Me And Kandinsky.

Broad patches of colour bound together by obtuse detail, me and Kandinsky see the world in the same way, for different reasons.

Perception is all we have, all we are, interpretation our only freedom. The sense of sight, distorted, delivering a view that no one else sees. Eventually the effort of interpreting back to the normal feels too hard, better a Kandinsky view, the entire world a brilliant canvass, the master painting just for me.

Fall asleep and dream a Kandinsky reality, wake up and live the dream, dreams are never easily explained to others. To live it, play it, write it, forget the old reality, drift away from the known, what else to do?

Me and Kandinsky, a vast, beautiful work of life, that no one else can see.

Parkstreet.

Robert Anton Wilson On Freedom.

“But they can rule by fraud, and by fraud eventually acquire access to the tools they need to finish the job of killing off the Constitution.'

'What sort of tools?'

'More stringent security measures. Universal electronic surveillance. No-knock laws. Stop and frisk laws. Government inspection of first-class mail. Automatic fingerprinting, photographing, blood tests, and urinalysis of any person arrested before he is charged with a crime. A law making it unlawful to resist even unlawful arrest. Laws establishing detention camps for potential subversives. Gun control laws. Restrictions on travel. The assassinations, you see, establish the need for such laws in the public mind. Instead of realizing that there is a conspiracy, conducted by a handful of men, the people reason—or are manipulated into reasoning—that the entire population must have its freedom restricted in order to protect the leaders. The people agree that they themselves can't be trusted.”

Robert Anton Wilson, The Eye in the Pyramid.

The people agree that they themselves can't be trusted. A decade summed up in one sentence, well before that decade even began.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Idea Of Home.

A friend recently asked me what my idea of home is. I applied for an easier question, I have no idea any more.

After more than a decade living out of a bag in furnished accommodation home certainly isn't where my stuff is. Without children of my own, being single, home isn't centered around any other human. I know what home isn't., have no idea what home is for me.

I know places where I feel at home, I think that is slightly different. I feel at home on a stage, sitting at a pavement cafe, but they can be any stage, any cafe. Perhaps I have many homes? Is it possible I am that wealthy? To have homes all over the world is indeed a luxury. Yet I know it isn't the same thing.

Last year I thought I'd found a person to call home. I believe that is the real definition, one or more humans is what defines the place we feel restful and happy. I had that feeling on the streets of Kings Cross, Sydney, people I could call my own, and gave it up for an idea of a person who felt like a real home. I have a similar feeling in Portland Oregon, people I've come to know and love. I guess that is as close to knowing what the idea of home is to me as I'm going to get.

Perhaps some people are born nomads, carry their home on their backs? An instrument, an iPad, a bag of clothes, home. These wanderers have always existed, perhaps I'm one of them? Yet I find myself yearning for the idea of home, probably because everyone else has one, not because I really want it.

To find a fellow wanderer, another nomad who can carry her own life on her back, is that possible? Or a woman who will wait for me as I go and return? I thought I had found that person, that home. Perhaps she doesn't exist.

Whatever home is for me I still haven't found it.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Two Types Of People.

I love that old fashioned notion of dividing the world into two types of people. These imaginary divisions are almost always inaccurate, so here's mine.

There are two types of people, those who love what they do and those who love the idea of what they do.

In my business of music there are many who love the glamour and night life, the sex, the fun, the idea of what they do. Then there are the true believers, those who love the music more than life itself. They both speak the same words, the genuine lovers can tell the difference at a glance. It is the true lovers of music who create something real, the lovers of the idea imitate and profit.

In relationships I see those who love the person they are with and those who love the idea of the person they are with. The idea is often made up of physical attractiveness, wealth, status, the real love barely notices these things. For the lover who is just an idea life can be hell, the idea can disappear overnight, they know that without the image, the idea, the affair will be over, a sword of Damacles, a nervous life. The true lover can love confidently, without fear of loss.

I see this division in every occupation and way of life. The actor as opposed to the L.A. party goer, the soldier of honour as opposed to the man who loves a uniform, the philanthropist and the headline seeker, the traveller and the tourist.

The idea of something is seductive, all the shiny bits dazzle us, thrill us. We've all fallen for the idea of a person. Finding and doing what we truly love is often not so glamorous. It is certainly more satisfying.

I've recently been questioning which one of these two people I am, in love, in work. Perhaps I've been a mix of the two over the years? It's an arbitrary, inaccurate division, as they all are, but a question worth asking of myself.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Robert Anton Wilson On The Copenhagen Interpretation.

“The Copenhagen Interpretation is sometimes called "model agnosticism" and holds that any grid we use to organize our experience of the world is a model of the world and should not be confused with the world itself. Alfred Korzybski, the semanticist, tried to popularize this outside physics with the slogan, "The map is not the territory." Alan Watts, a talented exegete of Oriental philosophy, restated it more vividly as "The menu is not the meal.”

Robert Anton Wilson, Cosmic Trigger.

Everything is what we believe it is.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

California, Joni Mitchell.

Today I encouraged a friend to listen to Joni Mitchell performing a song titled California. I think I kind of insisted in a way, more than encouraged.

Joni Mitchell sits on a stage with a guitar on her lap, an open tuning, a simple, syncopated rhythm, plays just enough to support her gorgeous voice. She sings of the joys of travel, the joy of coming home, home to California.

People have been performing songs of travel and home for centuries, with just a guitar and a voice, so why does this one performance stand out for me? It is everything a musical performance should be. Simple, honest, beautifully written and performed as if she is singing for herself but somehow aware of the audience. The lyric fits the melody and the feel, her tone and passion are just right, not over or under selling. The entire package just works.

The audience applauds loudly and spontaneously at the end, they know they've witnessed the real thing.

For kids raised on Idol and other television talent quests this simple, honest production might seem dull. We may have become to sophisticated to enjoy real music. Can you imagine how stupid that is?

So I said, "let us listen to it now, not later", to make sure that we did. Perhaps I was a little pushy. Joni Mitchell backed me up. I don't know how to insist to more than one person at a time, apart from letting you know that you can see and hear California on YouTube.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

One Sentence Stories, Patriarchy.

Her suitors were like baby seals scrambling up rocks, her father's smile and handshake like a club.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

One Sentence Stories, Fantasy.

Every morning he leaps from his bed, flings open the wardrobe doors, steps inside and pushes his way through the coats and shirts until he finds himself in the wonderful world of cracking his head against the back wall of the wardrobe.

Parkstreet.

Flute Playing And Love.

To maintain a beautiful sound the flute must be constantly filled with a continuous stream of air. Blowing hard or soft the continuous stream is essential, without out it notes pulse harshly or disintegrate, the stream of air is the momentum that provides the sweet vibration.

The flute player can't see this air stream, he has to imagine it, get a feel for it, find an image in his mind that tricks his mind into performing the task.

This continuous stream of air constantly filling the flute is like love. A constant, full love can only be expressed by a consistently maintained emotion. If the lover is blowing hard or soft the constant stream is essential, or the expression will become harsh or brittle.

The lover can't see this constant stream of emotion, it has to be imagined, believed in, felt. Of course a flute playing analogy works for me, you can find your own.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Pablo Picasso On Doing Stuff.

“To draw, you must close your eyes and sing”

Pablo Picasso.

I'd say this is the method to doing anything of value. Close your eyes and sing, feel the vibration, the energy, the song.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

He Has The Music In Him.

He has the music in him.

He was born with the music in him, always assumed everyone else woke up with a melody playing in their minds. He thought they all understood that everything was music to him, that conversation, architecture, food, everything was music to him, that he comprehended the world around him in the form of melody, vibration, how it sung to him.

He could never understand the disconnection with other people, the people who comprehended the world in the forms of wealth, status, physical satisfaction. He assumed there was something wrong with him, tried to fit in.

Eventually the music left him.

He sought new ways to comprehend the world. None of them made sense, it was like he was senseless, just existing, feeling nothing.

One day his heart broke. The crack down the middle of his heart allowed the music back in, it had lain dormant for years, waiting for an entry, a way back in. He resisted the music, sat in silence for months, but the music kept coming. He dipped his toe, planned to allow one small melody to tingle briefly. Within a minute he was fully immersed, drowning in his own senses, feeling everything, knowing everything, truly being again. It really took just one minute.

He doesn't see the time he spent without the music as wasted. In that time he learned about the real world, saw the other side of his own coin. He feels complete. He feels the world through music and knows the void of living without it, appreciates his gift.

He wakes each morning to a melody in his mind. Everything he senses is a melody, a vibration, music. He is not only a musician by what he does, also by who he is. If he never plays another note he is a musician.

He has the music in him.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Carl Jung On Creativity.

“Without this playing with fantasy, no creative work has ever yet come to birth. The debt we owe to the play of the imagination is incalculable.”

Carl Gustav Jung.

I seem to recall a school teacher telling me to stop living in a fantasy world and get on with some work. My response then would be my response now. "Huh?"

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Cook, Share, Eat, Talk, Love.

There were about six different platters on the coffee table, and some of those platters held about six different foods. Even the grilled skewers held about six different vegetables. Manfully I accepted the challenge and set to doing justice to the feast. With just three people in the room I had my work cut out, I believe I acquitted myself with honour.

