I am. You are. We could be.

Places he has slept

2016-09-15T15:43:00.002+12:00

He lies on his back on his new bed in his bedroom in his new house with the evening sun streaming in through the window above and is thinking about how comfortable he feels. This new mattress is memory foam. It is so soft and gently accepting of his body's contours that he could lie like this for hours and not feel any need or want to reposition or move. Five thousand dollars he had spent on this. He had debated the cost for a while when purchasing, but it was the salesperson's line of 'this is your permanent home, this will be your permanent bed, think of your future and all the comfortable sleeps you will be rewarded with each day...' or something along those lines that had clinched the sale.

His future.

Whatever. The five thousand dollar mattress was nothing when weighing up how much this new house build cost him. Or would cost him... He started to think about the mortgage repayments. The thirty year fixed term loan. His loathsome job and the now necessity of him being in it in order for him to be in this house with its outlook of the park, the wooden polished floors, granite kitchen tabletop, master ensuite, extra bedrooms, extended back deck, leather lounge chairs... It was supposed to be a great moment to get onto the property ladder and own a house but most of the joy escaped him or had never arrived. Sure, it was a nice house, he had -in part- designed it and was happy with how it was completed. But why, when reflecting on things, was he feeling uneasy about the whole process? Especially when lying on this five thousand dollar mattress, this perfect mattress perfectly supporting his every appendage. How could one feel unease or discomfort?

His body was at rest but his brain was busy, agitated, ruminating.

He started to think of all the places he had slept. For he knew if he did this, they would all point towards today and how it should be glorified, desired. He was sure, almost adamant, that some of his sleeps in prior years had been so bad that they would have ushered for the present if they had the power. Such sleeps would have dictated the path to where he was today - such were their discomfort. They would have begged for the rest he was experiencing now, to be dry, safe, bored, nothing left to do but reflect on an inferior and loathing past.

He remembers the days when he was a traveler. How he had laid his head down in gardens amidst cacti, on hay bails in nondescript fields. There were windblown beaches, barns, deckchair recliners in unlocked storage units. These were the days when every dollar had value and was counted and physical discomfort often had a monetary reward in savings. Then there were all the floors, mats and couches.Tents in the backyard. The people or the people of people that he had known that had opened up such spaces. Sometimes arrangements had been made in advance, sometimes they occurred via drunken destiny. He recounted a time when he had nearly slept on a bench in a park opposite a bus station in Bulgaria only to end up being invited to spend the night with an elderly man in his apartment who would drop him off at the bus station the next day - bless.
Then there were all the hostels and refuges he had stayed in, the places where sleep had evaded him when most desired and paid for. The revelry of noisy patrons returning from late nights partying, then the stirring of early risers up to catch the first mode of transport onwards, lights on (those bastards) and the crackling of plastic bags as they rummaged through their belongs (why hadn't they organised this the day before) for undiscoverable objects. But it wasn't just the noise that had objected to one's sleep in such places, but it was also the smells. The people who wouldn't wash, the humidity and musky odours of poorly ventilated spaces. Mosquitos. Heat filled rooms with broken fans. These were things he didn't miss.

But he felt a strange fondness to these times as he reflected on them. Whilst the quality of the sleep was abysmal, many of the nights or, maybe it was the general time of life, that was memorable. These were the days when his future hung somewhere in the air and everything was unknown. He had slept in curious places and environments across the earth, sometimes solitary, sometimes with random company. He would often not know where he would sleep tomorrow, next week, or next month or who he would cross paths with and often they spent their nights in the same predicament. He met some great people this way, they would bond, connect, speculate on life, dreams and ambitions. Everything was possible, futures were unwritten. Those days they had all the time and energy in the world but little in terms of financial means.

The evening light grew dimmer through the window as the sun descended. He had not moved an inch since laying down and felt very little need or desire to do so (damn this was a good mattress!). He thought about all the sleeps he would have in this bed and wondered what dreams would come. Would they be filled with reflections of the past or would they look continually to the future? Is this where he wanted to be? He did not know and he wondered: Was he comfortable with this? Once there was a big wide world, now -more or less- it had shrunk to the size of this house.

Conversation between a boy and a rabbit shaped cloud

2015-08-11T09:37:00.001+12:00

RABBIT SHAPED CLOUD: Do I fascinate you? You've been staring at me for hours.

BOY: Yes. Right now you are the canvas for my thoughts.

RABBIT SHAPED CLOUD: Well, I'm glad I can be of assistance. I often look down and do the same thing.

BOY: Really?

RABBIT SHAPED CLOUD: Well, there's not a lot else for me to do up here...

BOY: What goes through your mind?

RABBIT SHAPED CLOUD: Oh, many things I guess. Wanting to be down there amongst you all is one of them. I often fantasize about what it would be like. To go about the daily business of a human. To build a kingdom.

BOY: Yes?

RABBIT SHAPED CLOUD: Yes! Often! I really think I could make a go of things. I would be focused and not succumb to distractions like everyone else.

BOY: You think we are distracted? Life on the ground is not so easy. Those things are easy to say being a cloud. You are so removed. You possess such carefree perspective.

RABBIT SHAPED CLOUD: It looks pretty simple from up here.

BOY: You are mistaken cloud! It is complicated down here! It might seem that there is a clear objective in life but there is not! Many people spend their whole lives just trying to find that objective, many people's objectives contradict and are in competition, and some people are constantly modifying their objectives, never satisfied.

RABBIT SHAPED CLOUD: Hmmmmm, that sounds complicated. I always thought you were striving for happiness.

BOY: Yes we are. But it's not that simple. Happiness tends to change. We can't be happy all the time otherwise we grow weary of it. We seem to need a certain level of misery, boredom and pain thrown in the mix, then we can appreciate happiness again. But all our cycles seem to be out of whack because, often, different things make us happy and sad. And then amongst all that we have to work. And we work too much! We have little time outside of work to strive for happiness.

RABBIT SHAPED CLOUD: I'm not completely sure if I understand. It sounds like a mess down there.

BOY: It can be.

RABBIT SHAPED CLOUD: So that is why I often see you guys staring up at the sky? Your relative insignificance in the context of the universe puts your minor, trivial problems in perspective.

BOY: Yes, I guess so.

RABBIT SHAPED CLOUD: Ah, I see. I had wondered about that, but wasn't sure. Do you sometimes wish you were like me, a cloud?

BOY: I often wish I was as free as a cloud.

RABBIT SHAPED CLOUD: Yes, it is pretty awesome up here. We are free but at the same time we have limited control of our trajectories. We form and then we break apart. Nothing lasts. It's only during storms when we gather for any meaningful interaction. It's like a family reunion or jamboree. Heavy rains, blocking out the sun, pounding the earth. It's what we live for. I love a good rain! Storms are like a cloud orgy.

BOY: You take pride in making storms?

RABBIT SHAPED CLOUD: Yes, but they don't happen often enough. Often we are so sparse and far apart, it is like wandering in the desert. There is no one to talk to and it can be like that for months. It's only thinking of the next party that gets us through. But sometimes we have no idea when that will be. Sometimes there is no wind and we are stuck, like a sailboat in the ocean. Tell me boy, do I make an interesting shape from down there?

BOY: Yes! You are a rabbit, but you are starting to break apart.

RABBIT SHAPED CLOUD: Ha! I thought so! It's what it felt like when the other clouds joined my form. A rabbit in full flight, no? Front and hind legs extended?

BOY: Yes! Precisely.

RABBIT SHAPED CLOUD: Good. I'm glad you noticed. I think I made a good dragon yesterday. You would not have noticed though. I was a few hundred kilometres down the coast.

BOY: I would have liked to have seen that.

RABBIT SHAPED CLOUD: It was glorious. I caught my reflection in the ocean.

BOY: But you're starting to break up now. You're losing your pointy ears and your legs.

DISSOLVING RABBIT SHAPED CLOUD: Yes. I can feel it. The parts that joined me are starting to drift. It's a shame. We were starting to get to know each other, to have a connection, no?

BOY: Yes. I wish we started this dialogue sooner.

CLOUD: Yes... But... Oooooh, hang on! What's this? Yes! Yes it is! I smell some high pressure to the north!

BOY: Huh?

CLOUD: I'm outa here boy! There's rain coming! The other cloud particles that joined me sensed it earlier. That's where they are going. There's a storm forming! A hot, sticky, moist, wet jam with other clouds! Yahoooooo, Party time! I'll leave you mulling over existential thought. Later!

BOY: -

Dear 40 year old me,

2015-08-06T10:05:00.002+12:00

Dear 40 year old me,

God, how are we? Did it all go as planned? Did 31 year old me get the trajectory right? Did we set the right goals? It feels dangerous and frightening writing to you because you seem so close, and you, as you read this, I will seem just a moment ago. We are something like a throw and catch. A throw and catch over a wide flowing river. Did I manage it well? Did your feet have to wander far to search for the catch. I hope I was on the money. I hope your hands were safe.

So many questions! I was a wide minded 31 year old. I had so many places to aim, I had ideas and I wasn't too sure on where I should shoot. But that's a good thing, is it not? To leave the road open to the unraveling journey? To not put a ceiling, walls or floors to ambition?

Did we end up in some off-grid cabin in the woods? Are we in a tiny house pulling the finger at the man? Am I a novelist? Are we practicing permaculture? Am I a unique and cool human specimen? Are we free like birds? How was my investment strategy? Were we able to live off passive income? Did A2 milk take over the world? Were the years of burden worthwhile for us or did it hinder us? Did it break and destroy us or did we survive, our creativity, vitality and outlook intact. Did we pull out too early or did we stay in too long? It's so hard to get this right as a 31 year old. How much is enough? How much is too much? What is the cost of savings? What exactly does anyone really need. Are we foolish? Are we (in some ways obscurely) brilliant? Oh the burdens of the 30s. Do we have children? Are they as tiring as people say or do they just say that because they have to work full-time as well as raise them. Are we still working? If we are, I hope it is just for fun and it doesn't feel like slavery, a truncation of the better thinking, knowing, inspired self. Tell me we transitioned to a creative industry. Tell me the years up to this didn't hollow us out.

So many questions!

