I?"
"No, I guess you wouldn't", I contributed lamely.
"If only there were some way to explain to her that her words, her silences, meant everything to me, that she held my heart in her lips, so to speak. She won't talk to me. I'm not sure she'd understand even if I were to explain it to her. Another beer and chaser please."
I couldn't see a way out for him, a way back in. He'd slammed doors, that she had driven him to it made no difference, the doors remained shut no matter what the cause.
"I guess I could try one more time, write to her, explain to her that her power over me could be used kindly, that my giving up power to her is just an expression of love, not of weakness, that all she has to do is express her love by using that power beautifully and truthfully. Do you reckon it's possible to explain that to a woman who has never experienced power before?"
I stood silently, he was so close to finding his answer, I didn't want to screw it up by offering my two cents worth, so often proved to be worth less than two cents.
"Bugger it, I'll do it, what the hell? Thanks mate, you've given me new hope, thanks for your advice, I'll write to her right now, explain how I see it, see if she can understand that power over a lover can be sweet, not cruel. Nothing to lose, thanks again buddy, you've helped me out."
I finally had some useful advice to offer. "Perhaps you should have another beer, think about writing that letter tomorrow, when your head is a little clearer?"
"You're right mate, you're a bloody genius, how do you know so much about this stuff? I bet you never have these problems?"
I bought my new friend another beer and chaser and snuck out. My work there was done.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I politely declined.
"So she knew the way to drive me crazy was silence, to tell me nothing, so she joyously allowed me to stew for months, despite my pleas for mercy, always the assumption that something was wrong but never the confirmation. Of course it drove me crazy. Another beer and chaser, you sure I can't buy you a drink?"
The bartender looked doubtful about serving him another drink, I nodded my assent, my new friend was miserable, not drunk.
"So of course I eventually lost it, shot my mouth off, walked out . . . now it's over."
A gloomy silence ensued, I offered him a cigarette, didn't have much else to offer him.
"So she felt powerless, suddenly had the power to make me happy or sad, had no idea what to do with it. If I'd known it was a power game I could have squashed her like a bug. I'm good at power games. Did I tell you I'm a banker? I am. I'm good at power games. I just didn't know that's what it was. I thought it was love. It was for me. Only worked out all this stuff later, too late. Another beer and chaser please."
Again we smoked in silence. My heart was breaking for this guy, I had nothing to offer him, no solace, no method to feel better.
"My final words were pretty harsh, can't see any way back from there. Of course I still love her, or I wouldn't be sitting here drinking, would I?"
"No, I guess you wouldn't", I contributed lamely.
"If only there were some way to explain to her that her words, her silences, meant everything to me, that she held my heart in her lips, so to speak. She won't talk to me. I'm not sure she'd understand even if I were to explain it to her. Another beer and chaser please."
I couldn't see a way out for him, a way back in. He'd slammed doors, that she had driven him to it made no difference, the doors remained shut no matter what the cause.
"I guess I could try one more time, write to her, explain to her that her power over me could be used kindly, that my giving up power to her is just an expression of love, not of weakness, that all she has to do is express her love by using that power beautifully and truthfully. Do you reckon it's possible to explain that to a woman who has never experienced power before?"
I stood silently, he was so close to finding his answer, I didn't want to screw it up by offering my two cents worth, so often proved to be worth less than two cents.
"Bugger it, I'll do it, what the hell? Thanks mate, you've given me new hope, thanks for your advice, I'll write to her right now, explain how I see it, see if she can understand that power over a lover can be sweet, not cruel. Nothing to lose, thanks again buddy, you've helped me out."
I finally had some useful advice to offer. "Perhaps you should have another beer, think about writing that letter tomorrow, when your head is a little clearer?"
"You're right mate, you're a bloody genius, how do you know so much about this stuff? I bet you never have these problems?"
I bought my new friend another beer and chaser and snuck out. My work there was done.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Moving House.
I've decided to move house. I'm going to move into Henry James' novel The Ambassadors, where I will spend my time with wonderful, charming people, partaking of deep, intuitive conversations and sumptuous repasts.
Living in a novel may be unconventional, and sometimes inconvenient, it beats where I'm living now. The rent is cheap and the neighbours marvellous.
Of course it is just a temporary move, at some stage I'll have to grow up, move into my own novel, for now you can address my mail care of The Ambassadors by Henry James.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Living in a novel may be unconventional, and sometimes inconvenient, it beats where I'm living now. The rent is cheap and the neighbours marvellous.
Of course it is just a temporary move, at some stage I'll have to grow up, move into my own novel, for now you can address my mail care of The Ambassadors by Henry James.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I Would Do Anything For You.
I would do anything for you.
The key word in this sentence is I. If I have to do things that aren't true to the essential I, tolerate things that diminish the essential I, it would no longer be I at your service.
The grand statement wouldn't work if it were shrouded in qualifications. "I would do anything for you" must stand alone. Such a statement is of faith, in I and in the other.
Once the identity, authenticity of the I is lost, all is lost.
I maintain, I would do anything for you.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The key word in this sentence is I. If I have to do things that aren't true to the essential I, tolerate things that diminish the essential I, it would no longer be I at your service.
The grand statement wouldn't work if it were shrouded in qualifications. "I would do anything for you" must stand alone. Such a statement is of faith, in I and in the other.
Once the identity, authenticity of the I is lost, all is lost.
I maintain, I would do anything for you.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Monday, 21 May 2012
One Sentence Stories, Epicurean.
After the earthquake his body was found in the ruins of the restaurant, "to rush a premier cru Bordeaux is simply impossible", his last words.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
J. D. Salinger On Writing.
"Many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. Happily some of them kept records of their troubles. You'll learn from them - if you want to. Just as someday if you have something to offer, someone will learn something from you. And it isn't education, It's history. It's poetry."
J. D. Salinger.
That the powerful play goes on and I may contribute a verse.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
J. D. Salinger.
That the powerful play goes on and I may contribute a verse.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One Sentence Stories, Enough.
As she wiped the blood off the carving knife she wondered if a small apartment and a spouse practising Mozart flute trills for three hours would be considered mitigating circumstances by the court?
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Sunday, 20 May 2012
Where Have The Songs Gone?
I haven't written a song for nearly two years now. The months have just slipped by, not a single convincing idea has come my way. I don't know why. I've just come out of a heartbreaking relationship, you'd think the angst would be flowing like salty tears, but I've got nothin'.
For the two years before this every word I heard, every scene I observed was a potential song, I wrote songs constantly. The obvious answer is that this last two years I've been writing this blog instead, the songs have given way to prose, my tiny male brain does one thing at a time.
I miss writing songs.
I don't know of a method for getting back that magic. Do you? Perhaps I need to sit down with my guitar each day, at a set time, switch of prose guy and turn on song guy? It all comes from the same place, switching modes should not be so difficult. Should it?
So I'm publicly setting myself this task, to write one song each week for the next ten weeks. If I get one good song out of this venture I will be satisfied.
Sometimes declaring an intention out loud makes it real. Embarrassment is a harsh taskmaster.
I'll post the resulting good song here in ten weeks.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
For the two years before this every word I heard, every scene I observed was a potential song, I wrote songs constantly. The obvious answer is that this last two years I've been writing this blog instead, the songs have given way to prose, my tiny male brain does one thing at a time.
I miss writing songs.
I don't know of a method for getting back that magic. Do you? Perhaps I need to sit down with my guitar each day, at a set time, switch of prose guy and turn on song guy? It all comes from the same place, switching modes should not be so difficult. Should it?
So I'm publicly setting myself this task, to write one song each week for the next ten weeks. If I get one good song out of this venture I will be satisfied.
Sometimes declaring an intention out loud makes it real. Embarrassment is a harsh taskmaster.
I'll post the resulting good song here in ten weeks.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One Sentence Stories, Loss.
He looks up from his coffee, notices he is sitting under a chestnut tree, for him Room 101 is any room without her in it.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Henry David Thoreau On Writing.
“How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live.”
Henry David Thoreau.
I concur. Get up, stand up, do some living, peer over the edge, as close as you dare, then write.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Words Of Business, Words Of Love.
Some jaded hippies in Northern California laughed themselves silly when they discovered they could sell the thin air of words to business, business sold words to us, now we talk of investing in quality time with our partners.
I prefer to hang out with my lover.
The cynical hippies were correct, the meaning we attach to words affect the way we think and feel. When we talk of love as a business deal that is how we think and feel about love.
Use the words you feel with your lover, speak of your passions, desires, fears and joys, speak of your love for her. The words of business have no place in the bedroom.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I prefer to hang out with my lover.
The cynical hippies were correct, the meaning we attach to words affect the way we think and feel. When we talk of love as a business deal that is how we think and feel about love.
Use the words you feel with your lover, speak of your passions, desires, fears and joys, speak of your love for her. The words of business have no place in the bedroom.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One Sentence Stories, Proof.
The asylum doctor ordered X rays, called in a surgeon, a tiny, mislaid alien probing device was removed from deep inside the anus of the madman.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One Sentence Stories, Self Fulfilling Prophecy.
He was so worried he might fart in bed, became nervous, felt the first hint of butterflies in his stomach . . .
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Sweet Anticipation.
Green tea leaves are picked in Spring, lie waiting, sweet anticipation, for the jasmine flowers to bloom in early Summer. Picked in the early morning, tightly closed, the flowers are not introduced to the tea leaves until evening, when petals open, release perfume and flavour. The two spend the night together, become jasmine tea, two yet one.
I lie waiting, sweet anticipation, for the opening of your jasmine flowers.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I lie waiting, sweet anticipation, for the opening of your jasmine flowers.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Saturday, 19 May 2012
Jean-Paul Sartre On Consensus.
“I am alone in the midst of these happy, reasonable voices. All these creatures spend their time explaining, realizing happily that they agree with each other. In Heaven's name, why is it so important to think the same things all together?”
Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea.