Being invited to dinner with old friends is a beautiful thing. Cute dogs, great food, interesting conversation, cool music, so simple and so good. It is easy to neglect these simple pleasures, just hanging out and sharing a table, breaking bread, for no other reason than we are human and it is what we do. We neglect ourselves when we neglect simple pleasures.

I've been fortunate enough to have lived many lives, from the cocktail party whirl to the cheapest hotel room. Rich or poor, the best times have always been at table with friends, I recall sharing soup at home, or sardines on toast, before going out for dinner, we couldn't afford two courses in a restaurant. I recall being a guest of the best Japanese restaurant in town, astounded that more food, and more delicious food, kept arriving every few minutes. I recall sitting on a bench in Rue St. Denis, a simple sugared crepe, sharing an impromptu conversation with a stranger, a rare genius who seemed to read my mind and sent me on my way feeling loved. I recall the back lane behind a restaurant, sharing a lobster tail with a cook friend, laughing at the ambience.

Cook, share, eat, talk, a simple recipe. It's all just another way of loving.

And they sent me home with a doggy bag with about six different leftovers in it.

Oh, and there was cake too.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Rescue.

It was in one of those Superman flicks, way back, that guy was in them, you know the one. The bad guys were imprisoned in some two dimensional devices, like old long playing record covers made of perspex, then flung out into space, for eternity. You could see their faces, in the movies people are their faces, such horror, a two dimensional reality, forever.

I've known people like this, trapped in a reality of nothingness, the difference being they were not aware of the fact. They spent their entire lives fighting to get out without knowing they were doing it, just drifting through time and space, unable to touch or feel, always knowing something was wrong. They weren't bad guys, they weren't being punished, or perhaps they were, punished unknowingly for the sins of the father and mother.

Somehow the bad guys in the Superman flick escaped, bad guys always do. But they were aware of their imprisonment, the people I've known couldn't devise an escape because they couldn't see the prison. Their lives were an endless frustration of bumping into the clear perspex walls.

The only possible escape for these people was love, the passionate, desirous love of their hero, their angel. Some were lucky enough to drift into this person, this one true love who could free them, break down the walls. Most drifted until they drifted into death.

Lack of love sentenced these people. Cold, thoughtless parents who lacked imagination, had forgotten what it was like to be a child, who forgot to inspire imagination. It was never actual abuse, the abused child at least knows it exists, it has been noticed. The child who is frozen out, allowed to drift through time and space alone, is never certain it really does exist. Solitary confinement is all it knows, and so, all it will ever know.

For me teaching a child that they don't matter, don't exist, is the ultimate crime, the ultimate torture.

I once met an angel. She rescued me.

If you rescue one person from this unseen prison you are a hero and an angel, a genuine super hero.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Just Once.

She sees you again, after all this time. Her heart beats faster, despite what she told herself before she came in. She realizes you are what has been missing from her life, that she truly loves you, falls into your arms.

When you do meet it is just awkward. You talk about shit. You don't want to ask if she is seeing anyone, tell her that you aren't. By silent agreement the occasion is cut short, see you soon really means goodbye.

You know how it will go, but agree to meet anyway, just in case, just once, just once, a dream could come true. Just this once.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Magic Red Carpet.

"I can't believe I'm going to walk the red carpet", she is squealing into her phone.

I'm not eavesdropping, this news is for public broadcast. The telephone is a device designed to communicate news at long distances, she is employing it for that purpose but also shouting to communicate with anyone within earshot. She is claiming earshot in the same way the early settlers claimed land.

The way she is talking I can believe that she believes there is not a red carpet, rather the red carpet, just one, that appears as if by magic at every event where important people need to walk from a limousine to an awards ceremony. She feels she will walk on the same carpet as the Hollywood A list.

Conceptually she is correct. The actual piece of flooring isn't the point, as long as it is red and is being walked on by celebrities. The red carpet is the symbol of our times, and she is going to walk on it. She is very excited and wants to share the news.

She is at a table behind me at a cafe, she has a pretty voice. I refuse to turn around and look but I know she is a pretty girl. I know she will look fabulous on the red carpet. In a way I am happy for her, this is her dream come true. In a way I am sad for her, this is her dream.

I can't work out if her awards night is for the music or reality T.V. business. Aah, now she has made it clear, she was involved in making a reality show about a band. I still don't quite know what sort of awards night she is attending, perhaps the Nobel Prize Awards for services to humanity?

She continues to say "red carpet" a lot, the magic words. I tune her out, it is too horrible. That an intelligent, attractive woman sees walking down a floor covering as the pinnacle moment of her life fills me with despair.

If there were a red carpet outside the factory gates, where working class heroes go each day to earn a crust for their families, then I could dig this red carpet business. If they placed one outside the door of the outback doctor, the the soldier, the mother and the father, the teacher and the nurse, then I could dig this symbol of importance and glamour. I'm just not impressed by the sort of people who do get to walk on the red carpet, or the people who aspire to.

This girl behind me is a happy person, pursuing her dream. Good on her, I guess.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Teacher?

Lazy dilettantes like me sometimes find themselves being subjected to what are called vocational aptitude tests, a polite way of telling me to get off my skinny white arse and do something worthwhile. I always take it as a compliment, that someone believes I might have hidden talents, that they care enough to help me discover them.

The results? They always came back the same, writer, radio broadcaster, teacher. I guess I'm covering the first two options, this blog is as much an old fashioned magazine radio show as anything else. The teacher thing I could never quite understand. Many years ago I took it on board, tried teaching flute playing, gathered six eager students, none of whom came back after the Christmas break. I could take a hint, a teacher I wasn't, test or no.

Over time I've begun to see teaching in a different light. I look back at the people who have genuinely taught me something of value, only one of them was a school teacher. The people who have really taught me have done so by example, by the way they lived, the way they thought, their authentic words and actions. Sometimes they have deliberately taught me, other times they have taught me accidentally, incidentally.

I think of a friend who taught me Tai Chi in the back yard of a pub I was living in, our conversations after the lessons were when I learned the most. I think of a drummer who taught me about cool just by being himself. I think of a beautiful girl who taught me about honesty and patience by being honest and patient. They all shared a natural warmth, a natural state of caring for and loving their fellow humans. Decent, honourable people are the best teachers.

So it is often suggested to me that I should teach flute playing, earn a living, pass on some skills and experience. As I'm not entirely sure how I play the flute I'm not sure I can teach others how to do it. I have realized that the flute playing part of the teaching is probably the least important part of the lesson. To teach an approach to music, to life, to pass on the care and love that my teachers have given me, that is something worth doing.

To genuinely teach, to teach in the way I believe matters, I have to think a lot about myself, who I am, what I have to offer a student, what I can authentically teach. I've spent the last two months considering these things. I know I have a lot more thinking to do, a lot of that thinking has to be put into real action, but I think I have hit upon a path for my future.

Playing flute can be a meditation, a path to self knowledge, a metaphor for all learning. What you can't do today you can do tomorrow, knowledge is built upon knowledge, skills on skills, as in life itself. Some aspects must be taken on faith at first, understanding comes later. The connections between breath and energy and vibrations and sensory awareness and self control and imagination all come together to create a truly beautiful metaphor, a teacher of a metaphor.

So all those well meaning folks who made me tick boxes on long pages of apparently ludicrous questions might have been onto something. They pointed out a direction that has taken me time to see. The path was disguised by the title, teacher, the word has associations with ugly days at school for me. I am seeing the path more clearly now.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Small Details.

So I've been reading old detective stories recently, Sherlock Holmes, Father Brown, all the charming, smart men who foiled evil with their intellect. They are all very different characters, some physically robust, some a little shady, others gentle wanderers, they all agree on one point, you must pay attention to details, have the judgement to know which details are important.

In any literature there is the the plot, writing style and characters that entertain us, then there is the underlying idea that sinks in despite ourselves. These old detectives all went in search of the truth, nothing less would satisfy them. They didn't seek glory, wealth, not even justice, just the truth. They found the truth by observing the true nature of the world, the small, apparently insignificant details that inform that nature.

Today we are constantly hounded to view the big picture, to let the small details take care of themselves. This explains the state of our culture, a broad, bland smudge of witless nothingness. Of course the big picture is constructed of tiny brush strokes, these strokes reveal the artist, reveal truth and beauty.

If you've ever been in love you'll know full well that it is the little things that count. If you've eaten the food of a real cook you know what I mean. A great orchestra produces a mighty sound, eighty musicians wailing, it is the fine tuning, the delicate touch that lifts this sound from noise to music.

The small things can appear uninteresting, this culture is more afraid of boredom than of anything else. The small things are the most difficult to get right. We can all run a paint roller over a wall to change it's colour, to alter our minds we require an artist to create a work on that wall. Creating a work takes time and dilligence.

Once we begin noticing the small things they become more obvious every day. For someone like me, with low vision, many details are lost, I've had to learn new ways to see them, hear them, smell them, feel them. The judgement to know which details are pertinent to the truth is another skill altogether, first you need to know what is important to you, a lifetime study in itself.

Once you decide to seek truth in your life you will find it dwells in the small things, the ignored, in what most call unimportant. Try observing the way people treat the objects around them, are they lazy and clumsy or thoughtful and careful? You will know much about people by just observing this detail.

The old detectives were written by very smart men. There are more clues in those stories than we think. It's all in the small details.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Harder Than It Looks.

Today any schmuck can obtain a funny haircut, enjoy casual sex, imbibe drugs, behave like a rock star. So what's the point in being a rock star? What's the fun in cookies when there is always cookies in the jar?