I can only assume where you would be and what you would be like. I hope you are happy and at peace, that you are fit, healthy and still have a peculiar and endlessly entertaining mind. I hope you want to high-five and thank me. Or have I screwed up and do you want to kill me? I've always thought about you and what you would want. I wanted you to be fricking awesome in your own quiet low key way. But at 31 I feel that I am at a very precarious cross-road. With just a few decisions I can change you quite dramatically. Right this minute I am molding you. How crazy is that?! I am forming myself by the decisions I am making. I want you to know the nature of my intent. I am ambitious and not too dead to dream. There's a cloud - metaphorical - that I am trying to curate. Twenty year old us started off as a bit of an uninitiated dickhead and bounced around in a bi-polar fantasy land at times but he found some form and matured a bit. From him, to me, all our lives, we've been building. I just wanted you to know that. We've been waiting for the moments that are soon to unfold and I hope the foundation that we have laid to date is going to capitalize on what is to come.

I hope we make it. Godspeed.

Am I angry? 31 year old me has been getting angry. He's been getting frustrated. There are so many things that irk me. Even stupid small things like: why is Tom Cruise still starring as an action hero? (Sorry. I got distracted there. I'm half watching the breakfast news as I write this and Tom Cruise is hanging off a plane on take-off in a new impossible mission). But Tom isn't actually the problem, you know. He's just the cherry on a cake of disenchantment. The main serving is the human power struggle. The lack of love and compassion. Racism. Inequality. Facts like 20% of Russia's wealth is owned by 111 people. Backhanded and corrupt governments. The fact that we are all flawed, tainted and complicit no matter which chair of judgement we feel entitled to sit in. The world wants things their way and each person's way is contrary to another person's way. Then there's mobs like ISIS. Then there's multinational corporations and governments raping poorer countries. Meanwhile as governments and multinational corps do the raping for a filtered down societal benefit, we're busy taking selfies, seeking attention, documenting our pretend lives, the highlight reel that we want everyone to think is a live feed. Sometimes it's just too much if you stop and think of it. The world is f***ed. You need to get away, escape, lose yourself in some far fetched fantasy land, watch a corny Hollywood movie. Then suddenly you have 53 year old Tom Cruise hanging off an airplane in Mission Impossible 5, saviour of the world.

Climb mountains 40 year old me. Climb lots of mountains.

We haven't been climbing enough mountains. I think it is a necessary medication for us. We get pissed off with the planet and we need perspective. We need a grueling climb and then to look down and see everything from a distance. When removed it looks beautiful again. Tell me we started climbing mountains again. Real mountains. Not just Australian hills where you can still hear and see traffic from the top. All those people in footy shorts and thongs driving around in their beloved utes and trucks.

Be still. Be calm and at peace. I hope I've traveled down the right road for you. You are a brilliant thing even though you often don't believe or realise it. Success isn't what you have or don't have, it is about the ability of your soul to rejoice, the ability of your soul to feel and connect beyond the veil. That's the source of endless beauty.

Or maybe I'm wrong. You know. Who knows? Maybe at 31 years old our fundamentals are way off the mark and we're headed for doom. At least this letter serves as a beacon, a marker. Just like all your writing.

Be free and know that you get to write your own story. You're a good narrator and there's been a pretty amazing cast so far. Never feel like you are a slave. You owe yourself that. The pages and pen are your own.

Fact is, I'm writing to you in future tense but really I'm writing to me in present.

Hasta luego.

31 year old me.

#humanity #capitalism #M4sydney

2014-12-08T01:03:00.000+13:00

"Did you know that we'd all move faster if we drove courteously and merged like a zip?" the boy asked the driver in the car beside him on the motorway who had just cut him off to get ahead.

The driver looked at the boy sitting in his vehicle beside him and did not respond.

"If we merged like a zip and everyone travelled at a reasonable speed and distance, we'd all get where we were going faster and without stress."

The boy was in a merging lane on the motorway and no one was letting him in. If any space opened up in the adjacent lane a car would fill it as fast as possible so nobody else could take it. No merging was occurring.

"Imagine a world where every driver was courteous and showed each other grace" the boy went on. "Imagine if we could do that. We'd all be moving seamlessly. We wouldn't be accelerating and quickly braking. We wouldn't be tailing each other so closely that when one person suddenly brakes, people 5km or further back on the motorway brake. Do you realise that a lot of traffic on the roads could be avoidable with courteous driving and safe following distances? But the problem is, people are not courteous. They only think about themselves and their own needs. No one trusts each other so everyone shits on each other. No one gets ahead. We end up going nowhere."

Sacred Words

2014-05-02T23:52:00.000+12:00

The artist tried to write something that could best encompass his soul

With God and each passing day he would make an edit

To the best of his ability

He would attempt to sum up an impossibility

The words that the artist wrote would be shown to just one person

And failing that, they would be taken to his grave

The greatest prose the world would ever know

Sacred words

Allegory of a Man Who Will Not Look Away

2014-04-16T08:08:00.000+12:00

MEET OUR ANTI-HERO, WHO, FOR THE PURPOSES OF THIS ALLEGORY WE SHALL NAME ‘BOB’. HE STARES AT HIMSELF IN THE BATHROOM MIRROR OF A NIGHTCLUB AND HIS INNER VOICE OF REASON IS SAYING;

Okay. Okay. You’re looking sharp. Straighten that collar up a bit. No. Not too straight. You want to look a bit rugged too. Rugged but classy. Now compose yourself. We’ve thought this through. She’s going to be there but it’s going to be okay. It’s going to be no problem.

You’re over her.

Over her.

Over her.

Over her.

She is nothing to you.

It doesn’t matter how she looks, what she’s wearing, what she smells like, who she’s with.

Immaterial.

Im-mat-e-ri-al.

You are going to have a good night. It’s going to be just like she’s not there. Okay? Are you ready? Deep breath. Open the door. Let’s go.

Wow! It’s pumping in here! So many people! You are going to have yourself a good time!

Look at all the fine ladies! Foxy as hell too! Just don’t scan the room looking for her.
Remember: act like she is not here. Play it cool. Play. It. Cool.

Hey!

Hey, hey, hey. What are you doing? You’re looking for her aren’t you? We’ve talked about this. Don’t do it. Move on! She has! She doesn’t matter anymore.

Ahhh.

You’ve seen her haven’t you? Quick look away before she sees you. Look away.

LOOK AWAY.

You’re not looking away are you?

You want to see who she’s with don’t you?

It’s not going to make you feel better you know. Why are you such a territorial bastard?
Why do you need to know even though it doesn’t matter?

Wow. She really does look stunning tonight. Can you believe you once held a girl like that? Wow, she is looking damn fine! Damn fine! If only... No. Don’t even go there. What’s past is past. We’re moving on. Plenty of fish in the sea. Ahem. I said, we are moving on. Come on...

You really can’t help yourself can you? You really have to know. Well, since you are
looking... He’s handsome isn’t he? Looks successful too. Well built, athletic. They seem
happy! So happy together. They make happiness look natural. Like they own it, or it owns them.

Okay. We’ve seen enough, lets walk away before she sees you.
It’s too late isn’t it? She’s seen you. In the midst of her happiness she spotted you, paused briefly, then resumed all too easily her happiness. But she’s going to look again isn’t she. Yep. She’ll do it again. Because even though she is happy, she is just like you. Easily jealous. Insecure. And even though you mean nothing to her now, she still needs to know.

You make a great pair. You really do. Oh you guys are pathetic. Okay. So we had a plan. A good plan. A great plan. But you have strayed, had better ideas so we’re going to have to run with a different tact now... You’ve got about ten seconds before she looks your way again, so quick. Look happy. Don’t just stand there like a solemn idiot. Not cool! Dance! Do something! Look like you’re having a good time. Dance with someone! That girl there. Yeah. She looks like she’d be into it. Good work! You look kind of convincing. She’s watching you and you are dancing with this girl, who is not that bad looking by the way. Good job. Why not have a good time with her tonight? Forget about your ex.

You don’t want to do you?

You’re already looking in her direction aren’t you?

I’m disappointed you know. Out of all the people in the world, I had to be your inner voice of reason. Well. They’re dancing very closely aren’t they? Sensually even. His hands. They are pioneers on her body. She’s really enjoying herself, but still despite all this, still she looks your way and you are...
What are you doing? You’re up close and personal with her now. There’s a little bump and grind action going on. I bet you can feel her breath on your neck. You know. She might even be into you.

You don’t care do you.

You’re still looking over there aren’t you?

You fool.

Well, I take it you are enjoying his hands run down her thighs. I think he’s even spread his hands a bit and making suggestions across her inner thigh. I bet that’s really getting her going... His firm hands...

Well... You are original my friend. Copy his exact moves with your girl except try and make it look more sensual. It’s a game now is it? You versus him? Or you versus her? Are you trying to prove a point? Or trying to win her back? You versus her is it? Okay. Thanks for the clarity on that point. You really baffle me with your logic. Well, since you are playing this game you might as well kiss her. Go on. Beat them to it. That’s it. With lots of tongue. You are both animals. Dirty, dirty, sex crazed animals. You want to devour each other, tear each others clothes off and have sex right here on this dance floor. Just like the song that’s playing! How apt! What are the words? “I want to make love in this club?” Or something like that? Hmmmmm, it’s laughable, the popular music industry and it’s willingness to take off it’s clothes. Well go on. You’ve made a good start. That’s it. She’s watching! I don’t think she likes it! You’ve made her jealous by being so into this girl. She’s feeling a tad insecure about it! You’ve set them off kissing now. She’s all over him like she’s got something to prove. You humans. Pathetic. Look at you both. Kissing someone else while sneaking glimpses of each other across the dance floor.

MOMENTS PASS. WHAT IS AN INNER VOICE OF REASON TO SAY IN MOMENTS LIKE THIS? IT THINKS BEFORE CONTINUING:

So...

Um...

This girl.

This girl you are kissing...

I wonder what her story is? I wonder why she is kissing you and reciprocating all this... affection.

Affection isn’t really the right word is it?

Attention. Yes, attention is the best I can do at the moment.

I wonder who hurt her? I wonder who she is trying to forget. I wonder if she is also
sneaking glimpses at someone else in this club.

