Old Men

My father was the principal of the orthodox, Jewish day school I attended. (For the record, someone suggested to me recently, that I may be short on material to write about and so consequently, consciously and somehow create pain in my life just to fill that void - almost like a perverse form of research. Besides being a statement that hurt me immensely, the opening sentence above obviously renders their notion completely false. Anyone who can claim to have experienced any, let alone all the elements of that sentence, possesses enough mental anguish to fill books with.) Whilst all old collegians, excepting those that may have been his oldest son, remember him as warm, trusting and as a sort of early mentor, at the time they were passing through their days of attendance, they saw him a little differently. See, the old man, whilst on the surface quite cherry and literal, was also an incredibly and unconsciously idiosyncratic fellow. Extremely.

Of Dreams and Highways

On their 2001 album, 'Time (The Revelator)', Gillian Welch and Dave Rawlings close out with a sweet, sparse, fifteen minute, song that drifts, lifts and rambles its way from pain to hope and back again, in the golden way that only they can. The song is called 'I Dream a Highway'.

Oh I dream a highway back to you love
A winding ribbon with a band of gold
A silver vision come and rest my soul
I dream a highway back to you

In my favourite moments of self-determination, this song is exactly how I see this whole wandering routine that I'm on. I'm simply heading my way back to you, I just need to find the ribbon with a band of gold that will lead me there. That's wrong, actually. I have found it and I'm trying now to find you. I must have found it, for I can see it. It's real. In my mind anyway, but I can see it and if I can see it, it's real. A real passage with real moments. A real winding highway.

Next Time

I used to manage Australia's first, fine-dining, certified organic restaurant. Or something like that. I'm not sure if it was the very, very first, or if it was precisely fine-dining, but it was at least an approximation, if not an exaction, of the two. It's regardless, for either way it doesn't really have that much to do with the story I wish to tell you here today. I used that statement, just to provide a historical timeline and framework. It was my first, real, restaurant management job. I was grossly under qualified and only won the position due to a combination of personal, dashing charm and a Machiavellian power struggle and reshuffling between some of the directors of the group, that owned the place. My hiring was meant to provoke a further on reaction and I am not so vain as to be so unawares, that I was simply a pawn in their game.

The Bicycle Thief

If you were to step out the entrance door of my East Village apartment and onto the sidewalk, the first thing you would notice would be the tangled up mess of rusted steel, that is four bicycles, chained together and around one of those upside-down-U-shaped metal pylons. The sort of thing that councils install, to act as a docking and locking up point for your environmentally friendly mode of transport.

Nothing unusual there. Yet.

Now, look across to the East (that's towards the direction of The East River, for those of you who seem confused by direction. Can't imagine why they called it The East River.....). Only but a few feet away, stands another one of these blackened steel pylons. This is a fancier one, as it  more so resembles an upside-down-W and is able support more bicycles. Congregated around this one, is an even denser throng of rusted steel. This time, the orange of said rust is darker, richer and thicker. So thick, that one wouldn't even need to notice the punctured tires or the twisted spokes or the broken chains, to surmise that no one has sat on any of their seats or turned any of their pedals, for some time. Now look back to the first pylon, the one just outside my front door, and you'll realise that the bicycles around it, suffer from the very same tell-tale signs of idle languor.


So far, not too much to write home about. These two 'Living Sculptures' are interesting enough, but perhaps they are just an odd, isolated 'Happening'.

Ok, well, now suppose a friend of yours was going away and you were charged with the responsibility of dog-sitting her little joy. Let's say, for example's sake, that this particular Jack Russell Terrier was fairly advanced in years and, as such, ambled along on his several daily walks, at a particularly sedate and restrained pace. Furthermore (and I'm sure this is the domain of all dogs, so I'm not singling out this dear old fellow), his stumbling stagger, would be punctuated by frequent attempts to sniff at each and every street-sign, tree, dust bin, flower bed, pylon and, well, virtually anything that is stationary and rising up from the sidewalk.

'How Much?' in Two Parts - Second Part

Dear Reader,

I was going to wait until tomorrow, but a bit of Britpop on the iPod has fueled me. Here's the second half, freshly minted.

(if you are reading this one first, skip to the one below it and then return to this one second.)
hershatlarge

How much?

I'll tell you how much: Everything.

Personally, I'm willing to give everything. Not because it's that important; nor because I'm the sort that is prepared to risk all; nor because I need your love beyond the reasonable level of desperation; nor because I've put you up on a proverbial pedestal and feel that the corresponding, perceived, example of perfection that I see you as, requires the highest price it's possible to be paid, in order to deserving of you; nor because a shortage of love provided during adolescent years, has resulted in a great fear of rejection and as such, I am afraid to let even the smallest spark fade out, for it brings up and out all those old, dark corners of depression; nor because your smile is my muse; nor because I'm too tired to do anything but lay my head down on your soft pillow.