There is more to being a rock star than you'd think.

Imagine, if you will, standing on a stage in front of an audience, armed with nothing but charisma, three chords and the truth. Can you imagine it? You might think you can, I'd bet you can't. They say the image is everything, at some point you have to deliver the goods.

Being a pop starlet is very different to being a rock star. A monkey can be trained to do what pop starlets do. Wear this, wiggle this, mime this, shooting idiots in a barrel. A rock star touches people, reminds them to be free, wild, natural humans. Being a rock star is important work. Who else reminds us to live?

The classical genius, the jazz master, these musicians reach deep inside us, they are teachers and sages, but the rock star hits us in the guts, wakes us up, he is the spark that leads us to deeper understanding. Most importantly rock stars are fun, intense, essential fun.

The era of the rock star is passing, now that everyone can be one the mystery has died. Plastic dolls are filling their place for now but the role has to be filled by something more satisfying soon. Mozart was a rock star, the role is independent of the era. This era hasn't found a place for the role yet.

We can't all be rock stars, we need that shining light to come from individual points beyond our reach. It's not all about looks or whacky antics, being a rock star is harder than it looks.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Dialogues, Robots.

"What have you done?"

"I had a suspicion you might be wondering what happened here. It doesn't look so good right now, does it?"

"Well, what have you done?"

"I thought it might be a good idea to turn everyone into robots. As it turns out, it wasn't a good idea."

"You are young and inexperienced, aren't you? Human governments have been trying that trick on for centuries, before they even knew what robots were."

"Well, I thought it might be easier to maintain peace and goodwill if everyone was programmed to be peaceful and feel goodwill. Didn't seem a huge leap at the time."

"It never does."

"Your smugness is not doing anything to make me feel any better about this you know."

"My apologies. However I must ask, why does everyone look as though they have been fighting?"

"I made the mistake of programming them all so they couldn't physically attack each other. Again, at the time, it seemed quite practical."

"And?"

"Well, it seems humanity will prevail, no matter what we do. Their first instinct was to try to break the programming, assert their freedom to hit each other, even if they previously had no desire to hit anyone. It really was at risk of becoming a mass extinction, I had to intervene and change them all back into free humans."

"So, what have you learned from this venture?"

"I just knew you were going to ask me that. I wish you hadn't, the answer is too awful."

"Hmmm?"

"Humanity will prevail, in all it's stubborn, brutal idiocy, humanity will prevail."

"Very good, carry on."

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

One Sentence Stories, Ambition.

After he had waited patiently at the crossroads and even The Devil had snubbed him he turned to a record company.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Carl Jung On Artists.

“Art is a kind of innate drive that seizes a human being and makes him its instrument. To perform this difficult office it is sometimes necessary for him to sacrifice happiness and everything that makes life worth living for the ordinary human being.”

Carl Gustav Jung.

Mr. Jung is probably right, but it's a tough call, isn't it?

This is probably the real struggle for the artist, the natural desire for romantic love, security, physical comfort, even some luxury, always in conflict with the desire to create truly.

Finding a lover who understands and encourages the pursuit of art is a dream.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Greed And Fear And The Conman.

Over the last year I have encountered two separate con tricks, a friend fell for both of them. One con was fed by greed, the other fear, nothing changes in this world.

Blokes in pubs used to sell betting systems, a sure fire method to beat the bookies. They never worked, the term betting system became synonymous with the word con. The same conmen now offer betting systems to beat the stock market, they sell it online instead of in pubs. When you call the phone number a very nice man offers it to you at half price, because he likes you. He assures you the system will make you rich, which is why he has a job answering a phone. Of course it doesn't work, your money is offshore in minutes, you have succumbed to greed.

Another brilliant online scheme is offering to protect you from the bad guys who would kill your computer. A teaser, cheap protective software, then they find a problem with your computer, run diagnostics, discover hundreds of problems with your computer, sell you three years of "premium" protection, at a special rate because they like you. You have succumbed to fear.

The cons go through variations over time, they are all fundamentally the same.

Once you allow greed or fear to make decisions for you the conman is in. Otherwise smart people allow these emotions to govern their lives, every con relies on it. If an old fashioned crook wants to threaten me with a weapon, demand my money, I am right to be afraid. The conman lacks the courage to confront a victim, instead taps into the perception of fear, the lure of easy money.

I was disappointed to witness a friend falling for these scams, it was an insight into her real motivations. Confronted by a violent criminal we all need to respond in the moment, fight or flight. The conman can only get us if we invite him in, allow our lives to be controlled by greed and fear.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

An Orange Mandarin In A Small Blue And White Chinese Bowl.

An Orange Mandarin In A Small Blue And White Chinese Bowl, a still life, an offering of love. The peel turned back to form a bed of leaves, the segments of fruit loosened slightly, an opening flower bud.

This rare bloom, An Orange Mandarin In A Small Blue And White Chinese Bowl, is placed on the coffee table before her. Her eyes brighten, she leans forward, reaches, reaches over the work of art, grabs a handful of salted nuts.

The public of one never warms to An Orange Mandarin In A Small Blue And White Chinese Bowl, the artist goes unrecognized, his muse apparently unaware of her role. Following works, Warm Mushroom Salad With A Mix Of Japanese Seeds and Rib Eye Steaks go equally unappreciated.

Somehow he knows that a shop bought chocolate cake with "I Love You" written in icing, a common print, would be a popular gift. He resolves to continue producing works in the ilk of An Orange Mandarin In A Small Blue And White Chinese Bowl until he finds an audience, until these gifts of love are understood.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Offence In Context.

I'm surprised at myself, I have realized that I am a literary prude. I'm currently listening to old novels and short stories via audio books. Whenever a character is described as "nigger" I find myself feeling shocked, hearing that word spoken out loud in my own lounge room. I shouldn't be shocked, it's just a word, I've been taught to be shocked by it by seeing and hearing other people being shocked by it.

In San Francisco I have witnessed African American fellows on the street greeting each other as nigger and motherfucker. As tempting as it was for this skinny white boy to attempt this and see how it worked out I decided it might just be one of those things best left alone. It isn't the word, it is the context it used in that causes offence. I wouldn't be offended if those guys in San Francisco called me nigger, they are fine with calling each other nigger, but if I were to call them nigger it would be bad, because the context would be all wrong. Strangely, if I'd known them for a decade, been through a few battles with them, it might be o.k., I still wouldn't take the chance, they were hard men.

Have you noticed that you are becoming accustomed to seeing the word in print now I've used it a few times? The shock does wear off.

Australian comedian Tim Minchin performs a clever song about "gingers", redheads. He sets it up by putting forth all the letters in the word ginger, the same letters as nigger, saying it adds up to a taboo word, everyone is holding their breath expecting something very tasteless, then he sings that only a ginger can call another ginger ginger. The idea is funny, and poignant. We can employ slang and nicknames for most physical characteristics, because most physical characteristics are not associated with kidnap, slavery, torture, rape and any other number of crimes.

The context any word is used in does change it's meaning. Language is an interchange of information, understanding context is part of employing the language tastefully and effectively. When I listen to these old stories the authors are often making strident, anti racist comments, they are staunchly in support of the nigger, it just sounds so wrong to my politically correct ears that I can barely hear the point they are making. What I'm hearing is the language of another era, what was acceptable then isn't now. I have a relative who uses the term "abo" to denote indigenous Australians. When we were kids that was fine, quite normal, now it isn't. It jars every time, yet I know she doesn't mean anything by it.

I don't plan to pick up the bad habits of my old author friends. We have to live in the spirit of our times, at least understand them. I'm slowly losing my shame, becoming less prudish, hearing that word and not feeling so shocked. It's just a word, only the context can cause offence.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Revolution Will Not Be Televised.

The revolution will not be televised, for a small fee you will be able to stream the live feed.

From the invention of radio governments have controlled our air waves. They realized very early that this immediate mass communication could be dangerous if it fell into the wrong hands, they defined the wrong hands as any hands other than their own. Television and radio broadcasting stations are amongst the first targets of any revolution, as important as arms depots.

Those of us who witnessed the birth and infancy of the internet fancied it the last free place on Earth. Of course governments and their partners in crime, large corporations, took control of the web as soon as they understood it's potential. Participants in The Arab Spring were permitted to communicate freely because large corporations saw potential profit in revolution. Criminal partnerships, large or small, are always fickle, of course they are, they are partnerships between criminals.

Freedom of communication is one of the essential freedoms. While governments control access to the internet, enter dirty deals with profit driven corporations, our communication is not free.

The revolution will come, it is overdue, first we will have to take back the airwaves, the very air above us.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

One Sentence Stories, Shelter.

With a gesture he offered her shelter under his umbrella, they walked side by side, close, even after the sun had come out and the umbrella had been folded away.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Carl Gustav Jung On Individuality.

“To find out what is truly individual in ourselves, profound reflection is needed; and suddenly we realize how uncommonly difficult the discovery of individuality is.”

C.G. Jung.

How often have you heard the advice, "just be yourself"? It is excellent advice, most often offered by folks who know themselves not at all.

As the old recipe joke goes, first go out and kill your wildebeest. First go out and find out who you are, the rest of the recipe is simple enough, then you can be yourself.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

A Simple, Decent Life.