You guys. You really humor me sometimes, you know that? Weaving your intelligent webs, everyone getting tangled in the same mess.

Oh.

But you’ve stopped now. Stopped all the kissing and fondling, etc. I knew this would
happen. She wants to get some drinks doesn’t she? Some hard liquor? Of course she
does, and so do you. And so does your ex and she is persuading her new man. Both
parties will down drinks from opposite ends of the bar because you need them in the
pursuits you are undertaking. You need to be plastered, hammered. Because what you are doing is non-sensical. You know it. But you do it anyway and you want to drown voices like me out.

BOB DOWNS MANY STRONG DRINKS AND A REASONABLE AMOUNT OF TIME PASSES BY. DURING SUCH TIME, ALCOHOL PERMEATES THROUGHOUT HIS BODY. TO APPRECIATE THIS PROCESS AND TO GAIN A SENSE OF THE PASSING OF TIME WE WILL NOW REGARD A YOUTUBE VIDEO FOR THE EFFECT OF SYMBOLISM.

Chumbawamba - Tubthumping

AND NOW WE RESUME WITH OUR ANTI-HERO AND HIS INNER VOICE OF REASON SOMEWHAT DRUNK...

Hey hey! Ho! Wooooooooooo! I feel good! Don’t you feel good? Buddy! Yeah! My man! My main man with the master plan! All is full of love! This room! This girl! Her legs! Damn! Don’t you just wanna spread ‘em? I bet you do! You dirty dog you! She’s hot man! Hotter than before! I guess I wasn’t paying close enough attention. Sorry if I was being a bit critical towards you before by the way. I was just-

BOB FORGIVES HIS INNER VOICE OF REASON.

You forgive me?

Aww gee.

That’s right.

I was just looking after my boy!

You’re my boy!

You’re my boooo-oy!

Yeah! That’s it. This is how we do it. We’re back dancing. With this girl, this HOT girl.
Dancing! Her body so, so, close! The heat! The heat! The heat coming off her body!
Ohhhh yeeeaaah!

You are picturing it aren’t you?

BOB IS THINKING ABOUT HIS EX.

You’ve got her naked in bed and you’re riding her like a stallion!

That’s right a stallion!

Look at those breasts, those plump, plump breasts, that chest, that wonderful neck line,
those lips! Those luscious lips. So soft and succulent!

Oh!

And when she exhales. The warmth on your neck! Oooooooo. It makes me shiver inside!

And look at her eyes. Those devilish eyes, man. She’s giving you the look of sin. She
wants it. She needs it. There is only one way this night is going to end. She will let you. Let you do any-.

Hey!

What are you doing?

Don’t look away. We’re dancing with the lustful girl. Don’t look over there. Don’t search for her.
Heaven has dropped you a date in the form of this sensuous beauty and you want to look elsewhere. What is your problem? Get back to dancing. Do not look over there.

DO.

NOT.

LOOK.

OVER.

THERE.

Yeah. That’s better!

Oh yeah! Yes! Look at this! The way she is rubbing her body on yours as we dance. Look how suggestive it is. Time to get it on! We’re pulsing buddy! Thunderbirds are go!

BOB CANNOT STOP THINKING ABOUT HIS EX EVEN THOUGH THERE IS ANOTHER WOMAN’S BODY GYRATING AROUND HIS PENIS. IT IS TRUE THOUGH, HIS THUNDERBIRD IS STRONG.

Okay.
This is the new plan. Are you listening to me? Tonight. This girl. Bed. Hers. Yours. Who the hell cares. Lose yourself in each other. That stinging, hollow pang you feel nagging at the inside of your chest. The one that your ex has left. The one you are feeling now. The one that got all the more blown open when you saw that she is now with someone else and has left you feeling replaced and inferior, like a rear projection television -you know the big fat bulky heavy ones that look so ridiculous, definition laughable, when sitting next to an LCD flat screen. Fill it with this girl! You’ll wake up in the morning victorious. Things will be anew! Refreshed! A new girl! New memories! New memories that will cloud the old ones, and the more we do this, the more we will replace. My friend, this plan is fool proof. Repeat and replace, repeat and replace, repeat and replace. Do this until there is nothing left of her. You won’t even think of her. There will be too many to filter through to even remember her. They will all be insignificant and mean nothing to you. There will be no more meaning. No more love. But no more pain! Just sex, sex. Lots of sex! And more alcohol. Come on. Drink up. Yeah that’s it. More alcohol.

THE PAIN IN BOB’S HEART IS SO GREAT IT SURPASSES THE JOY IN HIS PANTS
AS IT EXPERIENCES FRICTION BY THE WOMAN IN FRONT OF HIM. IT IS CLEAR THAT HE NEEDS MORE ALCOHOL. BOB DRINKS AS IF A CAMEL AND HIS INNER VOICE OF REASON SAYS:

Good.

We just have to play this out a bit longer. Maybe another couple of hours. I don’t know why it is this way. You know it and she knows it. In a few hours you will be in bed at one of your homes having sex. But you can’t leave now and arrive at such a conclusion prematurely. Even in alcohol lubricated scenes like this there is etiquette. I know, I know. Stupid isn’t it. Etiquette. It’s all about sex but we can’t make it all about sex, if you know what I mean. There has to be an illusion of connection. And this illusion will come. We just need more time. More time, more dancing, and more alcohol. More alcohol. Drink.

Hey!

Why are you still looking over there?

BOB IS... WELL, HE ALWAYS IS...
AND WHEN HE IS, THEY ARE ALWAYS HOLDING EACH OTHER SO CLOSE,
INTIMATELY, LUSTFULLY, EROTICALLY, WHICH DRILLS HOLES INTO BOB’S SOUL.

Focus. You amateur. You pussy. Call yourself a man? You and all your feelings. Letting
your emotions and a girl dominate you. You are pathetic. Weak! I am going to implement a punishment from now on. Every time you look or even think about looking in your ex’s direction you are going to have to drink. I am doing this to help you. It will help you rationalize. Alcohol will help you conform to our set plan. Destroy love. Destroy pain. Obliterate it. Replace it with conquest and temporary pleasure. We are stealing from love. Stealing. Taking the best part, the pinnacle, and dispensing with the rest. The rest is crap.

Now drink.

That’s it.

And again.

Yep.

And again.

And.

Again!

BOB LOOKS IN THE FORBIDDEN DIRECTION AS HE DRINKS.

Man you are hopeless! You can’t help yourself but look over there. Why do you find it so difficult to stick to task? It seems pretty straight forward to me. And now...

Shit.

BOB CAN BARELY STAND STRAIGHT.

You can barely stand straight! You’ve drunk too much. You can’t even dance properly
anymore. You’re wasted. You’re putting this lustful girl off. She’s slowly pretending like she doesn’t know you. And she’s...

gone.

Disappeared into the sea of clubbers. And you’re left barely treading water. Man,
you’re useless.

BOB’S HEAD IS CLOUDY. IT HAS LOST IT’S ABILITY TO PROCESS AND FILTER.
FINALLY IT GRASPS AN IDEA, AN OBJECTIVE, A FUNCTION. IT IS JUBULANT! IT
CLINGS TO IT, FOCUSSES ON IT, BECAUSE IT KNOWS, IN THIS CURRENT STATE,
THESE MOMENTS ARE RARE, THEY ARE GOLDEN. THEY MUST BE EMBRACED.
SUCH SMALL LOGICS LIKE THIS ONE SEEM EPIPHANIC.

Where you going? Look at you. So pathetic. Staggering. So slow. Drunk. You weakling.

BOB HAS DECIDED TO APPROACH HIS EX.

Are you going towards her now?

Towards your ex?

You are pathetic.

You are pitiful.

BOB STUMBLES INTO HIS EX GIRLFRIEND WHO IS DANCING WITH HER NEW MAN. HE HOLDS HER:

BECAUSE IF HE DIDN’T HOLD HER NOW HE WOULD HAVE LOST ALL BALANCE AND FALLEN TO THE GROUND

BECAUSE IT IS ALL HE HAS EVER THOUGHT ABOUT DOING SINCE THE DAY THEIR RELATIONSHIP ENDED. IT IS WHAT HE WANTS MORE THAN ANYTHING. TO FEEL WARMTH, TO TANGIBLY HOLD A DREAM, TO DEFY THE IMPOSSIBLE, TO RECREATE A TIME WHEN BOTH THEIR BODIES WERE HELD IN SUCH PROXIMITY, A TIME THAT BOB WOULD DESPERATELY LIKE TO SUSPEND, WOULD SACRIFICE ALL HE HAD FOR, AND POSSIBLY DIE IN.

You are an over-sentimental, disillusioned, mentally ill, idiot.

BOB FEELS A FIRM GRIP ON THE BACK OF HIS NECK. IT IS TITANIC. IT PULLS HIM AWAY AND TURNS HIM SO HE IS FACE TO FACE WITH IT’S SOURCE. BOB’S EYES ARE BLOODSHOT AND SLOW. THEY PLEAD POSSIBILITY. HE IS MET WITH EYES THAT SCREAM INTOLERABILITY AND DOMINEERING POSSESSIVE ANGST. THEY SHOVE HIM IN THE CHEST AND BOB FINDS HIMSELF ON THE FLOOR.

Man! This is embarrassing! Embarrassing for all concerned! It’s embarrassing to even
witness this! You are an embarrassment! An embarrassment of a man!

BOB CRIES. NOT LIKE A BABY, BUT A FEW TEARS RUN DOWN HIS CHEEK. THEY DO THIS UNEXPECTEDLY. HE DOES NOT NORMALLY DO THIS. THIS IS A SURPRISING RESPONSE EVEN GIVEN THE CIRCUMSTANCES.

Are you...crying?

Tears?

Tears!

What a baby!

BOB SITS ON THE FLOOR OF THE CLUB AND WATCHES AS HIS EX AND HER NEW MAN STARE INTENTLY INTO EACH OTHERS EYES. SHE IS ADMIRING HOW
STRONG HE IS, AND HE IS...WELL...WHAT ISN’T THERE TO ADMIRE? THEY ARE
DELIGHTED WITH EACH OTHER. HE IS A HULK AND SHE IS A PRINCESS. THEY ARE A FAIRY-TALE.