I like adults who can disagree happily. Any complete agreement is a watering down of essence.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Jean-Paul Sartre, Nausea.
I like adults who can disagree happily. Any complete agreement is a watering down of essence.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One Sentence Stories, Love.
"Yes", she said, before he had asked the question, "whatever you are going to ask, the answer is yes".
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Sleeping Too Easily.
Sir Arthur Conan-Doyle sometimes has his characters state that a traumatic memory "stands between me and my sleep". We rarely witness horrific events in our safe little lives, most of us sleep soundly knowing we never will. The closest we come to genuine, bloody horror is our televisions.
A few minutes of Late Show stand up raised the idea of introducing lions into the city, to wake everyone up a little. I'm not sure who the comedian was but I liked his idea. He was complaining that most days are the same, that the risk of lethal lion attack would make each day a little more interesting. A friend with a "my dry cleaning was late" story would become a friend with a "lion ate the dry cleaner story", much more interesting.
Are we too safe, smug, complacent? I believe we are. It's not that I really want a lion to ambush me on my way home, I reckon we should appreciate how good we have it, that we live in the most affluent and easy time in human history. Millions of generations faced fear and horror daily, evolved and got smarter, so I can sit here at an outdoor cafe without fear of attack, lion or otherwise. We sleep easy due to thousands of years of hard work done by others.
Yet we still have primitive survival instincts, still breed like rabbits, defend our hearts and bodies, live as if the jungle is our reality. We satisfy our need for fear with television, where everyone is raped and murdered every day. Of course there is still some real life horror out there if you go looking for it, I've seen my share, lost some sleep over it, but if we choose to live sensibly and carefully it rarely intrudes on our lives.
I feel our lives lack intensity, immediacy, we are all sleep walking. Folks go in search of thrills, jump out of perfectly good planes with parachutes, a respite from the tedium. Soldiers returned from living with real fear find real life almost intolerable, like nothing real is happening. Travellers too. Some of us go in search of intensity by taking the hard road instead of the easy one. Some get up on stages just to feel some nervous energy.
I guess I want to go to sleep each night feeling that something real happened that day, that something real will happen tomorrow, I loved, I worked, I lived. Introducing lions may be a little drastic as a wake up call, maybe not?
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
A few minutes of Late Show stand up raised the idea of introducing lions into the city, to wake everyone up a little. I'm not sure who the comedian was but I liked his idea. He was complaining that most days are the same, that the risk of lethal lion attack would make each day a little more interesting. A friend with a "my dry cleaning was late" story would become a friend with a "lion ate the dry cleaner story", much more interesting.
Are we too safe, smug, complacent? I believe we are. It's not that I really want a lion to ambush me on my way home, I reckon we should appreciate how good we have it, that we live in the most affluent and easy time in human history. Millions of generations faced fear and horror daily, evolved and got smarter, so I can sit here at an outdoor cafe without fear of attack, lion or otherwise. We sleep easy due to thousands of years of hard work done by others.
Yet we still have primitive survival instincts, still breed like rabbits, defend our hearts and bodies, live as if the jungle is our reality. We satisfy our need for fear with television, where everyone is raped and murdered every day. Of course there is still some real life horror out there if you go looking for it, I've seen my share, lost some sleep over it, but if we choose to live sensibly and carefully it rarely intrudes on our lives.
I feel our lives lack intensity, immediacy, we are all sleep walking. Folks go in search of thrills, jump out of perfectly good planes with parachutes, a respite from the tedium. Soldiers returned from living with real fear find real life almost intolerable, like nothing real is happening. Travellers too. Some of us go in search of intensity by taking the hard road instead of the easy one. Some get up on stages just to feel some nervous energy.
I guess I want to go to sleep each night feeling that something real happened that day, that something real will happen tomorrow, I loved, I worked, I lived. Introducing lions may be a little drastic as a wake up call, maybe not?
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One Sentence Stories, Covenant.
A trick of the light, a rainbow in her teardrop, he promises forever.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I Don't Like Parties.
There is a party going on next door. As a free for all libertarian I should be in favour of parties. I don't like parties. I'm about as successful at parties as I would be in prison, I lack the requisite skills for survival in both environments. Sadly I would be more likely to get laid in prison.
There was a time when parties revolved around the quality of the guests, when folks were invited on their reputations, for charm, conversation, silliness. Supper would be served, a musical entertainment, staff would serve drinks. A party today means loud music, loud enough that no one can converse. If I wanted to shout into someone's ear I'd visit my great aunt.
Occasionally I am invited to a truly sophisticated party, very rarely, I clearly don't know enough middle aged homosexuals any more. When I was young and pretty I found myself remarkably popular at such events, probably for the same reason I'd be popular in prison. Once it was established that I was flamboyantly straight I was free to enjoy the charms of fine wine, finger food, funny and charming conversation. These parties would be discussed for weeks afterwards, the brilliant, hilarious, whimsical things that had been said, the chamber cabaret performance, those remarkable prawn and Camembert spring rolls.
At today's parties I find everyone has to shout about what a great time they are having, the only things to recall the next day are the ear ringing and who puked where, who shagged whom in the bathroom. Folks with nothing to say dance with folks with nothing to say then everyone goes home.
I know what you are thinking, this guy is getting old. The fact is I'm not old enough, I was born a century too late. I should have been around when a handwritten invitation to a soirée arrived in the post instead of a group e mail to a partay.
I wander past the gate of the home where the party is on, I can't take any more oonz oonz oonz. I recognise a neighbour, I'm invited in. On the whole I'd rather be invited to spend some time in prison.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
There was a time when parties revolved around the quality of the guests, when folks were invited on their reputations, for charm, conversation, silliness. Supper would be served, a musical entertainment, staff would serve drinks. A party today means loud music, loud enough that no one can converse. If I wanted to shout into someone's ear I'd visit my great aunt.
Occasionally I am invited to a truly sophisticated party, very rarely, I clearly don't know enough middle aged homosexuals any more. When I was young and pretty I found myself remarkably popular at such events, probably for the same reason I'd be popular in prison. Once it was established that I was flamboyantly straight I was free to enjoy the charms of fine wine, finger food, funny and charming conversation. These parties would be discussed for weeks afterwards, the brilliant, hilarious, whimsical things that had been said, the chamber cabaret performance, those remarkable prawn and Camembert spring rolls.
At today's parties I find everyone has to shout about what a great time they are having, the only things to recall the next day are the ear ringing and who puked where, who shagged whom in the bathroom. Folks with nothing to say dance with folks with nothing to say then everyone goes home.
I know what you are thinking, this guy is getting old. The fact is I'm not old enough, I was born a century too late. I should have been around when a handwritten invitation to a soirée arrived in the post instead of a group e mail to a partay.
I wander past the gate of the home where the party is on, I can't take any more oonz oonz oonz. I recognise a neighbour, I'm invited in. On the whole I'd rather be invited to spend some time in prison.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Friday, 18 May 2012
All I See.
There is chocolate in the refrigerator.
I open the door, the light comes on, the light shines only on the chocolate. I can see the fruit, vegetables, pickles, cheese, all I see is the chocolate.
You are the chocolate in my refrigerator.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I open the door, the light comes on, the light shines only on the chocolate. I can see the fruit, vegetables, pickles, cheese, all I see is the chocolate.
You are the chocolate in my refrigerator.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One Sentence Stories, Heartbreak.
He stood still, watched the fallen leaves turn from red to brown, since she left.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Hemingway's One Sentence Story.
For sale: Baby shoes, never used.
Ernest Hemingway.
I've started writing one sentence stories recently. The great man just showed me how it is done. A tiny tragedy, so beautiful.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Ernest Hemingway.
I've started writing one sentence stories recently. The great man just showed me how it is done. A tiny tragedy, so beautiful.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Thursday, 17 May 2012
One Sentence Stories, Lust.
They devoured each other like chocolate cake, sweet, messy, deliciously wrong, until the cake was gone and the idea of ordering another serve made them feel uneasy.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One Sentence Stories, Over.
As she lazily ran her fingers through his hair she heard him mumble something about getting it cut short, pulled it back to imagine him without it, realised she didn't love him any more.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
She Knows.
Knee deep in the stream, his arms around her, teaching her the feel of the line, a trout fishing dance instructor.
"Let him run, he will tire, tease him enough to make him believe he is getting away, eventually he will give up and come to you."
"I know", she stated, leaning back against him.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
"Let him run, he will tire, tease him enough to make him believe he is getting away, eventually he will give up and come to you."
"I know", she stated, leaning back against him.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Mark Twain On Love Unrequited.
“Never allow someone to be your priority while allowing yourself to be their option.”
Mark Twain.
I always wondered who said this first. People have said it to me again and again, I know they are right, I continue to flog those dead horses. Now I know Mr. Twain said it I will try to keep it in mind.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Mark Twain.
I always wondered who said this first. People have said it to me again and again, I know they are right, I continue to flog those dead horses. Now I know Mr. Twain said it I will try to keep it in mind.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Climate Change Inanity.
"May I have a plastic bag please?"
"What for? Your pillows are already wrapped in plastic!", responded the shop assistant.
"Well, I need a large plastic bag to wrap around my head after I've taken the Mogadon, you see, all the rude, impertinent people are getting me down."
If only that's what I'd really said. Instead I offered an explanation, that I was catching a tram and walking home, that a bag for my two new pillows would make that much easier. I laid down the twenty cents for the privilege of a plastic bag and left, shaking my head.
If I'd been driving an oversized car, like every other car in the giant car park below that giant mall, I wouldn't have needed the plastic bag, by riding the green tram I was letting the side down.
I'll use that plastic bag again, to take my garbage out in. I'm very tired of being hen picked and brow beaten about climate change, very tired indeed.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
"What for? Your pillows are already wrapped in plastic!", responded the shop assistant.
"Well, I need a large plastic bag to wrap around my head after I've taken the Mogadon, you see, all the rude, impertinent people are getting me down."