'How Much?' in Two Parts

Dear Reader,


Today I wish to conduct a little experiment. All the postings you read on this page, are exercises in stream of consciousness. Not so much the flow and rhythm of the sentences and phrases, but more so the content of the ideas, emotions, stories and confessions. The ramble of the prose is somewhat more calculated and drafted, but the subject matter is supposed to be a collection random remembered emotions and happenings of the few days prior to construction. I believe this allows me to be most honest, for I am expressing with as little perspective of rational distance as possible.


However, this post will be written in two parts. The first will be with the agitated mindset of this morning and the second half will be with a more sedate and embarrassed mindset of in a day or two's time.


Feel free to Feedback me in between.


Hershatlarge

Love, or the expression of it, requires self-sacrifice - the sacrifice of 'Self'. To state it; to show it; to convey it and pine for a reciprocation of it, requires an action far outside one's 'Self'. An action that, if it is committed in a true, accurate and total way, removes one from within the comforting barriers, borders and turf of Self and Self-Preservation and risks the probable concession of some of those very borders and turf. To me, love needs expression. Not to make Love 'real' - not to validate it by action - but rather because Love is not and never can be passive. Otherwise, it is simply a deduced opinion on the emotional position one may have towards another, existing only in the mind and not in The World. One needs outlets to bring Love out into The World and one needs The World for Love.

Turn Off The VCR

Do you suffer from Vocabulary Correctness Readjustment? This is the syndrome that describes the particular type of confusion, blended with personal embarrassment and panic that one experiences when faced with the sudden realisation that a word, phrase, cliche or proverb that they took to mean one thing, actually means something else. VCR specifically only applies to that exact moment and not to the process of incorrect use of language prior to the realignment. I once went out with a girl who would mix her cliches in delightful fluidity like "don't burn your bridge until you come up to it" and "the early bird is better than two in the bush".  She has never experienced VCR, for, still to this day, she believes those tellings, those usages of language, to be correct. Her vocabulary has never been realigned and she has never had to suffer the reentry pangs of such.

But, to those of us who have experienced the rug of correctness-security being pulled from under our feet, the debilitating symptoms of VCR are well known. In a shifting flurry across the memory storage areas of the brain, the sufferer of VCR scans in harried, mental desperation back over the past for all the times his or her vocabulary was misappropriated. At the same time, he/she stares madly off into an imagined future, creating supposed instances where vocabulary is used with more accuracy and relevance, in a bid to reconcile these new requirements with their goals, dreams and visions for their life to come. Its a frightening moment, akin to the seemingly endless increasing peak of a panic attack, but, because attacks of VCR subside and pass with less visible impact than other social mental syndromes, many would not even know it exists or existed and choose to not even acknowledge it - just like the piece of outdated technology it shares an acronym with.

The Word and You

A couple of weeks ago, I went to Panama. All I wanted to do out there, was sit on a beach and immerse myself in The Pacific - some sort of quasi-metaphysical quest for cleansing and recharge. So I packed light. A few shorts and T-shirts, the obligatory couple of white button down shirts and some underwear. I packed it all into the overnight bag I had borrowed from The Luxembourger, and threw it on the floor next to my bed, where it sat half empty and projecting a depression at it's unfulfilled potential. It was still in that pose, slouched over and deflated by emptiness, when I arose at 4:30am to head to LaGuardia Airport. It called for more contents. Dazed by the premature rise from slumber, I scanned my room looking for what void in packing I had left. Of course! I had only thought of clothing, but I had forgotten to preempt for other requirements of eventualities. In the muted shadows of the early dawn, I danced around my bedroom gathering a couple of F. Scott books, a Hemingway and even a Saul Bellow. Then I tossed in the iPod, followed by all my writing gear. In went a half dozen varieties of pencils, a couple of sharpeners and the black Moleskin. Ontop of all that, went a copy of Vanity Fair and the bag was now full;. my luggage was now complete. I had packed 'Distraction'. 

The Deep South

Out on a far edge of Melbourne's inner-city, Hipster neighborhood, sits a small pub. In my mind, I can still see it clearly. The all dark, time stained wood, dusty floors, worn high-stool seats and formica tables, with dozens of retro, antique cowboy boots snaking their way along the top shelf of the island bar. There's a pool table directly to the right as you walk in, dual Technics Decks in the left hand corner and a small dining room and kitchen out the back. The men's toilets are lined with a wallpaper that consists of black and white, sketched recreations of famous photographs of greats of The South like Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, The King and others I can't seem to remember.