And you are a joke.

And now you are on your feet. What are you doing?

BOB STARTS BACK TOWARDS HIM WITH HIS FIST CLENCHED. THERE ARE
THUNDERSTORMS NOW IN BOB’S HEAD. THERE IS RAGE. SUICIDAL POSSIBILITIES. MARTYRDOM. GLORY. HE DEFIANTLY SHOVES HIS NEMESIS.

Are you an idiot? Have you no logic? You can’t do this! Not in front of his girl! He’s a lot
stronger than you...

BOB HAS NOT CHOSEN THE BEST METHOD OF COMMUNICATION. WHAT HE
REALLY WANTED TO SAY WAS: MY HEART IS IN A THOUSAND FRAGMENTS.
NOTHING WILL PIECE THEM TOGETHER. THERE IS ONLY A SLITHER OF HOPE FOR ME. I ONCE HELD THE SUN, IT’S GOLDEN RAYS ILLUMINATED MY SOUL, KEPT ME WARM, MADE BEAUTY OF EVERY ILL. BUT NOW, MY LIFE IS DISASTER, ENTROPY REIGNS OVER ME, FOR MY ONLY LOVE HAS DEPARTED FROM MY LIFE AND I CANNOT GET HER BACK. I WONDER WHETHER IT IS BETTER TO NOT KNOW LOVE AT ALL THAN TO HAVE HAD IT, LOST IT, AND LIVE KNOWING THAT YOU WILL NEVER HAVE IT AGAIN. I KNOW YOU (HIS EX GIRLFRIEND) DO NOT WANT TO HEAR WHAT I HAVE TO SAY. YOU WILL NOT LISTEN TO ME. YOU WOULD PREFER NOT TO SEE ME AT ALL. WELL HERE I AM! I WILL DANCE! I DON’T CARE THAT I STILL LOVE YOU. I WILL DO SO FOREVER. I WILL SCREAM IT FROM ROOFTOPS, CARVE IT DEEP INTO MY CHEST. I WILL DO ALL THESE THINGS KNOWING THAT IT IS ONLY I WHO FEELS THEM, THAT THEY ARE NOT RECIPROCATED AND THAT THIS IS WHY TONIGHT IS SO AWKWARD. SO BE IT. I WOULD DIE FOR YOU. HARM MYSELF FOR YOU. P.S. THIS GUY. HE IS A BASTARD. I DO NOT LIKE HIM. HE IS A PIECE OF SHIT.

BUT BOB DOES NOT SAY THESE THINGS. HE HAS OPTED FOR THE SYMBOLIC AND METAPHORICAL APPROACH INVOLVING VIOLENCE AND THERE WILL BE
CONSEQUENCES. HIS NEMESIS RAISES HIS ARM, FIST CLENCHED, RECOILS AND...

“NOOOOOOOOOO!” BOB’S EX GIRLFRIEND SCREAMS.

Damn! What the hell was that! Are we flying? The world is spinning. No. We are still on our feet, just... No. Not anymore. We are down. Damn it. We are down.

BOB’S NEMESIS IS STANDING OVER HIM DEFIANTLY AS IF TO METAPHORICALLY
SAY: I WIN.
BOB’S EX DOES NOT COME TO HELP HIM UP. HE HOPED THAT SHE WOULD. HE
WAS AT LEAST GRATEFUL FOR THE PITY ON HIM PORTRAYED IN HER SCREAM.
BOB TOOK HOPE IN THAT SCREAM. IT WAS FOR HIM, FROM HER. FOR A MOMENT, BOB HELD HER CONCERN AND FOR THAT, HE WOULD GLADLY TAKE THE PUNCH AGAIN.

Pathetic. You are hopeless.

BUT THAT IS WHERE ANY SENTIMENT FOR BOB ENDS. SHE GOES TO HER MAN
AND THEY LEAVE. SHE DOESN’T LOOK BACK. BOB STUMBLES BACK TO HIS FEET. BALANCE IS A STRUGGLE. THE FLOOR IS MOVING, TILTING. HIS FEET SEARCH FOR, AND THEN FINALLY, INERTIA. BOB LOOKS AROUND. THIS CLUB IS BLURRY. A CORNER OF HIS VISION IN ONE EYE IS OBSCURED. THERE IS PAIN. THERE MUST BE SWELLING. ICE. LATER, HE IS TO SEEK ICE. SUDDENLY BOB CAN FEEL HIMSELF MOVING, WHICH IS STRANGE BECAUSE HE DOES NOT INTEND IT. HE IS MOVING BACKWARDS THROUGH THE CROWD. HE IS BEING... CARRIED. CARRIED! NO. DRAGGED. YES. DRAGGED! THROUGH THE CROWD PAST THE BAR, DOWN THE STEPS AND THEN IS THROWN. THE PAVEMENT IS HARD. THE BOUNCERS DUST THEIR HANDS OFF OF BOB AND RETURN TO THE CLUB.

They could have been more gentle. Those bastards.

ENOUGH. BOB’S INNER VOICE OF REASON HAS HAD ENOUGH. IT SUGGESTS TO BOB THAT IT IS;

Time for a cab. Come on buddy. This night has been a complete and utter disaster. The
only thing you have succeeded in doing is taking me to new levels of disappointment in
you. Come on. Back to your feet. That’s it. A cab’s just stopped for us.

BOB DOESN’T WANT A CAB.

Hey.

Where are you going?

The cab.

The cab is back there.

You can barely walk. Where are you going? Where the hell are you going! Stop this! What’s come over you! Home! Home calls! Bed! Rest that sorry, waste of space, pathetic head of yours! To bed! To the cab! Home!

BOB HAS A BETTER IDEA.

Where are you going?

This isn’t funny! What are you doing? Are you going to find a bridge and jump off it? That’s the only logical thing I can think of. It would actually come close to redeeming tonight. That’s how bad and utterly embarrassing the night has been. Your death would end the punishment for me. Emancipate me. From your stupid, good-for-nothing head.
Where are you going?

BOB IS DETERMINED.

HE STUMBLES HALF A MILE. HE FALLS HALF A DOZEN TIMES IN THE PROCESS
BUT DOES NOT GIVE IN. GIVEN HOW DRUNK HE IS, IT IS A MAMMOTH EFFORT. HE RESTS OCCASIONALLY AGAINST POWER POLES OR FIRE HYDRANTS. HE FIGHTS TO GET HIS STRENGTH BACK. IT IS SO TIRING WALKING DRUNK! HE SEEMS TO AIM HIS STEPS IN THE DIRECTION OF THE BRASSERIE WHERE THEY FIRST MET AND WHEN IT IS IN SIGHT, HE STUMBLES ONE LAST TIME EXHAUSTED AND IS CONFRONTED BY HIS REFLECTION AMIDST CIGARETTE BUTTS FLOATING IN A PUDDLE ON THE GROUND.

Ahhh. I see what you were... You don’t know it, but I am standing somewhere inside the control centre of your brain and I am looking at the ground and shaking my head. Look at yourself in the puddle. You are pathetic. We have come full circle.

BOB REGARDS HIS OWN REFLECTION. HE HAS A SWOLLEN EYE, A BLEEDING LIP.

HIS THOUGHTS ARE SLOW. HIS HEAD SWAYS.

OKAY, OKAY, HE SAYS TO HIMSELF, STRUGGLING TO HOLD HIS HEAD UP ABOVE THE PUDDLE.

YOU’RE LOOKING SHARP. NOW STRAIGHTEN THAT COLLAR UP A BIT.

NO. NOT TOO STRAIGHT.

YOU WANT TO LOOK A BIT RUGGED TOO. RUGGED, BUT CLASSY.

NOW COMPOSE YOURSELF.

HIS VISION IS BLURRY BUT HE CONJURES ENOUGH FOCUS FOR A BRIEF MOMENT TO CONNECT INTENTLY WITH HIS VISAGE.

CLASSY.

STAY CLASSY.

This Page Has Not Been Intentionally Left Blank

2014-03-22T14:30:00.002+13:00

A LARGE GROUP OF YOUTHS WERE GATHERED into an empty concrete warehouse and spread out along the perimeter of it’s walls. Each youth was designated a large area of wall and given ten cans of paint and a paintbrush.

"Each of you has an allocated area of wall" a man said through a megaphone, blasting his ampliified voice to all corners of the building. He walked in small circles at the warehouse floor’s centre trying to ensure that all four corners could hear him.

"You have twenty minutes to paint whatever you want on the wall. After twenty minutes you must put down your paints and nothing more can be done. You must leave your area of wall as it is."

There was dissent amongst the youths as they heard this and a barrage of sighs and internal mutterings ensued. Each respective area of wall was vast: 10 metres wide and 3.5 meters high. It seemed impossible to do anything to it in just twenty minutes.

"I don’t understand" said a boy to the girl next to him. Each were placed in one of the corners. "Did he say we only had twenty minutes? His megaphone is not very loud and the acoustics in here are bad."

"I don’t know" said the girl. "I think that is what I heard."

Looking around the warehouse and reading the body language of others, they assumed that what they had heard was accurate.

"Do you know what you are going to paint?" asked the boy.

"No idea" said the girl.

She looked at her large section of empty wall.

"I don’t even know where to start."

The boy scanned his eyes around the warehouse in an effort to gage people’s intent. But everyone appeared different. Some were ponderous, some focussed, others worried, agitated and pacing.

"Okay" the boy and girl in the corner thought they heard the man in the middle say. "You’re time starts now!"

And at that moment a loud buzzer sounded, like the kick off to a sports event.

Evertything took the boy and girl by surprise. Before they knew what was happening, the warehouse exploded into life, hundreds frantically going about their business.

People ran to their paint cans and back to their wall, commencing to make their marks.

But the boy stood on the spot stupidly, frozen, as the initial moments passed by.

He watched as some people started to draw an outline of an image, others just going about painting a background base colour.

But everyone had different styles, the boy noticed. Some were extremely meticulous and slow. Each stroke had to be perfect and straight, there had to be a certain depth of colour and consistency in stroke. Whereas others were quick and erratic. It appeared that they had something in mind but their vision was only confined to the immediate area of wall, they knew what they wanted to do in one section of it but they would be at a loss for what to do for the rest of it. The total area was so big.