If only that's what I'd really said. Instead I offered an explanation, that I was catching a tram and walking home, that a bag for my two new pillows would make that much easier. I laid down the twenty cents for the privilege of a plastic bag and left, shaking my head.
If I'd been driving an oversized car, like every other car in the giant car park below that giant mall, I wouldn't have needed the plastic bag, by riding the green tram I was letting the side down.
I'll use that plastic bag again, to take my garbage out in. I'm very tired of being hen picked and brow beaten about climate change, very tired indeed.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Wednesday, 16 May 2012
One Sentence Stories, Shelter.
Like children hanging blankets over the dining room table to create a tent, a fort, an igloo, the lovers slid under the covers, clung to each other, shelter.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
David Niven On Humour.
"The only laugh that man will ever get in his life is by stripping and showing off his shortcomings."
David Niven.
Be gentle with us ladies, laugh gently, with love.
The only true jokes are the ones we make at our own expense, that expose our humanity so everyone else can feel good about theirs.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
David Niven.
Be gentle with us ladies, laugh gently, with love.
The only true jokes are the ones we make at our own expense, that expose our humanity so everyone else can feel good about theirs.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Unconditional Love, Again.
I'm sure I've written about unconditional love before. In the tradition of the kentparkstreetblog, our refusal to undertake research of any kind, I won't go back and check what I wrote. I can almost guarantee it was super romantic nonsense and compared the way humans and dogs love.
You can beat a dog with a stick and it will still love you. If you beat me with a stick I will cease loving you. There is a condition on love right there. We all have certain lines that can't be crossed, some basic, fundamental demands of our lover. I believe our lines are drawn by our idea of ourselves, what we believe we deserve. If we believe our lover should offer a minimum of kindness and respect that becomes the condition we demand. If we believe we deserve less we always get it.
Loving unconditionally means putting up with a lot of shit that makes us unhappy much of the time. The romantic in me wants to believe this is possible, to love through anything. My experience has taught me otherwise. It is possible to love someone without loving what they bring to our table, to continue loving that person when we no longer want to be anywhere near them. I guess this is the line between the unconditional love of the person and the conditions we demand of our relationship with that person.
Love comes in so many different packages, there are no rules, yet there are rules. For me the rules are that if I'm not being treated with the respect I'm due, with thought and care, then I'm out. Simple rules, easy to explain and understand. I reckon these rules apply to anyone who respects themselves, loves themselves. After that whether you marry, hang out, live together or apart, spend every minute together or catch up once a fortnight, all the options are open to negotiation. For me the basic conditions don't change.
We don't have the simple brains and desires of dogs, we are not conditioned pack animals. We can't be beaten with sticks and come back for more. Love does come with conditions, despite any romantic foolishness I may have stated in the past. The conditions we demand are down to us, to how we value and love ourselves.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
You can beat a dog with a stick and it will still love you. If you beat me with a stick I will cease loving you. There is a condition on love right there. We all have certain lines that can't be crossed, some basic, fundamental demands of our lover. I believe our lines are drawn by our idea of ourselves, what we believe we deserve. If we believe our lover should offer a minimum of kindness and respect that becomes the condition we demand. If we believe we deserve less we always get it.
Loving unconditionally means putting up with a lot of shit that makes us unhappy much of the time. The romantic in me wants to believe this is possible, to love through anything. My experience has taught me otherwise. It is possible to love someone without loving what they bring to our table, to continue loving that person when we no longer want to be anywhere near them. I guess this is the line between the unconditional love of the person and the conditions we demand of our relationship with that person.
Love comes in so many different packages, there are no rules, yet there are rules. For me the rules are that if I'm not being treated with the respect I'm due, with thought and care, then I'm out. Simple rules, easy to explain and understand. I reckon these rules apply to anyone who respects themselves, loves themselves. After that whether you marry, hang out, live together or apart, spend every minute together or catch up once a fortnight, all the options are open to negotiation. For me the basic conditions don't change.
We don't have the simple brains and desires of dogs, we are not conditioned pack animals. We can't be beaten with sticks and come back for more. Love does come with conditions, despite any romantic foolishness I may have stated in the past. The conditions we demand are down to us, to how we value and love ourselves.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One Sentence Stories, Discontent.
Cold and complacent, he wants to run down the street yelling, "wake up! it's too cold here, and it's gonna' get colder, save yourselves, move north while you still can!", but everyone he encounters looks so content and smug and Autumn and Melbourne so he kicks some leaves and walks on.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Tuesday, 15 May 2012
Leonard Cohen, For Anne.
For Anne.
With Annie gone,
whose eyes to compare
with the morning sun?
Not that I did compare,
But I do compare
Now that she's gone.
Leonard Cohen.
Look into her eyes, today, and tell her.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
With Annie gone,
whose eyes to compare
with the morning sun?
Not that I did compare,
But I do compare
Now that she's gone.
Leonard Cohen.
Look into her eyes, today, and tell her.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Afterlife, Jacqueline Elizabeth Scanlon.
On days like this one, the anniversary of a dear one's death, I yearn for a belief in an afterlife. I yearn in vain, the belief just isn't in me. The day of her death, weeks afterwards, I considered going to join her, wherever she was, but the belief wasn't in me, eleven years later it is even more distant.
For me saying I believe would be like saying I believe a lying lover, a way to fool myself happy. It would be just as ineffective, just add another layer of confusion. This lack of belief is not a sorrow, not now. Just as I prefer to look a lover in the eye and tell her I know she is lying, I prefer to look life, and death in the eye, maintain an honest relationship with both. It's often not the transgression but the lie that hurts the most.
Feeling that this life, this consciousness, is a one night only show, that I will never play on this stage again, is a joy in some ways. It makes life real. Sure, there is sorrow that I will never see her again, never hold her again, I prefer this honest sorrow to a pretence, to discounting a beautiful memory.
Once the idea of an afterlife is removed this life becomes more valuable, not less. Freedom to truly live, love, without superstition or sentimentality, is a genuine freedom, harsh as it may seem to others. I seek solace in the ongoing life around me, the knowledge that I may contribute a verse before I too depart. I don't seek solace in the dead. The dead have passed, I am here, for a while.
The world was a better place for me when she was on it. In my melancholy moments I yearn for some belief, an out clause, any delusion that will make me feel better. For me being a true lover means looking her in the eye and telling the truth. The truth for me is that she is gone, that I will treasure her memory, cherish every moment I had with her even more for this honesty.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
For me saying I believe would be like saying I believe a lying lover, a way to fool myself happy. It would be just as ineffective, just add another layer of confusion. This lack of belief is not a sorrow, not now. Just as I prefer to look a lover in the eye and tell her I know she is lying, I prefer to look life, and death in the eye, maintain an honest relationship with both. It's often not the transgression but the lie that hurts the most.
Feeling that this life, this consciousness, is a one night only show, that I will never play on this stage again, is a joy in some ways. It makes life real. Sure, there is sorrow that I will never see her again, never hold her again, I prefer this honest sorrow to a pretence, to discounting a beautiful memory.
Once the idea of an afterlife is removed this life becomes more valuable, not less. Freedom to truly live, love, without superstition or sentimentality, is a genuine freedom, harsh as it may seem to others. I seek solace in the ongoing life around me, the knowledge that I may contribute a verse before I too depart. I don't seek solace in the dead. The dead have passed, I am here, for a while.
The world was a better place for me when she was on it. In my melancholy moments I yearn for some belief, an out clause, any delusion that will make me feel better. For me being a true lover means looking her in the eye and telling the truth. The truth for me is that she is gone, that I will treasure her memory, cherish every moment I had with her even more for this honesty.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One Sentence Stories, Artiste.
A consummate confessional conjurer, she would create tiny, flimsy vignettes of sin in advance, tie them together like a string of colourful cried upon 'kerchiefs, produce them from her sleeve for the entertainment of her one man audience.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Monday, 14 May 2012
One Sentence Stories, Estrangement.
Every encounter with her felt like a masquerade ball, wearing his "just good friends" mask, a whirl of dancing and music obscuring her true face from him.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Raymond Carver On Change.
“And certain things around us will change, become easier or harder, one thing or the other, but nothing will ever really be any different. I believe that. We have made our decisions, our lives have been set in motion, and they will go on and on until they stop. But if that is true, then what? I mean, what if you believe that, but you keep it covered up, until one day something happens that should change something, but then you see nothing is going to change after all. What then? Meanwhile, the people around you continue to talk and act as if you were the same person as yesterday, or last night, or five minutes before, but you are really undergoing a crisis, your heart feels damaged…”
Raymond Carver, Short Cuts: Selected Stories.
The kindest thing we can do in this world is listen to other people, really listen.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Raymond Carver, Short Cuts: Selected Stories.
The kindest thing we can do in this world is listen to other people, really listen.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Woody Guthrie On The Columbia River.
"Other great rivers add power to you
Yakima, Snake, and the Klickitat, too
Sandy, Willamette and Hood River too
So roll on, Columbia, roll on."
Woody Guthrie, "Roll on Columbia" (1941).
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Yakima, Snake, and the Klickitat, too
Sandy, Willamette and Hood River too
So roll on, Columbia, roll on."
Woody Guthrie, "Roll on Columbia" (1941).
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Portland Oregon, One More Time With Feeling.
So I just blew every dollar I own on yet another jaunt to Portland Oregon. What else is money for? To keep in the bank for when I'm old? People like me don't get old.
By the end of a Melbourne winter I'll be owed a northern hemisphere summer, just a month, enough to warm my heart and soul. That's what Portland does for me, restores my balance, my feeling that every little thing is gonna' be alright. People ask me why? I can't explain it. If I think about it too much the magic will disappear, the place performs a trick on me, I don't want to know how it does it and ruin the illusion.
All people have affinities, they are all different. Some are attracted to dogs, to sex, to art, to everything that exists in the world. I have an affinity with Portland, a place, it welcomes me like the arms of a lover. A more honest lover than I've ever known.