My old tram line was one of the earliest built in this town. It rolls out of the city, across the river, along an old fashioned strip shopping centre, past a vast man made lake, then into the side streets, through red brick workers cottages and grand Victorian terraces, the end of the line was once the outskirts, now considered inner city.

As I pass by the lake, the parkland that surrounds it, I think of a time when cities were built by well meaning men for people to live in. Someone came up with the idea of a place for working people to see some trees and grass, play football, swim, sail if they wanted to save their pennies for a small dinghy, a bunch of other people supported the idea, they went ahead and built the idea. As I pass by the small houses I think of the thousands of families who lived in them, the menfolk strolling out to a tram to go to work, the children walking to school, the wives and mothers catching the tram to do the shopping later in the day. Settled before the advent of the motor car there are no driveways or garages here, a railway line is just a few minutes walk away, these people of one hundred years ago were well served by their governments. The lake on one side, the beach on the other, easy transport to everywhere they wanted to go, this was a worker's paradise.

If you can imagine the cars away the area doesn't look so different today. It is different. The working man can't afford to live here now. Yuppies have bought the place out, they now take advantage of the foresight of governments past, low wage earners are pushed to the new, outer suburbs, areas that were planned and built by greedy developers, places without public transport, without imagination. The worker's paradise now comes through a cable and onto a screen, they sit and watch other people doing things.

Perhaps cities just grow too big, Melbourne should have stopped within the old tram lines, the old train lines, been a small, practical city that served it's people. Instead it is vast and mostly bland, the only character and interest is in the old parts, the areas planned by men who cared about the citizens they served.

It is possible I am idealizing a past that never existed? I think it did. Twenty years ago I knew some old boys who grew up around here, they believed that past existed. They yearned for it. A simple life when a man could earn a decent living, buy a decent home, live a decent, simple life. Now we are so overwhelmed by aspiration we live in mock McMansions in middle class mediocrity.

There was a time when we imagined, then built cities that served the people. My old tram line transports me back to that time. It seems impossible to transport politicians back to that way of thinking, that time is gone, a memory.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

It Is Never Her Fault.

"It's never your fault. The fall of Troy wasn't your fault."

So said one of G. K. Chesterton's romantic, Italian characters.

Every time I find myself thinking that a truly beautiful woman should speak and act responsibly, with care for others, I must recall that the fundamental rules of society do not apply to truly beautiful women. Truly beautiful women are the kittens of society, admired, cleaned up after, free of any care.

How can the truly beautiful woman be responsible for every man who falls for her? She would do nothing but care for their broken hearts, one after the other. She didn't ask to be born with an appearance that causes men to act like fools.

It is never her fault.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Carl Jung On Darkness.

“One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious.”

Carl Gustav Jung.

Most "New Age" faiths deny darkness, go in search of the fairies at the bottom if the garden. Darkness is in all of us, turn your back on it and it will just sneak up on you.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Originality? How Novel!

In Australia if you google the words "the cruel sea" you will receive much information about a rock and roll band, have to search a fair way down to find a reference to Monsarrat's novel. There is a moment in that novel, when an old British sea captain spurns the handshake of a captured NAZI officer, a brilliant moment that reminds us that war is not a game. You'd be better served reading the novel than listening to the band that borrowed the title.

Chesterton's comic detective stories, The Man Who Knew Too Much are an astounding treatise on politics, humanity. The Band Who Knew Too Much are quite fun. Most of the fools who watched television's Big Brother didn't get the reference, Melbourne and Sydney kinksters who attend The Hellfire Club have never heard of Sir Francis Dashwood, his creed of "do what you will".

Perhaps it doesn't matter if this ignorant borrowing of original ideas goes on, as long as everyone is having fun, right? I don't know, perhaps it does matter? When was the last time you came across a really great new idea, something genuinely original? Hemingway had the right to borrow For Whom The Bell Tolls, his work was in keeping, expanded on the idea, respected the idea. It wasn't a cheap trick. All we know now is cheap tricks, we have all but forgotten originality, authenticity, quality.

So many Zen And The Art Of Blah Blah Blah rip offs by folks who never read Pirsig's massive title, who have no understanding that he was talking about them. A sad irony. When a culture stagnates in the shallows it begins to rot and smell bad. Our copy culture is on the nose.

We are getting what we ask for, being sold what we want to buy. We, the people, need to ask for more. When everything is derived from something else with the essence and excellence removed we are just consuming empty intellectual calories.

There is a truth to original, authentic work. A healthy culture welcomes the new, weighs it against the old. If the old stands up, like Orwell stands up, the new has to be pretty damned good to replace it. We don't even try any more.

The Cruel Sea were an o.k. band. The novel was too beautiful to describe. The band didn't deserve the title. It seems we don't desire the beautiful and truthful. I'm pretty sure that does matter.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Exuberance.

Outside this beachside cafe there are two children, brother and sister, throwing a ball back and forward. They are like the ghosts of children past, creating their own game out of thin air. Every catch requires diving, landing face first in the sand, every throw requires a bloodthirsty cry. It is passionate, excited play, nothing more, nothing less. Children have been performing this miracle on this beach forever, I can see twenty thousand years of tiny black bodies diving and yelling and laughing and playing.

Now they have collapsed, laughing on the sand. They are joyously filthy. A parent has left the warmth of the cafe to check on them, come back grinning, shaking her head, gone back to the adult conversation.

It's too cold for me out there, I'm not about to join them. Besides, it is secret children's business, all their own. Just the same my heart is singing, to witness such exuberance is a thrill, a reminder of all that is innocent and wonderful in all of us.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Forgiveness.

I forgive you, I forgive you, I forgive you, say it three times and it be true.

If only it were so easy, click your red heels and wish forgiveness into your heart. That stuff only works in fairy tales. To truly forgive someone is truly hard, one of the hardest things we will ever do. I'm told it is divine, to forgive, and divine is much bigger than most of my daily thoughts and actions.

There is no rule that says you must forgive people. Why should you? If someone deliberately screwed with your life, well, as they say in the classics, fuck 'em, let their mothers or their gods forgive them, I'm not about to. Most of the words and actions I've wanted to forgive have been unintentional, brought about by the other person being under pressure I didn't understand, or unaware of the affects of their actions. Of course responsible grown ups should be aware of their words and actions, we are not all always at our best, we all screw up.

So, I have been unintentionally screwed over in the recent past, by someone who I'm sure meant no harm, who just wasn't in a position to think past the next minute of her life. I love her, want to forgive her. Mostly for myself I want to forgive her, so I can walk away whistling a happy tune, and so if we ever meet again we will meet as friends. I'm finding this forgiveness business more difficult than I expected.

Rationally I can see she meant no harm, I can assess her circumstances and know they aren't easy. I guess it is the lack of honesty I find hard to forgive. Much pain could have been avoided given one honest conversation. I can write it off and tell myself she just wasn't up to the job but that discounts me, what I'm worth. Her lack of honesty discounted me, that is hard to forgive.

All I can do is return to my original feeling for her, know that feeling is strong and honest and pure, and still present. Out of respect for that feeling, for all positive, hopeful, beautiful feelings that make us human, I must forgive the past. When I return to that feeling I see that whatever she said and did, didn't say or do, doesn't matter now. All is done, the essential feeling in me remains. I wouldn't be bothering to consider forgiveness if that feeling didn't exist.

I don't have to love what she brought to the table, or sit at her table again, to love her. The only way that pure feeling can survive is to let go of the bitter feelings, to forgive. Whether she was unable or unwilling to speak the truth doesn't matter, I am forgiving the pain it caused me, the motivation is her business.

Pain passes, so should bitter feelings. The combination of rational thought, knowing what we are really forgiving, and love makes forgiveness possible. The person we are forgiving most often doesn't give a crap if we do or don't forgive them, we should do it for ourselves, for our own well being, for the truth and beauty of the feeling that allowed us to be hurt in the first place.

Forgiveness isn't just saying the words.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Scrubs On . . . Me I Think.

Gregory Marks: Hey, I bought you a journal.
Dr. John 'J.D.' Dorian: Oh my God, a journal!
Gregory Marks: Well, you seem like the kind of sensitive young buck that likes to chronicle his feelings.
Dr. John 'J.D.' Dorian: I can't wait to chronicle this one.

Scrubs.

Sometimes J.D. hits too close to home for my liking.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Fans Are Better Than Friends.

Fans are better than friends. Fans will love you no matter how big an idiot you make of yourself.

Think about the person you are a fan of, the person you idolize and adore. Rock star, writer, hero, mathematician, sportsman, whoever. Now think of all the foolish, ignoble, immoral, corrupt things that person has done, how you laugh and forgive them, love them anyway.

From now on I will be a fan of the people I love.

Fans are better than friends.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Take Some Correspondence Doris, Part Two.

So circumstances have dictated that I must dictate this blog via the device known as the iPhone. It is an interesting experiment, I hope you'll forgive any typographical errors as I learn these new skills.

It feels strange. I'm wondering if you'll hear my voice as you read this? Do I really sound like that? I can also imagine my fellow science-fiction nerds with dreams of ORAC, HAL and Slave from Blake's Seven. Oh brave new world.

Right now I am hoping that the appalling language of my psychotic downstairs neighbour doesn't slip in between my words.

I am also hoping that the corporation nine as Apple might come across this blog and have the brilliant idea of sponsoring it as a way to show off the potential of the voice recognition system.