The boy looked back to his wall and contemplated it’s seemingly impossible area of space. Then he looked at his paint cans.

No one is prepared for this, he decided. One cannot plan, only have a rough idea.

He looked at the girl beside him who had also been slow to get started. She laughed at him as she held a green paint can in her hand and tried to cover a small area of wall.

"You going to get started or what?"

The boy watched as the girl started painting her section of the wall and took note of her speed. She went about things quickly but even by continuing at her speed, she would not cover even half the wall.

After a minute she realised this. Hopelessly, she looked back at the boy who still did nothing. Her face was concerned, pannic stricken, like she was onboard a sinking ship.

"Enough mathematics" the boy said to himself.

He pried open a paint can, dipped a brush inside and ran to the wall.

At first, the boy wanted to get a sense for the size of the wall. He slapped the brush against it’s surface and made large, rough, up and down marks, jogging along it’s length to and fro. After several dips of paint and back-and-forths he regarded the wall and the wave-like pattern he had made. He realized that even by reaching as high above his head as possible, he had not even reached half way up the wall.

The boy decided that he needed a different tack. He needed to go to the extreme. He pried the lid off another paint can, picked it up and began to swing it back and forth. His eyes were set on the top of the wall. Eventually, when the paint can had developed enough momentum he halted it in the midst of its upward swing sending paint hurtling in a fountain splattering the top of the wall. He did it again and again, in different spots, at different angles and trajectories until the paint can was empty and a section of the wall was awash. Watching and inspired, the girl did the same. Soon they were opening more and more paint cans and emptying them with reckless abandon, on their walls, pleasure evident on their faces as they watched the colours bleed.

But more texture was required thought the boy and there was still a lot of space left to cover.

He paused again for a moment and thought about things. He looked at his wall and at hers.

"Want to collaborate?" he asked.

The girl smiled. "Sure."

"Anything goes?"

"Why not" she replied. "The clock is ticking."

And with that, she watched as the boy ran at his wall and jumped, pressing his body right up against it, such that it created an imprint of himself on the wall and the front of his body was completely covered in colour.

With a blue face he smiled back at the girl, who by this stage was laughing, then ran to her wall and started to press his body all over it in various poses.

The girl ran to his wall and did the same, each drawing from each other’s inspiration, both bodies constantly crossing back and forth with glee.

There were handprints, footprints.

Patterns.

Delicate finger drawings.

They gathered clumps off liquid paint in their hands and flicked them at each other.

Competitions arose to see who could jump the highest and leave a hand print.

Then, realizing both attempts were futile, the game evolved into a collaborative effort, the girl standing on the boy's shoulders in order to reach the top of the wall.

Her inscription whilst up there: "This is the top of the wall"

"Is that all you could think of writing?" asked the boy.

They stood and contemplated the phrase.

"Take me up again" demanded the girl.

The newly adjusted line: "This is the top of the wall, ...bitches"

Then when the megaphone man announced that there was only a few minutes left and they had covered most of their walls, they both paused, panting, exhausted, hungry for air. Without talking, there was a consensus that they needed to pull things into a dramatic finale.

"I’ve still got a can of paint left" the boy said.

"Me too" replied the girl.

"I’ve got an idea. Grab your last can."

He walked over to the corner of the warehouse where his wall met hers and stood on one leg, his other splayed in the air but pressed against the wall. With one arm outstretched he reached for the corner where his wall ended and hers began.

"I want you to throw the paint on me" he said. "It will leave an outline."

The girl did as he asked and the image was perfect.

With time running out, the girl did the same, the siren sounding just as the last few drops of paint hit the wall.

"Paintbrushes down" commanded the man on the megaphone. "Step away from your walls."

The final image was ideal. It was the richest in colour and had the most definition. It was as if two bodies were being pulled apart but they held onto each other, both hands reaching for each other and meeting in the corner.

Dragging their multi-coloured bodies away from the wall, each of them collapsed on the ground leaving a trail of paint.

"You look quite ridiculous" the girl said trying to be serious but unable to contain her laughter.

Around the warehouse, painters looked at their walls. Some appeared somewhat satisfied, some discontent. They compared their work to the works of others. Although each had made a dent on the wall, the majority of the wall was still predominantly grey. But the lack of colour was not noticeable until the far corner of the warehouse was reached, where on the floor two bodies soaked in colour lay, chests rising and falling with great expansions, completely worn out.

When it was time to leave both the boy and girl made a lap of the warehouse to check out the artwork of others. There was some boring stuff. Some people had painted in only one colour, devoid of pattern or image in an effort to fill in the wall. Others had some good ideas, some had artistic skill but 95% of their walls were left blank.

"If only we had more time" said the boy, completing the full circuit and exiting into the engulfing bright light.

"I agree" said the girl, the paint not yet properly set on their skin.

Don't date someone who travels

2014-02-15T05:28:00.001+13:00

There's been a lot of these floating around lately so I thought that I would just add to the noise...

DON'T DATE SOMEONE WHO TRAVELS for they are clearly not career focussed and know more about life and culture than they do about conformist slavery and mortgages.

They can’t be relied upon for funding those weekend trips to malls to buy things you don’t even need to impress people you don’t even like.

Don’t date someone who travels because they are good with budgeting and otherwise termed ‘cheapskates’. They know that a typical $80 dinner for two equates to a week of accommodation in India or three days worth of royal treatment and adventure activities in Central America or Asia.

Don’t date someone who travels because you will never be able to impress them with your belongings, work achievements or general bragging. They don’t care about your favourite soaps and dramas, the current reality television craze or the facts that your coffee mugs match your coasters.

Don’t date someone who travels because their life focus is completely different to yours. They will most likely be focussed on experiences and memories that they feel no need to tell anyone about. There are too many and you will likely never be able to relate. They have given up because all their stories have been met with blank expressions or jealousy and conversations that have been steered towards episodes of ‘The voice’ , ‘The Biggest Loser’, or ‘Xxx Idol’. Such conversations send them looking for the first plane to the other end of the earth.

Don’t date someone who travels because they are extremely selfish. They care only about themselves and want to understand the world. They leave their homes, country and culture looking for hope and meaning because they seek a universal truth.

Don’t date someone who travels because they have spent their lives getting to know their own humanity. They look at life the way someone looks at the stars - it is infinite, a journey never-ending. They have become so caught up in this that the conventional life has little meaning. It seems irrational, a predictable and costly repetition. They have found more exciting alternatives.

Don’t date someone who travels because they will piss you off. They will turn you upside down and empty all of the contents. They will ruin you and everything that you believe in. They will force you to face your fears and encourage you to expand the limits of your personal boundaries. They will look you in the eyes and ask questions that only you can answer.

They will spend a bulk of their free time researching the feasibility of climbing peaks in Kyrgyzstan or overlanding through West Africa.

They are unpredictable and spontaneous.

They are a combination of capitalism, communism and subsistence farming hippies.

They have the ability to embrace standard muesli and milk like it is the nectar of kings.

They look at 5 star hotels and yawn, calculating the price of every fake smile.

Don’t date someone who travels because you know it already. You know it all. There is no life with them. They are a flash in the pan. They will struggle when it comes to raising a family. They will struggle when it comes to retirement. They will end up nothing but glorious memories with nothing to their name. They will embrace their share of oxygen to the very end.

Is this your view of someone who travels? Are they unreliable? Undependable? Beggars asking for one more chance to dream?

Do they live in a fantasy land in which the real world never meets, or do they embrace the world for what it really is?

Good. Find someone just like you. Build a picket fence around all that you strive for and cast your photos into the annals of history.

One day you will probably look a traveller eye to eye and you will both scratch your head. You will be caught at odds and both ask the same question: “What will you do with your life?” One answer will be obvious and the other will remain an unfolding mystery.

Don’t date a traveller because they are self important, egotistic and arrogant. They will look upon the life that you want to live and have the cheek that they can do it better.

Don’t date a traveller because they aim at turning the mundane into the remarkable. They are lost to the world, but in themselves they are found.

And they want the same for you.

4AM ceilings

2014-02-01T19:41:00.001+13:00

DARKNESS AND FLASHING STROBES, thumping bass and fake machine smoke. Several drinks spilt on me. Room sticky, people bouncing like it's going to explode. But I'm a burden to myself, fifty down at the bar and still clinging tightly onto too much care. If I could move in such direction, if my head was like the wind, I'd shake this place like it's never been shaken before, I'd harness the essence like I always lived at it's core. But my limbs are useless, their rhythm a discoursed process, my mind sways around too much that is broken, this venue, part of the stain that remains. She looks at me and tells me to 'smile'. But my world is filled with such improbabilities, though I chance them, I fear they won't be bought out. Again she tells me to smile, this time not with words, but an exaggerated action of the lips. I lack skill I tell myself, I fall short of such abilities and talent although I try so hard. To listen to this Justin Beiber/One Direction remixed bullshit something something, marketed billion dollar industry prepackaged social engineering. We celebrate and propose love in the shadow of a fat alco-pop promoting beast. We feed it money. We feed it money. We feed it money. Dropping hundreds at the bar, in this club, patrons of pricey short-lived liberation. I desire nothing of it and wonder how I got here, a conflict to all this place imparts. I contemplate running on stage and punching the DJ in the face. I'm picking up the turntable and smashing it on the floor. Static screeches and reverberates like the devil screaming in the silence, the crowd's footsteps suddenly take on sound. They are all looking at me blankly and I'm holding a broken cable in my hand. "I am your liberator" I say and their expressions exude confusion. She looks at me again and this time I receive no prompt or instruction. It seems I am amused and now fluidly moving. Laughing as the bass-line reverberates through my body I realize that the world is doomed. It's heart is artificial. The life support system stupid! In one hand you take Ronald McDonald, in the other hand Simon Cowell favoured X-Factor/Idol runner-up from year 2003 singing Ring a Ring o' Roses.

Ring-a-ring o' roses,

A pocket full of posies,
A-tishoo! A-tishoo!
We all fall down.