I firmly believe that being happy relies on recognising what we like, what we want, then making those things happen. Over the last six months I've met too many people who are waiting to see what comes to their table next, never taking a bite off and chewing it up. Having spent the last ten years amongst folks who know themselves, their desires and passions, I have felt lost dealing with this middle class despair. I never know what to say or do, I just don't get it. There is so much beauty and wonder out there, so little time, we simply must find what works for us and make it happen, we must!
So I'll return broke, but not destitute. I can play on the street wherever I go, always find a way, a scam, a new method. I can always make more money. If I continue doing what I love I'll never grow old, so what else is money for?
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
By the end of a Melbourne winter I'll be owed a northern hemisphere summer, just a month, enough to warm my heart and soul. That's what Portland does for me, restores my balance, my feeling that every little thing is gonna' be alright. People ask me why? I can't explain it. If I think about it too much the magic will disappear, the place performs a trick on me, I don't want to know how it does it and ruin the illusion.
All people have affinities, they are all different. Some are attracted to dogs, to sex, to art, to everything that exists in the world. I have an affinity with Portland, a place, it welcomes me like the arms of a lover. A more honest lover than I've ever known.
I firmly believe that being happy relies on recognising what we like, what we want, then making those things happen. Over the last six months I've met too many people who are waiting to see what comes to their table next, never taking a bite off and chewing it up. Having spent the last ten years amongst folks who know themselves, their desires and passions, I have felt lost dealing with this middle class despair. I never know what to say or do, I just don't get it. There is so much beauty and wonder out there, so little time, we simply must find what works for us and make it happen, we must!
So I'll return broke, but not destitute. I can play on the street wherever I go, always find a way, a scam, a new method. I can always make more money. If I continue doing what I love I'll never grow old, so what else is money for?
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Money And Time.
We can always make more money, we can't make more time.
Live, love, now.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Live, love, now.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Sunday, 13 May 2012
Richard Brautigan On Tell Me About Your Childhood.
“I'm haunted a little this evening by feelings that have no vocabulary and events that should be explained in dimensions of lint rather than words.
I've been examining half-scraps of my childhood. They are pieces of distant life that have no form or meaning. They are things that just happened, like lint.”
Richard Brautigan.
Beautiful, sad man, of all the writers I have read why do you appeal to me, speak to me? Is it your horrendous honesty, pure expression of sadness?
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I've been examining half-scraps of my childhood. They are pieces of distant life that have no form or meaning. They are things that just happened, like lint.”
Richard Brautigan.
Beautiful, sad man, of all the writers I have read why do you appeal to me, speak to me? Is it your horrendous honesty, pure expression of sadness?
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The Lush Club.
They called it The Lush Club, it wasn't a nickname, that was really what they called it. The name left no doubt that the purpose of this club was drinking, heavy drinking.
They hired the back room of a returned servicemen's club every Wednesday night, opened late, served booze until dawn. The room filled with like minded late night demons, thirsty thirsty, demons, waiters, nurses, musicians, anyone who worked nights and needed, not just wanted a drink. There was no entertainment, no food, just booze, and lots of it.
Throughout the night the pretty, prettier by the minute, barmaid would circle the room selling lottery tickets, one dollar a piece. The prize was free booze the next week, drink anything behind the bar and as much as you could manage, or mismanage. She would take some unfortunate, slobbering, lurching man or woman by the hand, draw them to the centre of the room, announce that this was last weeks winner, and for just one dollar this could be you, Lush Of The Week! A resounding hurrah would let forth, pockets would be scoured for dollar coins, "bugger it, I'll take five".
I was a member of The Lush Club. I look back and wonder why? It was hilarious, self destructive fun, I can't imagine doing it now. I know guys my age who still drink like that, I knew guys who never reached my age by attempting to continue drinking like that. It was all a fabulous exercise in futility, fun while it lasted, perhaps just angsty young men poking fun at the futility of life?
Do I feel that life is any less futile now? Probably not. I stopped drinking so I could stop hurting other people, the people who loved me. As it turns out I'm pretty good at hurting the people who love me without the booze, but at least I know when I'm doing it now. A belated apology is probably the main difference. I don't think it matters what you do, what habits you assume, your true character, or lack thereof, will out itself somehow.
I'm glad I had the crazy years, I walked past the site of Lush this morning and smiled fondly. The crazy in all of us needs expression, just as the rational does. I don't think I've found a satisfactory way to express the crazy since, that a lot of it is still on the shelf waiting to come out. Let the crazy shine people, it is part of you!
So I take my morning coffee, recollections of past glories and disgraces fresh in my mind, recent foolishness even fresher, I wonder what has changed?
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
They hired the back room of a returned servicemen's club every Wednesday night, opened late, served booze until dawn. The room filled with like minded late night demons, thirsty thirsty, demons, waiters, nurses, musicians, anyone who worked nights and needed, not just wanted a drink. There was no entertainment, no food, just booze, and lots of it.
Throughout the night the pretty, prettier by the minute, barmaid would circle the room selling lottery tickets, one dollar a piece. The prize was free booze the next week, drink anything behind the bar and as much as you could manage, or mismanage. She would take some unfortunate, slobbering, lurching man or woman by the hand, draw them to the centre of the room, announce that this was last weeks winner, and for just one dollar this could be you, Lush Of The Week! A resounding hurrah would let forth, pockets would be scoured for dollar coins, "bugger it, I'll take five".
I was a member of The Lush Club. I look back and wonder why? It was hilarious, self destructive fun, I can't imagine doing it now. I know guys my age who still drink like that, I knew guys who never reached my age by attempting to continue drinking like that. It was all a fabulous exercise in futility, fun while it lasted, perhaps just angsty young men poking fun at the futility of life?
Do I feel that life is any less futile now? Probably not. I stopped drinking so I could stop hurting other people, the people who loved me. As it turns out I'm pretty good at hurting the people who love me without the booze, but at least I know when I'm doing it now. A belated apology is probably the main difference. I don't think it matters what you do, what habits you assume, your true character, or lack thereof, will out itself somehow.
I'm glad I had the crazy years, I walked past the site of Lush this morning and smiled fondly. The crazy in all of us needs expression, just as the rational does. I don't think I've found a satisfactory way to express the crazy since, that a lot of it is still on the shelf waiting to come out. Let the crazy shine people, it is part of you!
So I take my morning coffee, recollections of past glories and disgraces fresh in my mind, recent foolishness even fresher, I wonder what has changed?
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Saturday, 12 May 2012
One Sentence Stories, Shoosh.
Her loud, insistent Shoosh is more abrasive and intrusive than his over excited voice, soon she will be alone in her bed, saying Shoosh to her cat, wondering why?
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Kurt Vonnegut On Art.
“If you really want to hurt your parents, and you don't have the nerve to be gay, the least you can do is go into the arts. I'm not kidding. The arts are not a way to make a living. They are a very human way to make life more bearable.”
Kurt Vonnegut, A Man Without A Country.
I've made my living in the arts, just. After all these years I count it as a glorious victory that I don't owe anyone or anything. My mother still worries.
I'm at a point when my age makes me unemployable in my old field of being a freelance player, it's taken me a while to realise this. There are, of course, younger, more gorgeous people to take up those gigs, of course there are. Now I need to find a new living, play music simply for the art of it. It is a feeling of freedom. I still haven't worked out the new way to earn a living, but I will.
To make art simply because I want to, I must, is a form of acceptance, perhaps wisdom. Who knows, perhaps I'll do better than just making a living because of it, the freedom might just pay off?
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Kurt Vonnegut On Getting A Grip.
“Those who believe in telekinetics, raise my hand.”
Kurt Vonnegut.
Always funny, in his darkest moments.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Kurt Vonnegut.
Always funny, in his darkest moments.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Grateful And Loving.
How ever many centimetres there are in five feet, that's how many centimetres tall she was. I believe she may have been fibbing a little, possibly one or two inches, but a girl that perfectly proportioned can lie about anything and get away with it.
On the odd Sunday I was awake before her I would slip out the back of our building, down the bluestone cobbled lane, pick up two croissant, carry them home like they were victory itself. I'd always hope to find her, tiny in comparison to her bed, still curled up, her hair sprayed across her pillow, dreamy and naked and wonderful, but she would always be up, her first mug of tea on the boil. She was philosophically opposed to eating in bed, especially flaky croissant, we never did agree on some things.
In track pants and sweater she was an angel. Still sleepy, in need of hugs and the warmth of the three bar radiator. On giant pillows we'd snuggle in front of the tiny heater, never big enough for me, plenty for her. As I hit the shower I'd hear the vacuum cleaner disposing of the memory of my selfless run to the shop, the croissant flakes were history. I'd smoke as she prepared herself, remember to empty my ashtray, before she could.
We'd wander, hand in hand, find coffee at Leo's, listen to George's lewd jokes about our sex life, I wasn't the only one who adored her little being.
Then the day would begin, her insistence on carrying the big bag to the laundromat, as big as herself. Lunch, shopping, endless chatting about nothing and everything.
A lazy afternoon, dinner, a walk, perhaps late coffee, then back to our bed, her bed, the fragility of her weight on my chest, a warm, perfect intimacy, and still the talk, the week to come, the life to come.
Those rare days when I got it right, started the day on the right foot, thought of her first thing in the morning and acted on that thought.
Today I visited that shop, a groovy cafe now, walked the back lane past our old place. It suddenly occurred to me how tiny she was, the mighty presence that emanated from that wonderful little body, how rarely I truly cared for her, the occasional Sunday when I awoke before her.
I'm glad I got it right a few times, can hold onto those memories, can imagine all five feet of her pressed against me, grateful and loving.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
On the odd Sunday I was awake before her I would slip out the back of our building, down the bluestone cobbled lane, pick up two croissant, carry them home like they were victory itself. I'd always hope to find her, tiny in comparison to her bed, still curled up, her hair sprayed across her pillow, dreamy and naked and wonderful, but she would always be up, her first mug of tea on the boil. She was philosophically opposed to eating in bed, especially flaky croissant, we never did agree on some things.