So far so good. I'm hoping the neighbours can't hear me, I dare say I sound quite strange. Of course it still feels very disjointed, stilted, but I'm sure I will learn as I go along. The iPhone appears to understand my bizarre accent, only one misunderstanding between us so far when it turned neighbours can't hear me into makers cartoony. I still have a lot to learn, especially about how to affect punctuation, there could be some pretty funny mistakes over the next few weeks.

I am pretty sure my new secretary, Doris, and I will become close friends. Let us hope she can put up with the terrible hours and the lousy money.

Bear with me folks.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Take Some Correspondence Doris.

What an interesting crossroads I find myself at. Blogging each day keeps me sane in a time of limbo, and this morning I find I can't see what I am writing. Time for new technology. Is it possible to dictate writing instead of typing it? I guess I will find out.

I'm writing this on my iPad with the text as large as it will go. Even so I have to close one eye and lean forward to proof read. I'll have to get used to the voice of the electronic bitch reading back my words. So strange. The idea of stopping to say "comma" and "paragraph" like a 1960's businessman addressing his secretary makes me giggle, I might have to wear a hat to make it work for me.

I'll dress like a noir detective, trench coat and sneaky rubber shoes, lean back in my chair and say, "take some correspondence Doris". Between you and me I've always had a hankering to be a noir detective, it might just be fun.

I'm curious to see how the writing changes. It will change. The medium of any work affects the outcome, a spoken word piece will be different from a typed one. I also wonder how my accent will change? My weird Australian British American blend may be too much for the dictating machine on my phone, I might have to choose one.

Some people see problems where others see challenges. This is a problem. My usual practise is to sit in a cafe, watch the world pass, type quietly. Writing will now be a more embarrassing affair in public, speaking strange words into a telephone "full stop". How strange.

I knew this day was coming. Please forgive any typographical errors for the next few weeks as I work this stuff out.

Let's call it a challenge.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

After Two Months, Love Is All.

I usually walk away from relationships easily enough. I can see they are over even when I don't like it. The last one I left lost me a friend of twenty five years too, not so easy to walk away from. I've had to consider everything I did and said, it's taken time.

So I've been hidden away like a monk for two months, by choice. I've read a lot, thought a lot, let some time wander by like a river. As this time comes to an end I've come to many minor conclusions about myself and what I want, I've also come to one big conclusion.

Love is all.

A true and loving relationship is the only relationship worth pursuing. My mind has wandered to a million options, from the friendly to the kinky, I always come back to true love. True love doesn't preclude the friendly and the kinky, but true love is the essence.

It isn't ground breaking news. Many have believed this before me. For me it is the first time I have taken time to consider, to really ask myself what I want. I want true love.

I've wandered into whatever has come along all my life, said yes when I would have been better served taking some time to get to know, to feel my way through it. In my last relationship I would have been very well served by taking more time, and a massive side step. A precious friendship would have survived, I would have been saved a lot of pain. True love will allow that time and respect it.

So, an unoriginal thought, original for me.

Love is all.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Billy Graham On . . . I Don't Know What.

“The will of God will not take us where the grace of God cannot sustain us.”

Billy Graham.

Nearly everything this guy said rang true for first world societies, many people in third world societies might ask where this sustaining grace has gone?

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

A Not Too Needy Pigeon.

"If you try sometime,
You just might find . . .

She doesn't need or want much, even a saffron robe seems a little ostentatious. Some good reading, a couple of good friends, to create music, enough.

Some days she wants more. She never claimed to be a saint, she yearns, knows that yearning can be expressed in ways other than achieving what is yearned for.

What she desires is something honest and authentic, something to fly up to her window, blink dumbly at her, remind her that being just what she is will serve her perfectly.

On the sill of the window she gazes out of when she practises on her keyboard, the volume turned low in her small apartment, lands a shoddy, ruffled, not too bright, "not too needy" pigeon. The pigeon blinks at her, ignores her instructions to remain outside, warms himself just inside her window, wanders away when he feels better. The pigeon returns when it feels like it, doesn't ask for anything in return for his wisdom. He is nothing but pigeon, reminds her to be nothing but herself.

A great sage, a not too needy pigeon.

. . . "You get what you need."

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Social Lies.

She tells social lies, grand, hilarious stories of past events that never really happened, or if they did happen they didn't happen so wonderfully as she tells them. It is a small child who never grew out of "look at me, look at me", it is tiresome, I wish she would cease. It is just embarrassing for everyone.

Spinning a good yarn is a time honoured tradition, the Australian pub culture is based on it. Entertainment, story telling, a good laugh and possibly a clever point made. We all enjoy a good yarn. Occasionally we meet people who once lived extraordinary lives, but don't any more. Everything they did in the past was so cool, everything they do now is so ordinary. We just know that in ten years from now the ordinary things they are doing now will be told as extraordinary. This isn't yarn spinning, it is lying, to others and themselves. It is dull and pointless and fills me with the urge to break the social taboo of credulity, stand up, point a finger and declare, "bullshit!".

These social lies don't harm anyone, perhaps they make a colourless life bearable? They do impede any real conversation, any genuine and heartfelt reminiscence, any truth.

Spin a good yarn from your imagination, live an extraordinary life so you have real tales to tell, just don't bore me to tears with your inane social lies.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Renaissance Humans.

Most folks have one field of endeavour that they are very good at, some excel. A natural born knack for numbers, words, skilled labour, sports, music, physical toil, we all have something we do well. Generally smart people are rare, those who can understand and employ a range of skills. Renaissance Humans if you will.

This is an era of specialization, there isn't much call for the generally smart person. We tend to call in a specialist to take care of all we don't do well so we can concentrate on what we do well. This has lead to a fragmented society, no one understands what anyone else does. Work is so much of who we are, more and more we understand only those who do what we do, or who work in related fields, social circles are becoming ever smaller and limited in scope.

Being generally smart is not a paying trade. Some of the smartest guys I've known washed dishes for a living, read everything they could get their sore and tired hands on in their time off. It is often a lonely path, no one knows which pigeon hole to stuff that pigeon into.

The odd thing is that being generally smart isn't so difficult. It requires application, an old fashioned, out of date concept. Being generally smart simply requires the application of the same approach that helped you understand one field of endeavour to other, less familiar fields. Anyone can do it, few bother. Why bother? There is no real return in our culture, better to specialize, to narrow, to have others call you in to fix their specialist problem and cash in.

The generally smart, the Renaissance Humans, tend to be loners, watching the world, learning all as they go. Occasionally they find each other, form their own small caste. They are the people who wish they were born in a different time and place, the drifters, the melancholy.

When this culture collapses, as all cultures do, let us hope some of the generally smart people survive. We will need them then.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Oscar Wilde On Vision.

“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.”

Oscar Wilde, Lady Windermere's Fan.

I've avoided posting a quote from Mr. Wilde, we've all heard most of them. This one is perfect, life in one sentence.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Dialogues, Celebrities.

"What have you done?"

"What have I done, what have I done?"

"I can't help noticing your somewhat annoying inclination to try to take over these dialogues, 'what have you done' is my line."

"I turned everyone into celebrities. I figured they worshipped these celebrity people as gods, so why not make them all gods in their own eyes, lift moral and all that . . ."

"And?"

"I simply cannot talk about it. I changed them all back to normal within an hour. It was too horrible, despicable to comprehend. I can't talk about it."

"Lost for words? At least your work has not been in vain for everyone."

"The horror, the horror!"

"Very good, carry on."

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Three Year Olds.

Behind me in this cafe there is a woman allowing her three year old child to scream constantly. The child is learning that self indulgent noise is acceptable. The child is not learning that there are different social expectations in different situations.

When I meet these three year olds in their adult form, talking over the top of the cellist, chewing with their mouths open, picking their noses, spitting constantly, I sometimes wonder how they happened?

Now I know.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Security.

I wonder what happens to people? Why do their minds get old? Isn't there enough wonder and joy out there in the universe to keep us amused, entertained, excited, learning?

Why do people become flabby in body and mind, inflexible, thoughtless? Why do they pillory all they love, become a travesty of their own dreams, give up? Who told them they have the right to give up?

If you are going to be dead inside you may as well lie down so everyone else knows it, prevent all the time wasted in treating you as if you were alive. Or you can resurrect yourself, have a chat with your teenage, hopeful self, see what he or she suggests, recall the dreams and joys that were once you. They are all still inside you. Right now they may come out in distorted forms, misshapen by fear and doubt, by long practised hopelessness, the essence is still inside you.

There is joy and hope and wonder out there. There is. There is new love, new work, new ideas, new fun. Our culture hands it all to you, it's easy to find, easy to achieve. Easy enough anyway, the hard work is part of the fun. The only price you are asked to pay for all this is your security. Doesn't sound like too much to me, considering your security is an illusion anyway. I could take it away in minutes if I wanted to.

This is why we grow old, we value security above all else, subscribe to the mass psychosis that such a thing exists. We all know that change is constant, why should our state of security be immune from this law? Everything changes. Jobs end, relationships end, lives end. Of course we have to take care of business, a roof and a table must be supplied, to believe these physical situations are permanent, that you are the font of all wisdom for having ensured them is the start of dying inside.

Life is short, forgotten once it ends. Why end it prematurely by ceasing to live, to explore, to think, to feel? Why not risk all and live? There is plenty of time to be dead, securely locked in a box, when the time comes. The time will come. Until that time, live you fuckers, live!