But there is a girl on the other side of the circle. She smiles at you like she is aware of the con. There is a bass-line that somehow matches both of your heartbeats. There is hope, light, the lyrics plausible. When the alcohol takes effect Justin Beiber suddenly becomes a bard, an oracle. And who is that random guy rapping? What the f*** is he saying? Somehow the doomed plight of the world descends metaphorically and you become some sort of hopeful doe eyed protagonist.

Dancing.

Migratory Birds

2014-01-15T00:17:00.000+13:00

"I really like it here" said the male bird to the female.

He traces his main claw, drawing small circles in a puddle of water on the rocky part of the bay.

"It's nice, this corner of the earth. It's not too hot but the sun is strong and the air is fresh."

The female bird looks at him longingly.

"Do you come here often for vacation?" she inquires.

The male bird looks intensely into her eyes and takes a purposeful step backwards as a stone flies directly in front of his face, the exact place where he had just been standing.

"Often" says the male bird disregarding the stone's threat casually. "But I go other places as well. There is a lot to explore and many nice places to pass a summer.

Both birds hear a stone pass sailing over their heads. This one is well off it's mark, as were the majority of stones in the 10 minutes prior.

They turn their heads and regard the stone's source, a freckled eight year old kid who sits on a driftwood log. He searches at his feet and looks for more suitable stones to throw.

"And how about work?" The female bird asks intrigued. She is a hint playful but also serious. "Where do you go?"

"I usually breed amongst the chain islands in the Berring Sea" he replied. "I enjoy the remoteness, the peace after snow-melt. There, I find a certain freedom in the wind."

"The Aleutians? Me too. Do you have a preferred island?"

The male bird tilts his head to the side and thinks. There were so many islands, each one with its charms.

"I'm going to have to go with Kiska" he chooses finally.

"Oh, I'm not sure I know it."

The male bird nods knowingly. He thought as much. "It is a small island" he explains. "But not too small by Aleutian standards. Most flock to Attu, but I find Attu crowded. Kiska is what Attu was in the 70's."

The female bird is impressed. "Kiska eh? I'll have to check it out. Maybe I'll breed there in the next Northern summer. Do you have a breeding partner?"

"Not yet. Do you?"

"No" she replies and smiles.

Both birds hop closer together, each hop slow and delicate, their respective momentum driven by shiny notions seen in each others eyes. Their beaks are almost touching, the air warmer from each others breathing, when suddenly the male bird extends his wing and quickly pushes the female bird away. He does it just in time as a bullet like stone passes directly between them, the speed and force ten times greater than what they had been contending with before.

Startled, they each turn their heads and regard it's source. The boy's father now sits on the log beside him and joins him in searching for suitable throwing stones.

"Want to get out of here?" the male bird asks.

She nods and both birds take flight.

"I know a good spot over the headland. There are less people there. None of the city holiday campers like we get here."

"Why do you think the humans hate us birds so much?" the female bird asks.

"I don't know" replied the male, effortlessly floating into the sky.

They watch as both father and son stand up from their log now and hurl stones rapidly with all of their might. They grow smaller and smaller, like tiny ants, the power and trajectory of their throws pathetic and feeble.

They extend their wings and glide through the air with ease. The earth taking shape beneath them. Their paths careless, unencumbered.

"I have no idea at all. Perhaps they long to be free?" he muses.

"Have you been to the Hawaiian islands? Kauai in particular is magic this time of year..."

Regarding the Things of God and Men

2013-09-24T12:11:00.000+12:00

What exactly does your god tell you when he whispers in your ear? What does he do to manifest feelings in your heart?

The things you will go on to do in his name?

The actions you will take?

From the small things to whether you reply to an email or respond to someone in the street.

To the finger, with gold you will surround.

To the bombs planted in the hearts and minds of those whose god is different.

You will put your god before people.

Then one day when you finally meet your god will you be relieved? To look back on the devastating road that lead you to this place, but be glad that you finally made it.

Will you look back on all the people that haven't and feel pity?

I wonder if you will realize that the reason that they haven't might be because of all the things you said and did in his name?

They meant nothing to you, and therefore your god.

The Fate of the Last Clairvoyant

2013-09-18T19:22:00.000+12:00

Madame Delany, the last remaining clairvoyant, was sad when she finally packed up her tent. As she stowed away her crystal ball and unhooked the veils for the very last time she reflected on years of visions and readings. She met all sorts of people in that tent. There were many non-believers who came in for a laugh, some were skeptics - unsure of what to believe - and the remaining others stared into her eyes intently. They trembled when they held out their palms, they clutched and shuddered hopefully. She could feel their energies, she could read their expressions and body language. It was a serious matter speaking words into people's lives. It was a matter she never took lightly and if she saw nothing amidst the faux smoke and glimmer in the crystal, she never charged.

But no one came to see her anymore. Machines had taken over.

Madame Delany sighed as she contemplated the demise of personal contact, the human touch of intimacy, romance, drama and mystique.

People were now informed of their futures via computers for handsome sums not just loose change. It was an age where machines knew more about people than people did about themselves.

Almost every human action was monitored, recorded and meta-analyzed. With the advent of social media, CCTV cameras, satellite tracking systems, and electronic financial blue-printing, machines could trace the whereabouts of everyone, the things they viewed and searched for, the friends they kept, their affiliations and habits - social, financial, and private.

It was an age where technology was fast but time was even faster. People were busy, too busy, lives always being lived in the future tense with no ability to rest in the present moment. People no longer knew each other, just ideas and marketed images, sales-pitch personalities on screens. You saw people's selected images rather than their physical being. This was how they communicated and this was how they networked. There remained very few chance encounters. Face-to-face evolved into screen-to-screen. Existence had become calculated and boring. Advertising slowly replaced inspiration, and wonder had been brushed aside by statistic.

But Madame Delany never wanted any of these things. She despised the city and its commercialism. She hated machine orientated invasions of privacy all for the sake of capital. She lived the life of a true bohemian, in the countryside on the outskirts of the city. There she lived in peace, growing her own vegetables, trading produce with neighbours, never owning a cell phone, computer or television. She had all that she needed, living a simple contented life.

But this way of life was slipping away. Slowly, even the bohemian communities were evolving. House rents increased and became harder to cover. The owners in the city began to evict those that couldn't pay. Everyone started to move further afield where the cost of living was more affordable or stay, working harder and longer. She began to lose many of her friends and the community disintegrated.

Some months later, a drunk and heavily depressed Madame Delany stumbled off a public bus in the middle of the city. Fuelled by a heavy sense of irony she swiped her bank card in a machine that told people's futures. The bank card was the only information they had on her and she hardly ever used it.

The machine quoted her the cost of it's clairvoyance service and it was nearly the entire sum of her account, but she decided to accept.

In a slot at the bottom of the machine a piece of paper emerged which read her new balance which amounted to a few quarters - the cost she usually charged her clients to have their futures read.

Below that was only one additional piece of information, her future;

Directions to the nearest bureau where they issue food stamps.

Immediately the screen dismissed her, changing to welcome the next user in bright colours, an image of a nuclear family jumping for joy in celebration on an intricately cultivated suburban lawn.

"The future is yours" it read.

In response to the person who questioned what I was doing with my life

2013-08-07T01:23:00.001+12:00

First of all. Why such critical and condoning tone? Why not such question posed with love or concern? What does it even mean to you? Does my life effect you in some way? Do I cause you pain? You say that I have no stability or foundation. What do you expect from me? I'd build a house if I knew where to put it. I'd make a home if it agreed with my heart. Both are not for lack of resource. I'm not an unwise and foolish penny-less vagrant.

Are they monuments, a wife and children? Are they things to erect on my lawn? Everything happens in its own time and I trust that everything works out as it should. So let it be.

You fail to see this journey I'm on. And I'm working it out slowly. I've been studying and I've been discovering, and I'm lost somewhere within the depths of me, the universe makes sense.

I've learned what it is to look through these eyes. I've stepped through the past and come to terms. I've held things in my hand and let them go. I've taken hurts and lies and thrown them into the light.

Because this journey is not about a destination. You see, it is so deep and amazing that we never truly arrive. It's not about milestones or trophies. It's not about accolades or comparisons. It's a personal and shared experience. Blessed are those that sink into it's weight, and feel it's endless bounds. Do you know what love is? Are you in awe of its power? It will collapse your knees!

So what about my years? So what if I'm thirty?

I am a deliberate man and I am deliberate in my actions.

So please don't criticize me when I can honestly say;

I am ready to love.

An Ode to South West Sydney

2013-07-13T22:38:00.002+12:00

Walking with long faces
People inside sketching stranger's faces
Dark hooded beady eyes at the station
It's early Sunday morning

Cars circling around the block
Doors and windows bolted shut
Music imprisoned, home alone
Like a Sunday calling

The golden city's skyline can be seen
From a rise in the hill
In-between the trees
A convoluted road to Darling Harbour

Cheerily I stop to ask directions
Old resident asks my name and states his suspicion
I laugh and make my own way walking
It seems that smiles here too, are stolen

Even if it is just sentiment

2013-04-04T17:44:00.000+13:00

You have to fight for what you love even though it may seem impossible
When it gets hard
When all you want to do is look away
When you are tempted to settle for something else
Something less

Round and round
Like the earth and sun
Like my mind on this
Like a dance undone

You've got to fight for what you love
When you're driven insane
When you've looked away
And then return to carry on

You'll die for what you love

Bursting Bubbles

2013-03-03T12:23:00.000+13:00

DO NOT send me an invite to play some bubble popping game via social media. How does that even happen? You're my 'friend' right? We are supposed to spur each other on towards the greater good. We are supposed to push each other's lives towards meaning and fulfillment. How is this bubble game supposed to help? How is it that we are even friends? I fear that you have made a brutal misjudgement in inviting me to partake in such game with you and cannot help but feel violated in some way by you making an assumption that I would enjoy such... occupation. Did you give me due consideration when you clicked the 'invite' button next to my name? Did you envisage me arriving home from work, undoing the top buttons of my work shirt and heading straight for the laptop lying on the couch, logging onto facebook, checking the notifications, seeing your cordial invitation, and then thinking "Hell yeah! I'm going to pop me some bubbles! Line those colours up and watch me pop them! I'm going to score me some points and then broadcast my achievements to all of my friends!" Damn you for thinking such things! Also, damn you for perhaps not knowing me well enough to have the cheek to invite me and suggest such pointless endeavor.