In track pants and sweater she was an angel. Still sleepy, in need of hugs and the warmth of the three bar radiator. On giant pillows we'd snuggle in front of the tiny heater, never big enough for me, plenty for her. As I hit the shower I'd hear the vacuum cleaner disposing of the memory of my selfless run to the shop, the croissant flakes were history. I'd smoke as she prepared herself, remember to empty my ashtray, before she could.
We'd wander, hand in hand, find coffee at Leo's, listen to George's lewd jokes about our sex life, I wasn't the only one who adored her little being.
Then the day would begin, her insistence on carrying the big bag to the laundromat, as big as herself. Lunch, shopping, endless chatting about nothing and everything.
A lazy afternoon, dinner, a walk, perhaps late coffee, then back to our bed, her bed, the fragility of her weight on my chest, a warm, perfect intimacy, and still the talk, the week to come, the life to come.
Those rare days when I got it right, started the day on the right foot, thought of her first thing in the morning and acted on that thought.
Today I visited that shop, a groovy cafe now, walked the back lane past our old place. It suddenly occurred to me how tiny she was, the mighty presence that emanated from that wonderful little body, how rarely I truly cared for her, the occasional Sunday when I awoke before her.
I'm glad I got it right a few times, can hold onto those memories, can imagine all five feet of her pressed against me, grateful and loving.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Tao And Me.
I struggle with the Tao. Greater scholars than I have tried to explain it, discuss it, I'm not about to try. This is in the tradition of the kentparkstreetblog, we avoid research and difficult things at all costs.
The idea of pursuing art for no other reason than it is in me sounds wonderful, my culture and my business tell me to seek fame, hence the struggle. The idea of romantic love being two souls drifting together, like two white clouds on a perfect blue sky, sits well with me, then I feel I should be a real man and be able to offer wealth and status to my woman. My natural inclination and the place and time I live in are in constant conflict.
The Tao tells me that to live purely, sincerely, authentically, is all I have to do, flow with my own nature. I can see the loneliness this will lead to. Being unsuccessful in my culture is to be outcast, there is no understanding of other ideals. Watching the light change over the bay is considered doing nothing, writing without financial return is seen as doing nothing, playing music for the joy of it is seen as doing nothing. Doing nothing is seen as bad.
My desires are of my culture. Are they really? Do I really want all the things I say I want? Perhaps I say I want things because I feel I should, not because I really do? When I take the time to think and feel I know that all I really want is to express myself with words and music, to lie beside the woman I love, nothing more. When I strip it back to this simplicity it all seems so . . . simple.
This struggle has gone on long enough, must be resolved. I've often advised struggling friends, and strangers, to ignore the ignorant, seek out company that is sympathetic to their pursuits, let the culture roll on, influence it for the good when they can.
It is time to take my own advice, to end this struggle between the Tao, dharma, and me, to be myself.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
The idea of pursuing art for no other reason than it is in me sounds wonderful, my culture and my business tell me to seek fame, hence the struggle. The idea of romantic love being two souls drifting together, like two white clouds on a perfect blue sky, sits well with me, then I feel I should be a real man and be able to offer wealth and status to my woman. My natural inclination and the place and time I live in are in constant conflict.
The Tao tells me that to live purely, sincerely, authentically, is all I have to do, flow with my own nature. I can see the loneliness this will lead to. Being unsuccessful in my culture is to be outcast, there is no understanding of other ideals. Watching the light change over the bay is considered doing nothing, writing without financial return is seen as doing nothing, playing music for the joy of it is seen as doing nothing. Doing nothing is seen as bad.
My desires are of my culture. Are they really? Do I really want all the things I say I want? Perhaps I say I want things because I feel I should, not because I really do? When I take the time to think and feel I know that all I really want is to express myself with words and music, to lie beside the woman I love, nothing more. When I strip it back to this simplicity it all seems so . . . simple.
This struggle has gone on long enough, must be resolved. I've often advised struggling friends, and strangers, to ignore the ignorant, seek out company that is sympathetic to their pursuits, let the culture roll on, influence it for the good when they can.
It is time to take my own advice, to end this struggle between the Tao, dharma, and me, to be myself.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Friday, 11 May 2012
Presentation.
My tea ceremony involves boiling water in a pot on my stove, placing a pinch of jasmine tea into a mug, pouring the just off the boil water into that mug. It's not a very elaborate ceremony.
I was recently given a fine bone china tea mug. If anyone can explain to me why my tea tastes better when drunk from that mug I'd to hear that explanation. The same preparation, the same tea leaves, different mug, better flavour, so it's all in my mind, right?
Every sensual experience occurs in our minds. How we perceive an experience is how it is. An elaborate tea ceremony changes tea from a beverage into an experience, we are conscious of the change in our perception, aware that the beauty of the presentation alters our reception of a simple beverage we can make at home any time.
No experience is better or worse than any other experience, the way I make my tea is no better or worse than when the same drink is made by a Japanese beauty with all the ritual and tradition of an ancient culture. What is better? What is worse?Yet the taking of time to create a beautiful experience feels better, seems better to us, the experience is more satisfying to us. Even drinking my tea from a beautiful mug makes the experience feel better. I don't pretend to understand this feeling of "betterness", I am just aware of it.
I notice it in every field of human pleasure. Sex in a beautiful atmosphere, emotionally and physically, feels like better sex. Music presented in a beautiful way sounds better than the same music played without care about the presentation. A plate where the food has been well considered, arrayed beautifully, even smells better than the same ingredients dumped carelessly on the same plate. A sympathetically framed painting attracts our eyes. Are we shallow for being sucked in by presentation, or is presentation an artistic expression in itself?
Perhaps there is a truth in beautiful presentation? We all respond to truth, if we like it or not. When someone takes the time to present an experience beautifully for us we feel respected and loved, there is no greater truth than that. A girl dressed up for a date, a lover lighting candles, serving a guest with the good china, turning down the sheets in the guest room, checking the spelling in a blog post, shining shoes for a funeral, these actions carry the truth of respect and love. Perhaps beautiful presentation is the action associated with respect and love?
I only make tea for myself at home, hence the thoughtless preparation. This new tea mug has made me think. Even though I don't know why thoughtful preparation, beautiful presentation make a difference to the quality of an experience, I do know that they do. I don't need to know why. From now on I will make my tea with more thought, create a small ceremony, give myself the respect and love I would give another.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I was recently given a fine bone china tea mug. If anyone can explain to me why my tea tastes better when drunk from that mug I'd to hear that explanation. The same preparation, the same tea leaves, different mug, better flavour, so it's all in my mind, right?
Every sensual experience occurs in our minds. How we perceive an experience is how it is. An elaborate tea ceremony changes tea from a beverage into an experience, we are conscious of the change in our perception, aware that the beauty of the presentation alters our reception of a simple beverage we can make at home any time.
No experience is better or worse than any other experience, the way I make my tea is no better or worse than when the same drink is made by a Japanese beauty with all the ritual and tradition of an ancient culture. What is better? What is worse?Yet the taking of time to create a beautiful experience feels better, seems better to us, the experience is more satisfying to us. Even drinking my tea from a beautiful mug makes the experience feel better. I don't pretend to understand this feeling of "betterness", I am just aware of it.
I notice it in every field of human pleasure. Sex in a beautiful atmosphere, emotionally and physically, feels like better sex. Music presented in a beautiful way sounds better than the same music played without care about the presentation. A plate where the food has been well considered, arrayed beautifully, even smells better than the same ingredients dumped carelessly on the same plate. A sympathetically framed painting attracts our eyes. Are we shallow for being sucked in by presentation, or is presentation an artistic expression in itself?
Perhaps there is a truth in beautiful presentation? We all respond to truth, if we like it or not. When someone takes the time to present an experience beautifully for us we feel respected and loved, there is no greater truth than that. A girl dressed up for a date, a lover lighting candles, serving a guest with the good china, turning down the sheets in the guest room, checking the spelling in a blog post, shining shoes for a funeral, these actions carry the truth of respect and love. Perhaps beautiful presentation is the action associated with respect and love?
I only make tea for myself at home, hence the thoughtless preparation. This new tea mug has made me think. Even though I don't know why thoughtful preparation, beautiful presentation make a difference to the quality of an experience, I do know that they do. I don't need to know why. From now on I will make my tea with more thought, create a small ceremony, give myself the respect and love I would give another.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Kurt Vonnegut On Authenticity.
"We must be careful about what we pretend to be."
Kurt Vonnegut.
It starts as a bit of fun, imitating the local accent when abroad, then becomes a habit, until you come home with an accent that sounds false and pretentious.
We all pretend to be something or someone. Eventually we become what we were just pretending to be. Perhaps we should pretend to be ourselves, become ourselves.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Kurt Vonnegut.
It starts as a bit of fun, imitating the local accent when abroad, then becomes a habit, until you come home with an accent that sounds false and pretentious.
We all pretend to be something or someone. Eventually we become what we were just pretending to be. Perhaps we should pretend to be ourselves, become ourselves.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Men Talking Over Coffee.
Nearly every civilized culture contains a tradition of men talking over coffee. Men of a certain age, they've done their bar hopping and bed hopping, rainbow end chasing, they know the score. They just want the truth of sincere conversation, that's plenty.
These men have known disappointment but they aren't disappointed, have known loss but they aren't lost. Their talk is of the future, what is going to happen next? Old enough to know death in all it's forms they are unafraid, have made choices about how they want to spend their time, they know life.
The conversation is subtle, the delicate touch of the strong, spirits are lifted gently, empathy not pity. From the next table it may seem that only half the conversation is being spoken, only half the conversation is spoken, common experience says the rest.