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Dialogues, Dancers.

"What have you done?"

"You know, I am so glad you asked, I am feeling very pleased with myself today. What I have done is alter the mechanics of society. Now, in this new reality, everyone must dance to achieve anything. It's A Chorus Line written large, instead of a job interview there is a cattle call, everyone must quickly learn a dance routine and perform it, only the best dancers are offered the job. It doesn't matter what sort of job you are going for, dishwasher to president, everything is now decided by a dance audition. Now, I just know you are aching to ask me why, so allow me to just tell you . . . "

"Ahem, forgive me, but Parkstreet set out to write a dialogue, we must humour our creator and include some contribution from the other half of the conversation. So, why?"

"Why you ask? I'm glad you asked. Simply to make everything more beautiful. Life is not so different to before, great dancers are just as psychotic and self obsessed as great politicians and great businessmen, but they are so much more beautiful. To turn on the television news and witness a physically perfect body, blessed with poise and grace, it makes everyone happy. The best dancers everywhere have taken over all the important jobs. It turns out those jobs are not so difficult after all, anyone with enough self belief can perform the duties required once they have the authority of the position, dancers just do it so much more beautifully. I really am very pleased with this change. I think I'll keep it. It is no more worthy or fair than any other system, just prettier."

"Very good, carry on."

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

A Definition Of A Writer?

Folks tell me I sometimes hit upon something insightful in my blog posts. I flatter myself that this is true, some days more than others.

For me these insights come after long consideration, well after the action is over. It's like thinking up the perfect come back in an argument, as your victorious opponent walks away.

Perhaps this is the definition of a writer? Someone who imagines life better than he lives it?

If I were offered a trade, give up any pretension of being a writer in return for being able to live in the moment, live as my imagination tells me I should, would I accept the deal?

I don't know.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Zooey On Copping Out.

“No matter what I say, I sound as though I’m undermining your Jesus Prayer. And I’m not, God damn it. All I am is against why and how and where you’re using it. I’d like to be convinced — I’d love to be convinced — that you’re not using it as a substitute for doing whatever the hell your duty is in life, or just your daily duty. Worse than that, I can’t see — I swear to God I can’t — how you can pray to a Jesus you don’t even understand.”

J. D. Salinger, Franny And Zooey.

Franny is breaking down, retired from the world, constantly repeating a prayer, seeking salvation from her disillusionment. We all find ourselves appealing to a higher force occasionally. The question we need to ask is why? And how this appeal will truly serve us? Prayer is nothing but lip service unless we understand why and how.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

One Sentence Stories, Underpants.

At the last minute he changed his underpants, threw out the old comfortable pair with the elastic showing through, donned the pair he thought showed off his assets to advantage, and knew he was finally over her.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Dream Location.

Years ago I was working in a kitchen, the chef and I became mates, I washed his dirty pans for ten months and still liked him so he must be a good guy. We would talk food, all day at work, all night when we went out drinking.

Chef and I came to a conclusion about successful restaurants and cafes. We came up with two methods, find a location then design a formula to fit that location, or design a formula then find the right location for it. We noticed that restaurants usually failed because of the incorrect blend of formula and location. For example, if you make great donuts, don't open your shop in a yuppie, carb free location, open it beside the biggest police station in town.

There was nothing Chef didn't know about restaurants and food, he was right about every new restaurant that opened, predicted success and failure unerringly. I took his advice on board.

The problem with food is that it is often a love business, those who choose to put in the long hours love what they do, they have a dream. A dream is often a poor business decision. The formula is personal, finding the correct location to pursue that dream is difficult, sometimes impossible. Compromise is equally difficult, to alter a dream formula just for money. Dreamers are sometimes better off holding down a day job and cooking for friends on Sundays.

And so I come to my business, live music. Every location tells you which formula will work as a business. In soulless Sydney it is tribute bands, you can sell out big rooms looking and sounding like someone famous. In eclectic Melbourne the formula changes constantly, for a while it was reggae, then arty songwriter with cello and viola on stage, I'm still not sure what the current trend here is, just because I haven't been paying attention.

So the musician's choice is to find a formula that fits where he is living, or to move to where his formula will work. A friend has recently taken his European Celtic sound to Montreal Canada, where traditional music is popular. Here in Melbourne he played on the street, there he can be a star.

The first step for any musician is to identify their dream, what music they would play in a perfect world, then find a location that will support that dream. Musicians have always travelled, it is in the job description. African American jazz musicians went to Europe, songwriters go to Nashville and Austen, arty hippy wankers like me end up in Portland Oregon. Identifying that dream is harder than it sounds, there are so many options. Picking a formula and a location then running with it is essential to success, most businesses are the same.

So a mate and I were sitting outside a cafe last night, working over the options, what music we want to play, how to make it work. The cafe we were at is struggling, in a busy Melbourne laneway full of students who want to sit on one coffee and smoke their menu is too classy and expensive, great formula, wrong location. The connection between their situation and ours was obvious.

So tonight I will undertake an imaginary conversation with Chef, plunder his experience and commoN sense. I'll apply his method to my formula, match up a location to the dream.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Jerome K. Jerome On Humility.

"Conceit is the finest armour a man can wear."

Jerome K. Jerome.

Jerome contends that humility is over rated. I tried humility for a while. After I'd washed the footprints off I chose a different path.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Dialogues, Red Clown Noses.

"What have you done?"

"I would have thought the answer to that question is even more obvious than when you usually ask it, so I refuse to humour you by responding."

"Your impertinence does you no credit, but indeed, I can see exactly what you have done. Why, dare I ask, have you given everyone red clown noses?"

"I must confess, and I really must confess because I haven't prepared a useful lie, that I did it because I was bored."

"Bored?"

"Bored with all the vanity, everyone taking themselves, their appearance, even their noses so damnedly seriously. I was bored with it."

"So this was your response? I might surprise you by telling you that I'm quite pleased with the idea. It's all very jolly, appears to have lifted the mood admirably."

"Yes yes, but now I'm bored again. A human with a red clown nose cannot take himself or herself seriously in any way. They all keep laughing and joking and attempting physical humour, it really is too awful. If I see one more imitation of a John Cleese Silly Walk I shall change them all into ducks out of pure chagrin."

"Really? Is it that upsetting?"

"It is more upsetting, I can't begin to tell you. You see, people, generally, are not very funny, they rely on imitation and relaying comedy, very few invent anything remotely new. Those who do invent something new generally aren't so funny either, it is a rare ostrich this funny business. To have every human attempting to be funny is a diabolical state of affairs. I only have myself to blame."

"I see, any other drawbacks, apart from the offence to your fragile sensibilities?"

"Oh yes, plenty, plenty . . . I'm sorry, I'm distracted, I'm preparing for some duck action at any moment. Yes, the main problem is that it turns out the humans require their vanity, without it they are not much use at all. Once I'd robbed them of all dignity they ceased striving, couldn't be bothered putting their best foot forward at all. Watching young people dating is like watching one's father dancing, too cringeworthy to bear. She scratches her bottom and laughs that her g string is pulling on the hairs on her arse, he farts and recommends the kebabs at Ahmed's if you need a good clean out, it's too, too horrible. Without vanity the humans are an appalling lot with not much to recommend them. And the clothes, what they are wearing, most of them already had no idea, and now comfortable is the new black. I clearly didn't think this idea through in any way."

"Well, it is amusing, just seeing you so worked up has made it worth it for me. Changing them back?"

"Immediately, before they drive me to turn them into ducks."

"Very good, carry on."

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Ordinary.

He spilled the milk. It was the last straw. The floodgates opened. Salty teardrops rolled down his face, dripped into his Cornflakes like cliches.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Perfect Hosts.

He would pick her up from the airport, carry her bag into the house. She would show her to a comfortable bedroom, a fluffy towel, feed her so often and magnificently that accidentally falling down the stairs to compel a longer stay would seem a good option. He would top up her drinks before they were empty, flirt with her just enough to make her feel pretty, drive her anywhere she wanted to go. Even if she just wanted to walk to the end of the driveway to get a feel for the weather he would drive her there. And back. The children would employ the time between her thinking about sitting down and actually sitting down in making her tea or coffee, unassumingly leaving a biscuit jar within easy reach, eating one themselves so she would feel it rude to refuse.

Everything would be perfect.

She decided to stay in a hotel instead.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

What Is Reading?

Writing dialogues is a new trick, I'm enjoying playing with them. Sending off a conversation, with no description of the characters, leaving you, the reader, free to imagine nearly everything. In a time when nearly every form of entertainment is over explained for the stupid, blunt and crass, I like the idea of crediting the audience with imagination.

I've spent the last two months doing not much more than listening to audio books, catching up with some great old novels. Some are narrated by the same voice throughout, others by a series of readers. Each narrator imagines the characters differently, and so reads them differently. Frankly it is a little annoying., it has altered my view of what reading is. Reading is an interpretation, through your eyes, of some words on a page. All the writer does is spark your imagination, trace an outline for you to fill in.

Milan Kundera once included a short dictionary of key words in a novel, so there could be no mistaking what he meant. He set down some key points of agreement, some foundations to build on. He knew that every human defines every word differently. This dictionary device was a little tongue in cheek, an acceptance that once the novel was printed It was out of his hands, free to live in your imagination.