But, oh no. Hang on. Maybe it's a cry for help. Is that what it is? You're desperate and in need but did not want to state it so plainly in words. This invite to join you on a bubble popping rampage is a cry for help. Why else would you be playing such a stupid game on facebook and racking up points for all the world to see. You're life is terrible. You're in a rut. There are things in life that you cannot face and popping bubbles for points serves as some sort of solace and distraction. Either that or your life is so mundane that popping bubbles has become the sort after highlight of your existance.

It's becoming clear now.

You have invited me to join you in such venture the way a self defeating drug addict shares his poison with a sober and well to do friend. You're asking for empathy. That's why you singled me out. You are asking me - a controlled, purposeful and glorious man - to make the ultimate gesture and lower myself to the same level of destruction so you will not feel alone. You will rope me in to playing this bubble bursting game and then you will proceed to destroy me with high scores that I will find unobtainable. My skills at pathetic unimportant pursuits will be inferior to yours and you will reign proud and victorious. A life of relative meaning.

Screw you.

I've been there you know. I've let my mind and time succumb to other pointless endeavors. I've turned friends into werewolves while other friends have turned friends into vampires. There was a war going on. Did you know? Were you part of it? I've seen friends occupy their lives by feeding fake animals and raising fake crops so they could afford to upgrade fake tractors. I've clicked buttons to see if my car beat another friend's car and all that dictated the result was a computer algorithm. It's a form of cancer, did you know? It's sucking us all dry.

Do something real.

Do something physical.

Get outside.

Burst some real bubbles.

Hunt some real vampires.

Start with your own.

P.S.

If you would like to join team Werewolf click here

First Love

2013-02-14T00:00:00.000+13:00

SEVEN YEARS AGO I began an interesting writing project which somewhat chronicled my (religiously restrained) pursuits in love from the age of ten. Clearly it was a work of humour, some chapters were girls names, another chapter entitled 'It wasn't Pinnochio's nose that grew...' which documented adolescent sexual frustrations expressed via boyhood campfire conversations about girls. I continued writing up to the age of seventeen and eventually abandoned the project after deciding that the years that followed were shaping into a long winded tragedy with dwindling amounts of humour.

Love changes with age. Some relationships seem like vague recollections in dreams or nightmares, some like lives in parallel universes. The past can be stranger than fiction when you look at the journey. Maybe it is a sign of success if you can look back on things that way?

I wanted to write something meaningful for Valentine's day but I thought it would be more important to laugh.

An excerpt from an earlier chapter in my abandoned project. My first love ;

CASSIE

Cassie was my first ever girlfriend. I was 11 and at Intermediate School. I had liked her for a while and she liked me also. She had blonde hair, blue eyes, and her nose was a little bit pointy but that was alright, she was still pretty. One day in the playground her friend Kelly asked me out on behalf of Cassie and I paused to think about it before replying with ‘yes’. (I paused because I did not want to seem over eager). Cassie was waiting across the other side of the playground. As soon as I said ‘yes', Kelly ran over to Cassie to inform her of my answer. I watched in the distance as she did this. They both looked ecstatic and held hands, nodded their heads, and jumped up and down in excitement.

Having a girlfriend was a new thing for me and I wasn’t sure what it entailed. I figured we’d hang out, hold hands and stuff, and maybe kiss but french kissing a girl kind of grossed me out.
In the classroom Cassie asked if I wanted to move my desk into her group. My teacher Mr Thomson let us sit in whatever desk arrangements we liked. I agreed but said that I wanted my friends Matthew and Andrew to come with me. Cassie and Kelly consulted each other about this arrangement and they accepted.
So there we were. Me, Cassie, Kelly, Matthew and Andrew, all sitting in a group. It was a different group dynamic sitting with girls. We would get in more trouble because the girls would talk when Mr Thomson was talking, and they would draw in our workbooks. One day Matthew told me that it was pissing him off and Andrew agreed so they moved out. I felt quite abandoned.

I told my parents that I had a girlfriend. I don’t know why I did this. Maybe it was because I was proud I had got one. I did not know it would cause such commotion. Mum was outraged and said I was far too young to have one, and that it was bad news. She feared that a girl would just be trouble and she wanted me to break it off. I, of course was outraged by this and said that it was not fair and it was my life and that it wasn’t that bad. I was quite angry. Mum looked at dad for support. I don’t think dad liked the idea of me having a girlfriend either but he didn’t say much. He could tell that I was angry with mum for her reaction. In the end I heard dad say to Mum, “He’s only 11, don’t worry”. I then heard Mum say “But this will just be the start, he’s too young…”

Cassie would call me on the telephone. I learnt that girls like talking. They like talking a lot. We would talk for up to an hour. Sometimes Cassie would ring me for no reason, it was just something to do. She would ring up and say ‘Hi’ and then ask me what I was doing.

“Watching T.V” I would say.

“Same” she would reply.

“Cool” I would say.

“Cool" she would say. “What are you watching?”

“The Simpsons” I replied.

“Same. Do you think Clarence from school looks like Milhouse?”

“Um… yeah kind of.” I said.

She laughed. “Four eyes (Clarence) is such a geek.”

Basically Cassie would ring me up and we would occupy the phone and talk about nothing. It was disrupting my homework. Mum would look at me as if to remind me of this fact when I was on the phone and it made me feel bad. I would try to get off the phone by telling Cassie that I had to go. “No you don’t” Cassie would say and she would insist on us talking. I would give in. I am pathetic and weak.

I started having to get my homework done early so it was done before Cassie would ring to make mum happy.

It was hard work having a girlfriend. They were quite needy and demanding. Sometimes I wondered why I bothered but at the same time Cassie gave me a buzz. I couldn’t describe it, it was like a flutter of the heart or adrenaline or something, the feeling that there was someone special in your life that shared a special part of you that no one else could. This is what led me to sew ‘Ken Cassie Ken Cassie Ken Cassie’ all over the pencil case I was making in my clothing and textiles class at school. It seemed like the in thing to do. My friend Elliot had a girlfriend Joanna. They had been together about the same time as me and Cassie. On their respective pencil cases they wrote ‘Elliot and Joanna 4 eva’. I showed Cassie my pencil case. I think she was quite flattered. I scored brownie points. We held hands on the way back from class that day.

There were a lot of phone calls, drawing in each others exercise books, and some hand holding but me and Cassie had still not kissed. I think Elliot and Joanna were in the same boat. One overcast lunch time Kelly, Cassie’s friend decided that we should go over to the far side of the field where it was secluded and play dare. Kelly dragged me and Cassie and also Elliot and Joanna. I started to get that buzz – my heart began to flutter. When we got there Kelly said that Cassie and I needed to kiss and so did Elliot and Joanna. We all looked hesitant and embarrassed by being put on the spot like that. There was a period of silence but then Kelly said “come on, who’s going to kiss first?”. This made it a competition and I sensed shame for the couple that lost. I looked at Elliot and Joanna who were sheepishly looking each other in the eyes, to me it was a sign that they were both developing traction in the whole procedure. This made me look at Cassie. I felt nervous and uncomfortable and so did Elliot. We looked at each other and then at our girlfriends and as Elliot leant in to kiss Joanna, so I did to Cassie. One quick peck on the lips. It was over in a flash.

The love that Cassie and I shared began to grow old in the days that ensued. Perhaps it was my fear of the big sloppy. I watched older boys do it to their girlfriends at the bus stop. I admired them. I was just chicken. One day in the playground Kelly came up to me and stated “You’re dumped. From Cassie” and then ran away. Our love had ended pretty much exactly the way it began - via personal message service informing me of my plight. This was my first experience of heart ache. I was dumped for another boy, Michael, who looked like a monkey.

Turn it off

2013-01-15T02:52:00.000+13:00

I like the idea of temples up on mountains, separated from the man made jungle of townships and cities. A quiet reticent place to be alone with one's thoughts but demanding your time and effort to get there.

Do you have a temple on a hill? Do you have your own little place of solitude where you can get away from everything and spend time with your own thoughts? The world is crammed full of noise and nonsense. So much that it seems to infiltrate every part of our daily life. Have you noticed?

Everyday we are being manipulated and engineered. Billboards on buildings and buses tell us that we are not beautiful enough and that more fun is being had elsewhere. We are told what fashion is. Popstars - in all their wisdom, morality and profundity - provide us anthems for living. We get caught up in meaningless drivel. There are images everywhere. Open your eyes next time you head to work or school. We are being lied to, sold to. Do we ask to have all of these images and noises put in front of our faces and blasted into our ears?

No.

But that is the way the world operates. This is what it has become.

I like to think of the world before the days of print. Imagine what that would have been like. Signs would have been painted by hand and it would have taken a lot of work and man hours to create anything elaborate. I don't think there would be many signs or murals advertising medical holidays to get boob jobs. Think of the fashion and cosmetic industry without any edited photos and images. No endorsements or pin up models. I'd like to see the supermarket shelves full of products without lavish packaging trying to warrant the extra expense.

I listened to a Ravi Zacharias podcast a while ago and in it the statement was made: "Art used to imitate life but now life imitates art."

He was talking about how things have changed in the digital age, how we live in a world of images. How true that statement is.

We are so inundated with digital media in all its forms and suggestions that it detracts from meaningful personal thought. For better or worse it saturates our lives and it influences our thinking. Our imagination suffers. Our wonder suffers. I get so angry sometimes. It's a blatant form of abuse! It's on our way to work, it's at our workplace, it's in our home on the television and internet. We're having cheap shots taken at us everywhere. We're being preached to by soulless corporate entities because they want our pocketbooks.

So I ask the question; Where do we escape? Where is your place of refuge? I really think we need to balance the ledger.

Switch it off.

That's the beautiful thing about nature. Mountains. Lakes. Rivers. It's all natural. Get amongst the quiet.

When was the last time you got away and made a technological disconnect? When there were no digital distractions, seductions and influences? Is it something you can even contemplate doing? Sometimes you can't even appreciate your circumstances until you remove yourself from them.

Switch it off.