This talking over coffee is a masculine event, these men have loved women, will love women again, choose to talk with men. Is this sexist? Damn right it is. The decision to talk over coffee with men is sexist in every sense of the word, without apology.
Tales, questions, ideas, jokes, hopes, dreams, whimsy, worries, talked out quietly over coffee. I'm alone in this city and I sorely miss the civilized tradition of men talking over coffee.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
These men have known disappointment but they aren't disappointed, have known loss but they aren't lost. Their talk is of the future, what is going to happen next? Old enough to know death in all it's forms they are unafraid, have made choices about how they want to spend their time, they know life.
The conversation is subtle, the delicate touch of the strong, spirits are lifted gently, empathy not pity. From the next table it may seem that only half the conversation is being spoken, only half the conversation is spoken, common experience says the rest.
This talking over coffee is a masculine event, these men have loved women, will love women again, choose to talk with men. Is this sexist? Damn right it is. The decision to talk over coffee with men is sexist in every sense of the word, without apology.
Tales, questions, ideas, jokes, hopes, dreams, whimsy, worries, talked out quietly over coffee. I'm alone in this city and I sorely miss the civilized tradition of men talking over coffee.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One Sentence Stories, Self Fulfilling Prophecy.
No, I really was just going down the road for a pack of cigarettes, but if you are going to cry like that every time I leave the house . . .
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Letting Go.
The string attached to his beautiful kite burns and cuts his fingers, the wind of the world is too powerful, the kite yearns to be free.
He lets go, watches the kite disappear over the horizon.
His fingers will heal. He already misses the pain, the last of her.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
He lets go, watches the kite disappear over the horizon.
His fingers will heal. He already misses the pain, the last of her.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Kurt Vonnegut On Seeing God.
"She was a fool, and so am I, and so is anyone who thinks he sees what God is doing."
Kurt Vonnegut, Cat's Cradle.
Some days Mr. Vonnegut speaks to me.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Kurt Vonnegut, Cat's Cradle.
Some days Mr. Vonnegut speaks to me.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Thursday, 10 May 2012
The Same Blue Green Yonder.
We all cram into an improbable flying tube, sit and daydream of the weeks to come. Some are confused and bewildered, so many pieces of paper and an officious human to inspect each one, have we forgotten anything? Others are preparing for sleep as soon as they sit. Very few feel blessed to live in such an age. In the time it once took my grandfather to ride a horse to the next town we will be landing on another continent, having crossed an ocean.
I don't like LAX. No one likes LAX. LAX doesn't even like itself. Eventually I will get out of there, waving prolonged goodbyes to the children I've collected in the past fourteen hours. Children think I look funny so they talk to me. I won't look funny in L.A., I'm the normal guy in that town.
One night of ridiculous luxury, a posh hotel, a long sleep interrupted by a room service burger and fries. Back to LAX, onto a smaller flying tube, land at PDX. Everyone loves PDX, it's the friendliest airport on Earth. I'm out of there in a minute, to the white outlined smoking area, then onto MAX, the easiest light rail system in the world, and the cheapest, they don't slug me with tourist prices in Portland. Onto a local bus, chances are I'll get that driver who always tells me his Missy Higgins story. I hope so, I love that story, even after the third telling.
My room won't be ready, I'll flop into an uncomfortable chair on the patio at Tiny's Coffeehouse, resume a year old conversation with Christian, drink too much coffee, smoke too much, feel ecstatic. Eventually I will drop my belongings on the floor of my favourite guesthouse, where Bill doesn't slug me with tourist prices. I'll sleep, respond to the inquiries about landing safely, sleep, head out to The Jolly Roger Pub, revel in the sight of the coolest blue jeans bar chicks on the planet, eat something, go back to my room to sleep.
The next morning I will wake up in Portland Oregon and everything will be cool. I'll buy cigarettes from the same guys at the gas station, order my odd morning sandwich at Tiny's even though they will remember, I'll greet and meet some old and new faces in South East Portland. I'll write something about how happy I am, drink too much coffee, smoke too many cigarettes, hang out. I'll find out where the playing is that night, work out how to get there, get on with the work of remembering lines for my new show, take my flute out and play with all the wonderful people.
I'll repeat this day thirty times over, until it is time to board another flying tube and return to real life.
I just can't wait. It's all so improbable, financially impossible, just about to be booked and paid for. I'm very excited. My second home, probably my real home, is only a month away.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I don't like LAX. No one likes LAX. LAX doesn't even like itself. Eventually I will get out of there, waving prolonged goodbyes to the children I've collected in the past fourteen hours. Children think I look funny so they talk to me. I won't look funny in L.A., I'm the normal guy in that town.
One night of ridiculous luxury, a posh hotel, a long sleep interrupted by a room service burger and fries. Back to LAX, onto a smaller flying tube, land at PDX. Everyone loves PDX, it's the friendliest airport on Earth. I'm out of there in a minute, to the white outlined smoking area, then onto MAX, the easiest light rail system in the world, and the cheapest, they don't slug me with tourist prices in Portland. Onto a local bus, chances are I'll get that driver who always tells me his Missy Higgins story. I hope so, I love that story, even after the third telling.
My room won't be ready, I'll flop into an uncomfortable chair on the patio at Tiny's Coffeehouse, resume a year old conversation with Christian, drink too much coffee, smoke too much, feel ecstatic. Eventually I will drop my belongings on the floor of my favourite guesthouse, where Bill doesn't slug me with tourist prices. I'll sleep, respond to the inquiries about landing safely, sleep, head out to The Jolly Roger Pub, revel in the sight of the coolest blue jeans bar chicks on the planet, eat something, go back to my room to sleep.
The next morning I will wake up in Portland Oregon and everything will be cool. I'll buy cigarettes from the same guys at the gas station, order my odd morning sandwich at Tiny's even though they will remember, I'll greet and meet some old and new faces in South East Portland. I'll write something about how happy I am, drink too much coffee, smoke too many cigarettes, hang out. I'll find out where the playing is that night, work out how to get there, get on with the work of remembering lines for my new show, take my flute out and play with all the wonderful people.
I'll repeat this day thirty times over, until it is time to board another flying tube and return to real life.
I just can't wait. It's all so improbable, financially impossible, just about to be booked and paid for. I'm very excited. My second home, probably my real home, is only a month away.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Wednesday, 9 May 2012
Classic Novels.
The fundamental themes never seem to change, ambition, love, loss, life, death. I'm going through a phase of catching up with some classic novels, most of them at least one hundred years old, most of them still profound and current because the humans reading them haven't changed so much.
I'm listening to these books in audio book form, broadcast from a tiny iPad, downloaded from somewhere in the world, who knows where? I doubt the authors ever imagined their work would be consumed this way, how could they have imagined it? I'm sure they'd be delighted, imagine if the work you poured your heart and soul into survived one hundred years, delivered understanding, provoked thought all those years later. So the technology changes, my life would seem foreign and strange to the authors, yet the ideas, the truth of the writing remain sound.
Today most people read for light relief from their busy lives or for instruction, the novel, the great, literary novel, is dying. Who has time to read and think? It's one or the other for most, many do neither. Self help books that think for us are very popular, pretty books too, a handful of celebrity trash novelists are enough to cover the reading needs of the Oprah generation.
The great novels are great for a reason, they address the fundamental existential drama of our lives. They remind us that we are not alone, that everyone feels what we feel at some time even if they don't talk about it. Great novels give us the safety of distance, we can consider our own thoughts without the confusion of our own screwed up emotions, the characters appeal just enough that we care, become involved.
We all believe we have a novel in us. It is unlikely we do. Do we all have a concerto or a painting in us? The novel is the result of years of observation, thought, hard work. It also takes a bucket load of talent. This generation has been lead to believe we can do anything we want to do, it ain't so. Most of us will read, not write novels.
Hemingway said that all you need is one true sentence. I believe that elusive true sentence comes from knowing one's own truth and believing in it. The classic novels I'm reading right now are reminding me that knowing my own truth and believing in it is essential to producing any valuable work. The fundamental themes don't change.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I'm listening to these books in audio book form, broadcast from a tiny iPad, downloaded from somewhere in the world, who knows where? I doubt the authors ever imagined their work would be consumed this way, how could they have imagined it? I'm sure they'd be delighted, imagine if the work you poured your heart and soul into survived one hundred years, delivered understanding, provoked thought all those years later. So the technology changes, my life would seem foreign and strange to the authors, yet the ideas, the truth of the writing remain sound.
Today most people read for light relief from their busy lives or for instruction, the novel, the great, literary novel, is dying. Who has time to read and think? It's one or the other for most, many do neither. Self help books that think for us are very popular, pretty books too, a handful of celebrity trash novelists are enough to cover the reading needs of the Oprah generation.
The great novels are great for a reason, they address the fundamental existential drama of our lives. They remind us that we are not alone, that everyone feels what we feel at some time even if they don't talk about it. Great novels give us the safety of distance, we can consider our own thoughts without the confusion of our own screwed up emotions, the characters appeal just enough that we care, become involved.
We all believe we have a novel in us. It is unlikely we do. Do we all have a concerto or a painting in us? The novel is the result of years of observation, thought, hard work. It also takes a bucket load of talent. This generation has been lead to believe we can do anything we want to do, it ain't so. Most of us will read, not write novels.
Hemingway said that all you need is one true sentence. I believe that elusive true sentence comes from knowing one's own truth and believing in it. The classic novels I'm reading right now are reminding me that knowing my own truth and believing in it is essential to producing any valuable work. The fundamental themes don't change.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Thomas Hardy On Failure.
“Remember that the best and greatest among mankind are those who do themselves no worldly good. Every successful man is more or less a selfish man. The devoted fail...”
Thomas Hardy, Jude the Obscure.
One for all my devoted failure brothers and sisters, I love you all.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Thomas Hardy, Jude the Obscure.
One for all my devoted failure brothers and sisters, I love you all.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Fallen Leaves Love.