Earlier this year I gave a girlfriend a copy of my favourite novel, J. D. Salinger's Franny And Zooey. She didn't like it, that Zooey guy went on and on, too much talking. For me that monologue is genius, builds tension towards the payoff, the payoff that made me cry the first time I read it. At the same time someone I shared a house with told me that Anna Karenina was the most boring book ever, all the characters did was repeat themselves, over and over again. What else do humans do in times of great emotional uncertainty? That little voice in our heads won't shut up, won't give us a moment of peace. Tolstoy nailed it for me. Different imaginations, same words on the page, different responses. Of course they were both wrong, I'd go into literary battle with Salinger and Tolstoy on my side rather than those two readers.

Writing some words, sending them out into the world like brave little soldiers, at the mercy of your imaginations, what a fun thing to do. Those words go on an adventure, set sail for distant lands I will never see. I envy them.

The less I explain, the more freedom I give to your imagination, the greater the adventure. Fly away little words, be free!

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Ray Charles On Life.

"There are many spokes on the wheel of life. First, we're here to explore new possibilities."

Ray Charles.

Not only face the new, go chasing it.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Facing Facts.

My eye condition is best described as like driving at night in the rain with no windscreen wipers. Some moments everything is clear, the next you can see nothing, sometimes you can see a little more through one part of the screen than another. Add some further complications, like a dilated pupil and cataracts and you'll have some idea, then walk around at night when it is raining and lights are reflecting off everything.

Walking around at night is what I do, what I've done for decades, to and from gigs at night, naturally I can't drive a car. After twenty years I'm out of energy, can no longer walk out the door cheerfully at night, drag myself off to gigs. Until six months ago I had enough vision to pull it off, get away with it, now I don't.

It's an interesting state of play. Half time and I can't take the field. I've spent twenty years paying my dues, playing gig after gig, becoming one of the old dogs who can play, now I don't know what to do with these skills.

Writing this down, saying it out loud, is making the facts clear to me. I need a new plan. In a couple of years there will be a stem cell surgery that should restore enough vision to be able to drive a car again. Do I bank on that? Hang in and wait, take the field again then? Or do I face the facts as they stand, make a new plan, begin a new career?

Most of us face these moments, realization that what we did before is no longer working, that a new plan is required. Adapting to change is an adult duty, we look back and see that we've done it before, we'll do it now. In the moment of realization all seems hopeless. Right now I can only see that playing live, what I've always seen as my reason for waking up each day, is no longer a part of my life. What can possibly replace it?

So now's the time. Right now, in the action of writing this, now. The most difficult problem in life is seeing oneself clearly. Once the problem is clearly stated in one's own mind it becomes manageable. I can see clearly that I can't see clearly. Now, what next?

Walking around at night is no longer an option, along with it goes playing live gigs. Now that I'm seeing it clearly everything seems possible, I'm excited at the possibilities.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Try To Find The Words.

To my eye she is the glint of dawn sunshine off a dew drop on the first rose petal of Spring.

Trying to find the words to explain feelings is near impossible. All we can do is find comparisons, she is like this or that. Really she is nothing like anything else, moon, star, flower, ocean, bird.

If she has a poetic soul she will hear you, understand your fumbling attempts at romance, not make you feel foolish. If she doesn't have a poetic soul why are you bothering?

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Sonny Rollins And Me.

I listen to Sonny Rollins play saxophone and wonder why I bother? I know it is a foolish question, no matter how good you get at doing anything there will always be some prick who is better at it than you, by comparing ourselves to others we doom ourselves to doing nothing. Yet he is so much better, in every way, I don't have to actively compare, the difference stands out like the balls of the proverbial dog.

In the end there is no point doing anything, let alone excelling at anything. What does it matter? We will be dead soon enough and unable to do whatever it is we do any more. Being just average at doing something seems even more futile. It isn't, average or brilliant, it's all the same.

So why put my horn together, apply a reed, blow through it and make noise? Why? There must be a reason we all go on doing stuff, trying to improve. There must be. Mr. Rollins brings joy to the world with his genius, I can see why he does it. Why do the rest of us plonkers go on?

When I write this blog I usually post some questions then try to respond to them. In this case I have no satisfactory response. I don't know why I go on doing what I do. I know it beats working, that's about all I know.

The funny thing is that I know I play flute in a blues style better than most. I can say that without feeling embarrassed, having admitted to being an average saxophonist. Yet I don't know why I do that either. Being average or very good doesn't seem to make any difference.

The only answer I can find is that playing music satisfies something inside me. Not much of an answer, is it? After twenty years you'd think I'd have more to offer. Wouldn't you?

I'd dearly love to hear why you do what you do. I really want to know. Perhaps someone can pass this on to Sonny Rollins and he can give me a satisfactory answer?

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Jerome K. Jerome On Work.

“Are we labouring at some Work too vast for us to perceive? Are our passions and desires mere whips and traces by the help of which we are driven? Any theory seems more hopeful than the thought that all our eager, fretful lives are but the turning of a useless prison crank. Looking back the little distance that our dim eyes can penetrate the past, what do we find? Civilizations, built up with infinite care, swept aside and lost. Beliefs for which men lived and died, proved to be mockeries. Greek Art crushed to the dust by Gothic bludgeons. Dreams of fraternity, drowned in blood by a Napoleon. What is left to us, but the hope that the work itself, not the result, is the real monument? Maybe, we are as children, asking, "Of what use are these lessons? What good will they ever be to us?" But there comes a day when the lad understands why he learnt grammar and geography, when even dates have a meaning for him. But this is not until he has left school, and gone out into the wider world. So, perhaps, when we are a little more grown up, we too may begin to understand the reason for our living”

Jerome K. Jerome.

Jerome is known as a comic writer, perhaps whimsical is a better tag. He is often funny, he certainly doesn't shy from the real questions, he just makes the dry and chewy palatable by preparing it cleverly for us.

The Work. Work is futile unless it satisfies us. Of course offspring require us to work for money, it's part of the contract. A happy, satisfied parent is better than a wealthy, unsatisfied parent, let there be no doubt of that. Finding and performing satisfying work is one of our fundamental tasks. It ain't easy, some are born knowing what they are born to do, others take decades to find it.

It seems to me that we need to know ourselves before we can know what work will satisfy us, then we get to know ourselves better through the work. Finding and performing satisfying work is a worthy pursuit.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

One Sentence Stories, Acceptance.

Her vegan diet certainly made her perfect skin perfect, and she tasted delicious, yet he always knew his last words to her would be, "no muesli for me thanks, I'm popping out for some bacon and eggs", it was just a matter of when?

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

The Saddest Sentence Of All.

I love you . . . but . . .

We've all said it or heard it. It doesn't get better with time. So close . . . but . . .

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Dialogues, Honest.

"What have you done?"

"At this point I would dearly like to claim that the answer to that question is fairly obvious, in this instance, in fairness, I cannot. What I have done is made everyone honest."

"Honest?"

"Indeed."

"I've remained calm when you have turned the humans into all sorts of things, statues, cats and dogs, infants, I seem to remember an incident when you turned all the men into walking penises, but honest? Are you sure you haven't gone too far?"

"Well, at first I thought perhaps I had gone too far, which was odd because too far always seems so far away to me. There were hurt feelings everywhere, social order was breaking down, almost primitive tribes had formed around beliefs in certain types of honesty, I really thought I'd ruined everything. However a small amendment appears to have fixed everything."

"What did you do?"

"I made everyone honest with themselves, as well as everyone else."

"And that has made a difference?"

"Allow me to explain it to you this way. If I were to abandon my usual tact, inform you that your tie and waistcoat go together much in the way that Stalin and paranoia went together, never with positive results for those standing nearby, or at a distance for that matter, there is a chance my honesty, and dare I say taste, may upset you. However, if you were in a state of complete honesty with yourself, stood in front of a mirror and took a long look, you would see that I was correct and thank me for the information. By the way I would keep the waistcoat but the mauve in that tie does nothing to enhance . . ."

"I believe I have a grasp of the analogy, thank you."

"You see? Now you are upset. By making the humans honest with themselves no one becomes upset about anything. It is by far the most encouraging experiment so far."

"So, do you plan do leave them this way, honest, honest with themselves, free of upset and misunderstanding?"

"Sadly, no. The downfall I hadn't accounted for is the part that insecurity plays in the human mind. Without it they do nothing. It seems insecurity, uncertainty, the need to prove themselves over and over again is what drives them on. Show me a secure, contented man and I'll show you the most tedious of creatures. Stalin was of course the other end of that scale, the balance between the two ensures the humans continue to evolve without destroying themselves. It is a great disappointment to me, I thought, for a moment, that I had cracked it this time."

"I admire your courage for attempting honesty, a daring and worthy experiment. So really, this tie? You really think I should change it?"

"At least one good thing will have come of all my work."

"Very good, carry on."

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Dialogues, Infants.

"What have you done?"

"I would have thought the answer to that question were fairly obvious. I've turned everyone into four year olds."

"Apparently you have, how jolly. Perhaps I should just ask . . . why?"

"Well, it seemed to me that everyone went around bemoaning their loss of innocence, searching for their inner child, complaining about the responsibilities of being an adult, I thought they may be happier this way."

"And?"

"I regret to report a complete failure, but I must. This apparently radical change has made very little appreciable difference to the workings of the world, selfish, ignorant, incompetent children are not so different to the average adult."