Of Sandwiches, Shakespeare and Salvation

The sandwich is back!

Yep, there's a proclamation. One must always proclaim at the beginning. William Shakespeare taught me that, with such epic opening to his little plays like:

"Well, now is the winter of our discontent...."

Awesome. Grab the audience with a bold statement, pull them closer with the intrigue of that which requires explanation, set the table for what is to follow and they are yours, for however long your literary skills allow you to hold them. All one has to do, is follow such an opening with a few hours worth of dialogue, throw in something like 'a horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse' at the end, and you have something approaching the quality of Richard III. Easy as that, if you just start it off right.

Fodder

Previously, I have tried to ensure that my postings have not been targeted at anyone I know. They certainly have mentioned people I happen to come across and postulate upon others I may know a little more intimately, but they are 'about' them, rather than 'at' them. I speak only of my reactions to and lessons learned from interacting with certain people. This distinction is very important, for it provides me with the guilt-free freedom to broadcast stories and opinions on many of you who read this damn thing and not be later shaken off or up, by the numerous (and there are those, so don't think you are alone) emails that I receive with the most bizarre protestations of re clarification. (for the record - if you live in Darwin, then you are a Darwinite!)

Today, we break this barrier.

One Day

When banks first started coming out with ATMs, there was a certain reticence, on the public's behalf, against replacing their transactions involving human contact inside the bank, with an interaction with a hulking computer, stuck outside the front. People grow fond of tradition and get comfortable with systems of repetition. Change, even when the obvious and logical benefits of progression seem clear and self evident, can, sometimes, be hard to implement. So, in their wisdom, The Banks decided to make the use of all transactions on ATMs, free. The idea being, that there was already enough hindering a mass conversion to a system the banks hoped to, one day, save them millions upon millions of dollars in unpaid wages, that it would be counterproductive to encumber the public with another reason to avoid useage.

Their plan involved growing a comfortability and dependence upon, what would one day, become colloquially known as, 'the hole in the wall' and to eventually drip fees and charges into the process. This is exactly what happened. I remember, when Australian banks, unilaterally and quietly, went from 25 cents a transaction up to 50 cents, thinking that we had opened Pandora's Box and these charges could spiral out of control. Today, banks all over the world, reap billions of dollars in ATM transaction fees.

Simple plan and brilliant execution.

An intervention Letter From Australia

Dear New York City,

I love you. Totally. I always have. Even before I first arrived here to rest for a while, I adored you from afar. At that time, The romance may have been fueled by just the experiences and stories heard from those who had seen you or felt you or fed by further other's artistic interpretations and reconstructions, but, even then, the passion and emotion was true and mine. I loved you so much, from before I knew you and now, that I do know you, that love has only grown.

But......

And I say this because of the love I have for you.

But....

Goddamn it, noone in this fucking city has a fucking sense of humor!

Its not sitting well with me and, Big Apple, its time to shape up.

Someone on a Train

One day, I'm gonna fall in love on a train. 

I already sorta do. All the time. I'll be pulling into Union Square and the way that blond wistfully twirls the straw raising up from her smoothie, will seem familiar - a subtle revelation of a both calm and playful approach to the mundane of day to day. She'll remind me of someone I've never met. Someone that I will, one day, try so hard to forget. Someone, that in-between those times will seem so right; so connected; so easy. Then, the doors open and she melts out into the wider world, whilst I stay onboard for one stop more. Love gone.

I'm Back

In his book, 'Status Anxiety', Alain de Botton...

Hang on one sec. Let me quickly confess to something. I've been dying to start off a blog with a sentence like that. Not only a de Botton quote and/or thought, but a post opened up with the exact line "In his book....". My Rehabilitated Queenslander friend, the current 'Front of House of the Year' holder, berated me the other day for being all a bit too philosophical on this here page. When philosophy is mentioned, the place my mind immediately runs to, is one of the Mel Brooks characters in 'History of the World'. Have you seen it? In one of the stories, set in ancient Rome, he plays an unemployed Standup Philosopher. The premise being, that those early posturing, preening and proclaiming preachers and prophets, were essentially ancient precursors to latter day, modern Standup Comedians (for those of you keeping score at home, that's a sentence with 6 words that begin with 'pr'. Bonus points?). After a wistful wander across catchphrases like "walk this way" and "its good to be the king", the second place my mental mess runs to, is Alain de Botton.