The fallen leaves beneath my feet are the murmur of I love you, disguised by the nervous rustle of bed sheets. A fragile whisper, a doubtful declaration. Will it be returned? Will it wither, become the dust of a passing season?
An equally timid response, I love you.
The fallen leaves beneath my feet are an old love, a recollection that won't pass with the seasons.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
An equally timid response, I love you.
The fallen leaves beneath my feet are an old love, a recollection that won't pass with the seasons.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Tuesday, 8 May 2012
Thomas Hardy On Truth.
“I know women are taught by other women that they must never admit the full truth to a man. But the highest form of affection is based on full sincerity on both sides. Not being men, these women don't know that in looking back on those he has had tender relations with, a man's heart returns closest to her who was the soul of truth in her conduct. The better class of man, even if caught by airy affectations of dodging and parrying, is not retained by them. A Nemesis attends the woman who plays the game of elusiveness too often, in the utter contempt for her that, sooner or later, her old admirers feel; under which they allow her to go unlamented to her grave.”
Thomas Hardy.
Wow! And all in one paragraph.
When this was written it may have seemed revolutionary. Today, post feminism, it should be old news, but it ain't.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Thomas Hardy.
Wow! And all in one paragraph.
When this was written it may have seemed revolutionary. Today, post feminism, it should be old news, but it ain't.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Time Well Spent.
How long do you plan to live? How many years left on that plan, assuming all goes to plan? How do you plan to spend that remaining time?
I plan to top myself the day my brain ceases being a useful tool, hopefully in about three hundred years from now. Realistically I have around forty years, give or take. I certainly don't want to spend all that time thinking about how I want to spend that time, but it's worth considering, at least for an hour or so.
I'm a simple fellow. My list includes writing, playing music, travelling, hanging out with cool people, loving a beautiful woman, eating great food, drinking great coffee. That's all I've got.
I'm listening to a fellow at the cafe next to the one I'm at. He has bitched about everything since he sat down, "is it table service or not? I'm not psychic you know", blah blah blah. It seems habitual, his friends brush it off. He is like an amplified, more annoying version of the voice inside my head on my down days. He is unaware that he is spending his precious time being outraged, an impotent fighting cock surrounded by indifference to his squawking.
I wonder if he has stopped to think how he wants to spend his life? I'm certain he hasn't. Should I go and ask him? I feel I should. Someone should. Perhaps his parents should have, his teachers, his friends should now, someone should ask him.
We should all ask ourselves. No weirdo is going to walk up to you on the street and ask you, not even this weirdo.
How do you want to spend your remaining time in this life?
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
I plan to top myself the day my brain ceases being a useful tool, hopefully in about three hundred years from now. Realistically I have around forty years, give or take. I certainly don't want to spend all that time thinking about how I want to spend that time, but it's worth considering, at least for an hour or so.
I'm a simple fellow. My list includes writing, playing music, travelling, hanging out with cool people, loving a beautiful woman, eating great food, drinking great coffee. That's all I've got.
I'm listening to a fellow at the cafe next to the one I'm at. He has bitched about everything since he sat down, "is it table service or not? I'm not psychic you know", blah blah blah. It seems habitual, his friends brush it off. He is like an amplified, more annoying version of the voice inside my head on my down days. He is unaware that he is spending his precious time being outraged, an impotent fighting cock surrounded by indifference to his squawking.
I wonder if he has stopped to think how he wants to spend his life? I'm certain he hasn't. Should I go and ask him? I feel I should. Someone should. Perhaps his parents should have, his teachers, his friends should now, someone should ask him.
We should all ask ourselves. No weirdo is going to walk up to you on the street and ask you, not even this weirdo.
How do you want to spend your remaining time in this life?
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One Sentence Stories, Ignorance.
Ms. Tythe-Tarrington had heard about poverty, edged past the busker avoiding eye contact just in case poverty could be transmitted that way, what good would one coin from her do him anyway?
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Monday, 7 May 2012
Pedestrian Crossing Blues.
He looks at the DON'T WALK sign, sees his life. Go or stop, black or white, she is wonderful or heartless. He considers breaking the habit, walking out into the traffic against the command of the sign, realises this is what he has been doing all his life, a reaction to his on/off switch mind. He has the scars to prove it.
He yearns for the shades of grey, finds them unsatisfying when he encounters them. Now or never, yes or no. He knows he only remembers the ups and downs, not the easy riding on the flat, wants to go back to her and ask her if any of that easy riding happened? He has thrown the switch, deleted her number, it's over.
He has always been this way, only recently known it. It explains everything. He knows there are times when WALK or DON'T WALK make sense, the traffic will run him down, other times when ambling, running, standing still, all the options are in play. There is a fair chance she was a DON'T WALK situation, wait until she has passed then proceed, he will never know. All he recalls is the good and bad, the satisfaction or rejection.
The WALK sign comes on. He walks. Thirty seconds at a pedestrian crossing, a new understanding. No solution as yet, but an understanding.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
He yearns for the shades of grey, finds them unsatisfying when he encounters them. Now or never, yes or no. He knows he only remembers the ups and downs, not the easy riding on the flat, wants to go back to her and ask her if any of that easy riding happened? He has thrown the switch, deleted her number, it's over.
He has always been this way, only recently known it. It explains everything. He knows there are times when WALK or DON'T WALK make sense, the traffic will run him down, other times when ambling, running, standing still, all the options are in play. There is a fair chance she was a DON'T WALK situation, wait until she has passed then proceed, he will never know. All he recalls is the good and bad, the satisfaction or rejection.
The WALK sign comes on. He walks. Thirty seconds at a pedestrian crossing, a new understanding. No solution as yet, but an understanding.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
J.D. Salinger On That Person.
“She wasn't doing a thing that I could see, except standing there, leaning on the balcony railing, holding the universe together.”
J.D. Salinger.
We all agree we should be happy in our own right, not reliant on other people. We all need someone else to hold it all together for us at some time, that person. When that person isn't there it is heartbreaking. When that person is there it is heartbreakingly beautiful.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
J.D. Salinger.
We all agree we should be happy in our own right, not reliant on other people. We all need someone else to hold it all together for us at some time, that person. When that person isn't there it is heartbreaking. When that person is there it is heartbreakingly beautiful.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Bless Coffee.
Walk to tram stop. Wait ten minutes, board tram. Ride tram for ten minutes, remember forgotten essential item, a credit card. Disembark tram, cross road, wait ten minutes, board tram. Disembark tram, walk home, collect credit card, walk back to tram stop. Wait ten minutes. Ride tram for ten minutes and realise that what would have taken less than ten minutes in a car has just taken an hour. Curse the day you were born. Realise you cursed the day you were born out loud, sit quietly on tram for further ten minutes, disembark tram. Walk to shop, be informed the item you required is no longer in stock, curse everyone and everything ever, silently. Walk to cafe, smiling waitress.
"You look like you need a coffee."
Coffee arrives, smile, bless everyone and everything ever.
And bless coffee.
Start the day over.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
"You look like you need a coffee."
Coffee arrives, smile, bless everyone and everything ever.
And bless coffee.
Start the day over.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Anticipation.
Many of the things we do each day are like hospital meals, they fill in some time, satisfy a need, not much else. They certainly don't inspire the joy of anticipation or fond recollection. We just do these things because they are there, it appears they have to be done, such is life.
Anticipation is one of the great joys of life. When I'm walking to a gig without that can't wait buzz I know I'll soon be leaving that band. The same is true when I'm on my way to meet a girl. When the anticipation of seeing her fills me I know I'm on a good thing, when it is a relationship that just fills in some time, satisfies a need, it is time to go.
There is an old trick. When you are dressing for dinner, or she is dressing for work, ask her, politely to wear some specific underwear you like. She will complain that it doesn't go with what she is wearing, but she will secretly like the idea. She will spend the night or day in anticipation, wondering what you have in mind for when you get undressed later, her most intimate attire will remind her constantly. You won't need to have anything in mind, by the time you get home she will throw you on the bed. Anticipation is one of the keys to sexual excitement. A warning for young players, this trick is to be deployed sparingly, it will lose it's spark, anticipation is a fickle bird.
Anticipation can't be faked, it is an honest feeling. Dentists know that no one looks forward to seeing them. Hookers know that all their clients are eager. It is sad when something that once excited us becomes tedious, inspiring anticipation becomes more difficult as the world becomes more weary of itself. There are tricks that will help but without the genuine feeling they are just tricks.
The happiest, most creative people I know are those who never lost their sense of wonder. Anticipation is that wondering what will happen next for grown ups. It relies on deep love for the person or the work, it also relies on constant reinvention, the wonder of the new. To inspire anticipation in others we need to continue evolving, growing, being wonderful in any way we know how. To be open to anticipation of people or events we have to see the world through fresh eyes each day, see her as a new woman every time she undresses, see the work as a new challenge every day.
There are realities in life. Big hospitals must keep costs down, do what they can with what they've got. A sprig of parsley garnish won't change those realities. Maintaining that feeling of anticipation for the people and work we love is essential, keeps us going through the dull bits that pass time, satisfy needs.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Anticipation is one of the great joys of life. When I'm walking to a gig without that can't wait buzz I know I'll soon be leaving that band. The same is true when I'm on my way to meet a girl. When the anticipation of seeing her fills me I know I'm on a good thing, when it is a relationship that just fills in some time, satisfies a need, it is time to go.
There is an old trick. When you are dressing for dinner, or she is dressing for work, ask her, politely to wear some specific underwear you like. She will complain that it doesn't go with what she is wearing, but she will secretly like the idea. She will spend the night or day in anticipation, wondering what you have in mind for when you get undressed later, her most intimate attire will remind her constantly. You won't need to have anything in mind, by the time you get home she will throw you on the bed. Anticipation is one of the keys to sexual excitement. A warning for young players, this trick is to be deployed sparingly, it will lose it's spark, anticipation is a fickle bird.