"They do seem to be enjoying themselves, don't be so hard on yourself."

"Yes, it is fun for a while, but with no one to kiss scraped knees better, no one to separate fights and teach discipline it is all getting out of hand. It appears that amongst all the adults there were always a handful of genuine adults who took care of these details for the rest. I hadn't counted on that."

"So, changing them all back?"

"Not until they are all soiled, hungry and crying. I'm hoping, despite my better judgement, they might learn something, at least appreciate the genuine adults after I change them back."

"Of course the other option is to be patient, to wait a few more thousand years. They will find ways to be soiled, hungry and miserable for a while yet my young friend, as infants or adults."

"I know you are right, but I will continue my experiments just the same."

"Very good, carry on."

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

One Sentence Stories, Mystery.

She maintained her aura of mystery with such discipline that eventually he had no idea who she was, forgot her completely.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Jerome K. Jerome On Love.

“We like, we cherish, we are very, very fond of—but we never love again.”

Jerome K. Jerome.

Jerome suggests that once our first real love ends we never truly love again. I hope he is wrong, suspect he is right.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Sensual Pleasures.

Some Buddhist folk would have us believe that sensual pleasure is our enemy. Seriously, they actually employ the word enemy. This idea is, as I'm sure you are aware, a steaming, stinking pile of incorrectness. Sensual pleasure is what makes us human, what makes us great, what makes us beautiful.

This morning I stepped out, a fine mist of rain brushed my face, I kicked through the last of the damp Autumn leaves. The pretty girl in the cigarette shop smiled gorgeously, the first nicotine hit my brain, soon after the first caffeine. I was awash with sensual pleasures, they made me feel alive. Without them I would have no reason to leave home.

I can imagine a serious minded young man taking on this inane advice, doing what he can to defeat his enemy by taking no joy in sensual pleasures. Invited to a dinner party he requests the hosts fry some cardboard for him. He is convinced to take one glass of wine, for his digestion. The wine warms him, he suddenly notices that Simon's friend, he thinks her name is Tiffany, is smiling at him attractively. Suddenly the cheese is lush, the fruit acidic and fresh, the nuts crunchy and salty. He feels a warmth for all humanity, something close to happiness. What he doesn't know is that Tiffany has also heeded some of the advice of the Buddhists, just some because she is middle class, and has sworn off sex so as to more readily attain enlightenment. These middle class wankers, the true home of Buddhism, are the complete middle way, taking what suits them from teachings they don't really understand.

The equivalent of Roman Catholicism, Tibetan Buddhism, would have us believe that oral sex is "misconduct", even between married couples. Their celebrity leader lama has written tracts on the subject, like a medieval pope. The whole concept of denying sensual pleasure is medieval and ridiculous. Soft thighs, scent, flavour, the union of two in ultimate pleasure, denied by some desire for a higher high. And no one truly believes it, old Tibetan monks have their way with novices as regularly as priests with altar boys, it's all talk.

The wonder of being human is that we can find sensual pleasure in so many wonderful ways. Could you live without music? Is a warm bed on a Winter's night a delight? Is the anticipation and consummation with a lover one of the greatest things that ever happened to you? What can we possibly gain by denying ourselves these joys? Some kind of boring, senseless serenity that relies on the work of others to fill it's bowl? The less enlightened folk with a lust for life build the sewers that take our shit away, the planes that fly us to each other, they cook the food that makes our mouths cry, they compose the music, they do all the things that middle class wanker Buddhists consume with pleasure whilst their lips pay service to denying sensual pleasure.

Life is a constant stream of sensual experiences. What else is it? Deny those experiences, live as if they are of no interest to you, combat your enemy, lie down and be dead now, you may as well be. Half baked, half arsed, half comprehended Buddhist philosophy is a cop out for shallow lives.

Desire honestly, fill your senses, live and love wholly, ignore those who would describe sensual pleasures as your enemy.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Ship Of Fools.

He felt that he'd been shanghaied at birth, forcibly smuggled aboard in a hessian sack, onto a ship of fools, compelled to keep company not of his choosing. He was, understandably, a little angry about this treatment. Having known nothing else he didn't know what he was angry about, turned the anger inwards, occasionally letting it fly at innocent targets.

The rest of the crew seemed passably happy with their lot, complained about the day to day things but didn't seem to notice that their freedom had been stolen. They too knew nothing else.

So why did he dream of something different, of captaining his own ship, even rowing his own tiny boat? Who knows? Some are just born that way. The dream didn't change anything, just alienated him from his crewmates, made him disillusioned and even more restless. His day to life of working slavery continued, only in his dreams was he free.

One day the first mate was drunk. Escape beckoned. He knew it was his chance, was afraid of leaving all he had ever known. That leap, from the deck to the ocean, was the largest step of his life. He scrambled ashore, looked back at the ship of fools, all he had ever known. It wasn't too late to swim back, to resume his place, to settle for security.

He turned his back and walked away, alone for the first time in his life, went in search of satisfaction, of a tiny rowboat to call his own.

The anger left him.

He never looked back. The ship of fools sailed away, barely noticed him missing, shanghaied another newborn to take his place.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Jeff Foxworthy On Pride.

"Pride is the first step in people unraveling and companies unraveling and relationships unraveling."

Jeff Foxworthy.

I recently allowed pride to come between me and a lover. I didn't feel I was being treated right, how I deserved to be treated. I reacted by pointing this fact out, often, standing on my pride and pointing a finger. I wasn't being treated how I deserved, but by reacting with pride instead of with love I smashed the whole thing into pieces. My reaction didn't change the outcome, I wasn't being treated right and that ain't right, I could have left both parties happy and whole by reacting with love instead of pride.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

One Sentence Stories, Cruelty.

In a final act of cold cruelty she wore a pretty dress that showed off her boobs on the day they said goodbye.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Dialogues, Penises.

"What have you done?"

"Well, I would have thought the answer to that question is fairly obvious. I have turned all the men into penises."

"I should have known better than to ask."

"I believe the question you meant to ask was . . . why?"

"Get on with it."

"Well, it seemed to me that men were constantly being accused of being walking penises, that there might be something in it. I thought it might simplify things for everyone if fact and myth were combined."

"I have heard the complaint that men think through their sex organs, perhaps, this time, you are onto something?"

"I also thought it might clear up the size issue. Much human time and effort is wasted on this topic, this way there is no doubt, the facts are on display."

"So every penis is . . ."

"Indeed, anatomically accurate, to the last detail, just expanded to the size of men, you know, so they could get along in the world, not be stepped on accidentally and the like."

"Very thoughtful of you I'm sure."

"Everything is going swimmingly. A lot of pointless anxiety has been cleared up, and I've received many letters from women thanking me for making everything so clear to them. Now they know what a penis is thinking simply by observing his state of rigidity. If a penis is pretending to be interested in her garden, her romantic history, her home renovation plans, she soon knows what he is really thinking."

"Couldn't all this have been achieved with the installation of a simple indicator light, say on the foreheads of men?"

"Yes yes yes of course, always the engineer aren't you? Of course I considered that, but this way is so much more entertaining, picturesque, don't you think?"

"I guess you are right."

"Unfortunately I will have to change them all back soon enough. Without arms and legs all the things that men once did are going undone. It seems that in between being walking penises these menfolk performed many other tasks, that the civilization itself is reliant on their achievements. Who'd have thought? That they are driven to perform everything they do by this innate, penis focused desire doesn't change the fact that they get things done, face the realities of life with remarkable aplomb. I've actually discovered a new respect for these much maligned men."

"Very good, carry on."

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com

Larry The Cable Guy On Depression.

"Depression is merely anger without enthusiasm."

Larry The Cable Guy.

True words spoken in jest. Depression is indeed anger. It is unidentified anger, and therefore without expression.

The only answer I can see is self examination, identifying the anger, the enthusiasm to express it, exorcise it, will follow.

www.kentparkstreetblog.com

More Naked Mirror Stuff.

I once knew a guy who desired a flash, red sports car, couldn't afford one. Naturally I consoled him, assured him that objects like bling cars were not important, wouldn't make him any happier. He disagreed, assured me that a red sports car would make him very happy, that he enjoyed the way people looked at him when he drove such an object. I'd never heard it spoken so honestly before, I was genuinely surprised that people really found happiness in such things.

That conversation has stuck with me for years. He felt that owning an object that represented wealth made him feel good, inspired respect in others. I know he was right, I know it is wrong. We all represent ourselves in one way or another, clothes, homes, cars, boats, all the trappings. Even the bummest hippy represents an image by choosing a hair style, a necklace. Is a red sports car any different to me preferring a blazer over a homely sweater?

At some point we all stand naked in front of a mirror. It doesn't matter if that mirror has a gold frame or not, all we see is our truthful self. In a perfect world that would be enough, other people would assess us by our actions and words. In this world people do assess us by our trappings, we are visual creatures, display is instinctive.

Perhaps my friend was correct? Perhaps selecting and employing trappings effectively is a path to success? It feels wrong to me, yet I know it is right. I admire his honesty, it made me think.

Perhaps the answer is to look into that honest naked mirror, try to represent what we see there honestly when we leave the house? Long hair, red sports car, whatever we honestly feel is true to ourselves, knowing that it is all just trappings, that we are always naked in front of that mirror to ourselves.

Parkstreet.
www.kentparkstreetblog.com