Anticipation can't be faked, it is an honest feeling. Dentists know that no one looks forward to seeing them. Hookers know that all their clients are eager. It is sad when something that once excited us becomes tedious, inspiring anticipation becomes more difficult as the world becomes more weary of itself. There are tricks that will help but without the genuine feeling they are just tricks.
The happiest, most creative people I know are those who never lost their sense of wonder. Anticipation is that wondering what will happen next for grown ups. It relies on deep love for the person or the work, it also relies on constant reinvention, the wonder of the new. To inspire anticipation in others we need to continue evolving, growing, being wonderful in any way we know how. To be open to anticipation of people or events we have to see the world through fresh eyes each day, see her as a new woman every time she undresses, see the work as a new challenge every day.
There are realities in life. Big hospitals must keep costs down, do what they can with what they've got. A sprig of parsley garnish won't change those realities. Maintaining that feeling of anticipation for the people and work we love is essential, keeps us going through the dull bits that pass time, satisfy needs.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Ernest Hemingway On The Good Die Young.
“If people bring so much courage to this world the world has to kill them to break them, so of course it kills them. The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.”
Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms.
We all know this is true but try not to think about it, or say it out loud.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms.
We all know this is true but try not to think about it, or say it out loud.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Sunday, 6 May 2012
Your Feedback Please.
So I'm interested in some feedback. I have an idea for a show, I'd like your honest opinion if it would appeal or not? Give it to me straight kids.
So the idea is to take some writing, much of it along the lines of the One Sentence Stories I've recently been posting here, present those stories live, with atmospheric solo flute tunes in between, an arty version of words and music. It would be a short show, possibly thirty minutes long. I'd include a couple of longer spoken pieces, mainly original flute tunes. I'd certainly make sure the spoken pieces were mostly funny, some a little shocking, a few terribly, terribly sad. The tunes would accompany the mood of each piece, allow time to digest.
This idea would require some acting on my behalf but I solemnly swear, not too much acting, a simple honest presentation.
This idea appeals to me, simplicity, sincerity, something authentically mine. It would be ideal to travel with. I have the flute skills to entertain with short pieces on my own, I believe the writing will stand up to performance. I know I would enjoy doing it.
The question is whether this show would have any appeal to the public? It wouldn't need huge audiences, having only to feed a cast of one. It could be performed anywhere from cafe to a concert hall, as part of a festival, or dinner and show, even as an opener to another show.
So how do you answer that question? Is it the sort of show you would attend? Or one you think would find an audience even if it isn't your cup of culture?
I'm genuinely curious, so let me have it, be brutal with me.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
So the idea is to take some writing, much of it along the lines of the One Sentence Stories I've recently been posting here, present those stories live, with atmospheric solo flute tunes in between, an arty version of words and music. It would be a short show, possibly thirty minutes long. I'd include a couple of longer spoken pieces, mainly original flute tunes. I'd certainly make sure the spoken pieces were mostly funny, some a little shocking, a few terribly, terribly sad. The tunes would accompany the mood of each piece, allow time to digest.
This idea would require some acting on my behalf but I solemnly swear, not too much acting, a simple honest presentation.
This idea appeals to me, simplicity, sincerity, something authentically mine. It would be ideal to travel with. I have the flute skills to entertain with short pieces on my own, I believe the writing will stand up to performance. I know I would enjoy doing it.
The question is whether this show would have any appeal to the public? It wouldn't need huge audiences, having only to feed a cast of one. It could be performed anywhere from cafe to a concert hall, as part of a festival, or dinner and show, even as an opener to another show.
So how do you answer that question? Is it the sort of show you would attend? Or one you think would find an audience even if it isn't your cup of culture?
I'm genuinely curious, so let me have it, be brutal with me.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One Sentence Stories, Sailing Away.
As the wind joyously fills his sails he looks at his fingertips and smiles, the sandpaper he employed to make his boat perfect has also destroyed his fingerprints, the man he was.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Old Flame.
For years it was an intense flame, he had to extinguish it, the light it threw blinded him to all others. He threw buckets of beer and wine on it, smothered it with work, took one last look at her and stood on the last dying ember, walked away.
Fifteen years later he found himself breathing the same air as her once again, deliberately or not he had allowed one tiny coal to remain warm, her breath reignited it, the intense flame returned as if it had never left.
Within months he found the flame needed to be extinguished again. A raging fire takes time to quell. He now holds the last, the final ember in his hands, it burns him but he doesn't want to put it down. He looks at it, a memory of beauty, wonders if he has the courage to throw it off the end of St. Kilda Pier, where all the ashes of his past lie? He knows he must before he can ignite a new fire, doubts any other flame will burn so beautifully.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Fifteen years later he found himself breathing the same air as her once again, deliberately or not he had allowed one tiny coal to remain warm, her breath reignited it, the intense flame returned as if it had never left.
Within months he found the flame needed to be extinguished again. A raging fire takes time to quell. He now holds the last, the final ember in his hands, it burns him but he doesn't want to put it down. He looks at it, a memory of beauty, wonders if he has the courage to throw it off the end of St. Kilda Pier, where all the ashes of his past lie? He knows he must before he can ignite a new fire, doubts any other flame will burn so beautifully.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Why Romantic Love?
Why romantic love?
Because there is one part of you that you only share with her, give to her as your commitment, because that part of you needs expressing as much as any other before you can feel real and truly alive.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Because there is one part of you that you only share with her, give to her as your commitment, because that part of you needs expressing as much as any other before you can feel real and truly alive.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Ernest Hemingway On Night.
“It is awfully easy to be hard-boiled about everything in the daytime, but at night it is another thing.”
Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises.
I recently made some vague attempts at living with the day time people, unsuccessfully. They are different to me. The night time people are overflowing with dreams and desires, ideas and emotions, I love them for it, every dysfunctional one of them.
Many of the day time people come and play at night occasionally. These are the times they remember, the great nights, when everything seemed possible and open.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises.
I recently made some vague attempts at living with the day time people, unsuccessfully. They are different to me. The night time people are overflowing with dreams and desires, ideas and emotions, I love them for it, every dysfunctional one of them.
Many of the day time people come and play at night occasionally. These are the times they remember, the great nights, when everything seemed possible and open.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
One Sentence Stories, Mistaken Identity.
What he thought was a magical light in her eyes turned out to be a reflection from the VACANCY neon of a cheap motel.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Saturday, 5 May 2012
Ernest Hemingway On Writing.
“My aim is to put down on paper what I see and what I feel in the best and simplest way.”
Ernest Hemingway.
So simple, eh? That's all I have to do. I believe I am about one quarter of the way there.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Ernest Hemingway.
So simple, eh? That's all I have to do. I believe I am about one quarter of the way there.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Thinking And Feeling Like A Man.
Us menfolk tend to place our thoughts and emotions into separate compartments, a different box for each field of endeavour, romance, family, work, friendship, leisure, they all get filed and addressed individually. Our brains operate like a series of terrorist cells, each with it's own mission, avoiding the trail of evidence that constant communication produces. There is a leader, a common aim, but all the day to day activity takes place in individual compartments, separate from each other.
Women tend to see the whole, every thought and emotion is linked to and influential on the other. Neither option is better than the other, although popular culture would have you believe the male way is lesser, less emotional, less caring. The male way allows complete dedication to the task at hand, without confusion or distraction, it can appear uncaring when it is just delaying caring about one thing while it deals with another. I would prefer my brain surgeon to be working this way, think about his messy divorce proceedings later.
This difference is not a straight line, some men see the whole more than others, some women employ compartments more than others. I tend more to the feminine approach than most men, don't employ me as your brain surgeon. I've recently had dealings with a woman who thinks more in the masculine, the usual relationship confusion was just the reverse to the usual.
The modern denial of all things male has lead men to feel ashamed of the way they think. There is no rule that says the female approach is better. When she wants to discuss your relationship and you are deep in work don't feel bad that your brain can't address her topic immediately. You aren't incompetent or uncaring, you will address that topic at a time and place that suits both of you, not just her. The romance agenda is managed solely by women, they set the timetable and expectations. Don't fall for it, we both have a say in this life.
Exploring both ways of thinking is fun, and educational, like a kids television show. One enhances the other. Any artist will tell you that both inform their work. Both genders can learn from each other, enhance one another, instead of fighting each other for the dominant role.
Us menfolk work well when we place our thoughts and emotions in compartments. Evolution gave us this method, it created civilization and culture. Be open to other ways, never ashamed of being a man, thinking and feeling like a man.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
Women tend to see the whole, every thought and emotion is linked to and influential on the other. Neither option is better than the other, although popular culture would have you believe the male way is lesser, less emotional, less caring. The male way allows complete dedication to the task at hand, without confusion or distraction, it can appear uncaring when it is just delaying caring about one thing while it deals with another. I would prefer my brain surgeon to be working this way, think about his messy divorce proceedings later.
This difference is not a straight line, some men see the whole more than others, some women employ compartments more than others. I tend more to the feminine approach than most men, don't employ me as your brain surgeon. I've recently had dealings with a woman who thinks more in the masculine, the usual relationship confusion was just the reverse to the usual.
The modern denial of all things male has lead men to feel ashamed of the way they think. There is no rule that says the female approach is better. When she wants to discuss your relationship and you are deep in work don't feel bad that your brain can't address her topic immediately. You aren't incompetent or uncaring, you will address that topic at a time and place that suits both of you, not just her. The romance agenda is managed solely by women, they set the timetable and expectations. Don't fall for it, we both have a say in this life.
Exploring both ways of thinking is fun, and educational, like a kids television show. One enhances the other. Any artist will tell you that both inform their work. Both genders can learn from each other, enhance one another, instead of fighting each other for the dominant role.
Us menfolk work well when we place our thoughts and emotions in compartments. Evolution gave us this method, it created civilization and culture. Be open to other ways, never ashamed of being a man, thinking and feeling like a man.
Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com
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