Get a sweat up and climb a mountain. Get amongst nature. Elevate your heart rate. Lose your breath. Feel your mortality for what it is. Listen to the truth. Maybe when you switch it all off you'll actually feel something switch on.

Your soul.

"Any advert in a public space that gives you no choice whether you see it or not is yours. It's yours to take, re-arrange and re-use. You can do whatever you like with it. Asking permission is like asking to keep a rock someone just threw at your head. You owe the companies nothing. Less than nothing, you especially don't owe them any courtesy. They owe you. They have rearranged the world to put themselves in front of you. They never asked for your permission, don't even start asking for theirs."

- Banksy

What is your life mission?

2013-01-09T03:32:00.001+13:00

What is your life mission? If you could put it in a sentence what would you write? Have you even given it a good amount of thought? Do you believe that there is a purpose in life and that you have a meaningful and pivotal role to play?

It's not an easy question to answer because it beckons your views and beliefs about existence. Why are we here? What are we doing? Where are we going? What is important, sacred, and what do we hold dear?

For most people it is likely a question that gives rise to so many more questions but how insane would it be to not ponder and ask questions about one's own life?

Such questions have come up a lot on my travels. When asked what a person's aims and goals in life are a large proportion will answer with something like "to live life with no regrets" or, "to be the best that I can be."

They seem content with such answers and don't give it much thought beyond that. But such statements have no foundation. They are like voices thrown into the wind, fading and taken in any direction. What is 'the best that one can be'? And how does one go about achieving that? I'm also uneasy with the saying 'live life with no regrets.' Isn't it more accurate to say : Make mistakes but learn how to live with the scars?

Surely we can do better.

It seems not much is sacred in this day and age. Technology has given proliferation to information, opinion and choice and post modernism has promoted an unbridled pursuit of pleasure. We are in the habit of living for the 'now' and giving in to the immediate but where will it take us?

What is your life mission? Is it to live the good life? Is it to pursue pleasure in all its forms and fulfill your every desire in the trust that that will bring personal fulfillment and happiness? Would it create a more harmonious world, to give in to each flutter of the heart? Is this what it means to be true to oneself?

I seek pleasure in my life but I believe that there are pure pleasures and illicit pleasures. Pleasure always has a cost. You either pay for it before or you pay for it after. Pure pleasures are often at the cost of patience, diligence, trust, and perseverance. You pay for them in advance. Illicit pleasures are those that cause harm or have impact on yourself or someone else somewhere down the line. Without guidance or a moral code or truth, pleasure is a problem.

Where do you think pleasure comes from? Is it merely a reaction of chemicals confined to the body or does it transcend into the mysteries of the soul?

As a great and wealthy king once wrote with his kingdom at the height of it's glory;

"I undertook great projects: I built houses for myself and planted vineyards. I made gardens and parks and planted all kinds of fruit trees in them. I made reservoirs to water groves of flourishing trees. I bought male and female slaves and had other slaves who were born in my house. I also owned more herds and flocks than anyone in Jerusalem before me. I amassed silver and gold for myself, and the treasure of kings and provinces. I acquired male and female singers, and a harem as well—the delights of a man’s heart. I became greater by far than anyone in Jerusalem before me. In all this my wisdom stayed with me.

I denied myself nothing my eyes desired;
    I refused my heart no pleasure.
My heart took delight in all my labor,
    and this was the reward for all my toil.
Yet when I surveyed all that my hands had done
    and what I had toiled to achieve,
everything was meaningless, a chasing after the wind;
    nothing was gained under the sun."*

There has to be a foundation. There has to be something solid that dictates what is truly beautiful, pure and meaningful and what is not. There must be truth.

With post modernism and relativism I feel that we are drowning in a sea of triviality. There is no longer a black and white. Truth has become a relative term and has therefore become undefinable. There are no longer boundaries and therefore there is no longer substance. We are each kings of our little kingdoms toiling under the sun.

What is your life mission?

I fear that the world today doesn't ask the question. We are walking blind, chasing sensual pleasures in a hope to find meaning but we are getting more and more lost. An endless chasing of the wind.

What is your life mission? What does your heart and soul really long for?

It's not an easy question to answer but what are we if we don't give it serious thought.

*quotation is from the book of Ecclesiastes 2: 4-16.

Gandhi was asked to describe in twenty-five words or less
what his life mission was...
.

He said, "I could do it in three: Renounce and enjoy."

You renounce all worldly attachment to everything
and enjoy what God gives you.

You give away what you have inside yourself, your love.

You're not concerned with whether it worked or didn't work,
whether it was right or wrong,
whether you won or lost.

You just constantly flow through your life

without getting attached to the results.

The irony is that the less attached you are,
the more you get.

The more you keep circulating,

the more keeps coming back to you.
It's a flowing system.

^{Matt 22: 36-39}
“Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?”
Jesus replied: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: Love your neighbor as yourself."

Happy Christmas

2012-12-22T11:02:00.000+13:00

She looks at him with love and wonder. This mystery before her eyes. The mystery that she had carried for nine months. Helpless, in the barn with animals. If it didn't get stranger three Kings from afar appeared bearing gifts and worshipping. They said they had sensed a King had been born and had been led by a star. Her betrothed stands by her supportive replaying visions of angels in his mind. Maybe he was trying to make sense of it still.

All we know of love is the love of a mother for a son. The love of a woman and man. The love of friends. But what do we know of the love of God for His people?

Love will tear us apart.

That's how it is on this earth. Life is fleeting and those you hold dear will eventually depart and leave a hole. There may be empty seats at the Christmas table this year, silence that noise used to fill. But love stretches beyond the lengths of mortality. That's what the mystery showed us. That's what He gave us.
Pain for the innocent. The greatest suffering and loss. The greatest love a man can give. To embody it all, take it all upon oneself. That's the greatest mystery.

That despite suffering, pain and loss, love endures beyond what is temporal and physical. It is our gift - knowing that we are not bound.

For this Christmas and all Christmases to come, I hope you find that peace and know that love. Silver and gold and all other pursuits under the sun fade into insignificance one day.

All we have is love.

Silver and gold, silver and gold
Everyone wishes for it
How do you measure its worth?
Just by the pleasure it gives here on earth.

Oh I’m getting old. Oh I’m getting old.

Everyone wishes for youth.
How have I wasted my life?
Trusting the pleasure it gives here on earth.

Lord, come with fire. Lord, come with fire.

Everyone’s wasting their time
Storing up treasure in vain.
Trusting the pleasure it gives here on earth.

Oh I see the end. Oh I see the end.

Everyone’s waiting for death
How do you measure its worth?

Justice delivers its gift here on earth.

Silver and gold.

In the Wild

2012-12-10T01:39:00.001+13:00

When are we ever not plunged in the wild trying to make sense of our surroundings? We are always vulnerable, with choice, not knowing what lies ahead and what will cross our paths.

But we need to take it all in. Feel it out. Listen to how it breathes. Feel small amongst it.

We emerged from a plane crash, you and I, and nothing will be the same. All that can be looked upon is the way forward in whatever direction it may take.

It's the same on the street where you live. Each day you leave the front door. Who says the house will remain standing after you leave? Who says the people you say goodbye to will remain?

Do we know these things?

Do we feel these things?

Because the heartbroken feel them all.

They learn how to live.

They learn how to love.

In the wild.

We always strived for immediacy.

We always wanted to arrive.

How foolish we were to always focus on the outcome.

When all we ever have is a process.

Mirror, Mirror

2012-11-17T17:00:00.000+13:00

I look at myself suspiciously in the mirror sometimes and wonder who that person is. I like to think that I stand for something, that I have values and a moral code that I adhere to, principles and frameworks that I abide by and operate freely within but the truth is I am an evil and conniving bastard who is at times sick in the head and the only limitation to the destruction and misery that lies within my capable hands is the duration of my lifespan.
There is perhaps no point to this blog. I am seven hours in on a long haul flight and being extremely bored I have resorted to writing down my thoughts. I have also spent the last hour musing over some of my favourite Iron and Wine lyrics;

"Love is a crying baby mama warned you not to shake"

People will tell you that we were all created in the image of God but I don't think God has an image. I think for God to have an image would somehow be putting limitations on Himself. Maybe instead, all of creation is a concept of what God embodies. Never-ending breadth and depth perpetuating to infinity. And if we are supposed to be the crowning glory of everything that God has created then maybe it is we who are images of the invisible rather than vice-versa.

I'm sure God created us with good intentions and in the beginning everything was perfect, there was no pain and the original man was innocent. But good doesn't exist without evil and love doesn't exist without deceit. The Adam and Eve scenario is a story of God trying to keep two realms separate. We existed in a realm of goodness and innocence, whilst evil did exist it was kept separate from us enclosed in another realm. We were told not to explore this realm but it was something that we couldn't resist. Now with eyes opened there is no going back, both realms co-exist.

So when I look in the mirror I see beauty and I see pain. I see life and I see death. In many ways I see truth and I see a God who sympathizes. Wherever God is, whether metaphorically sitting on a golden throne brushing his beard, omnipotently floating around the universe, or embodying the teardrop that runs down your cheek I'm sure he hangs his head and mourns.

I ask myself questions when I look in the mirror.

Who am I?

What is love?

We're all innocent as long as we're forgiven.

We're all lion's that don't know how to control our own destructive strength.

Lion's Mane by Iron & Wine

Run like a race for family

When you hear like you're alone

The rusty gears of morning

And faceless, busy phones

We gladly run in circles

But the shape we meant to make is gone

Love is a tired symphony

You hum when you're awake

And love is a crying baby

Mama warned you not to shake

And love's the best sensation

Hiding in the lion's mane

So I'll clear the road, the gravel

And the thornbush in your path

That burns a scented oil

That I'll drip into your bath

The water's there to warm you

And the earth is warmer when you laugh

Love is the scene I render

When you catch me wide awake

And love is the dream you enter

Though I shake and shake and shake you

And love is the best endeavor

Waiting in the lion's mane

Good thinking 99

2012-10-14T03:04:00.003+13:00

In another life, in another set of circumstances maybe I'd get my child to hold a sign reading;

"Behead all those who insult the prophet".

A mother takes a photo of her child with a banner during the Muslim riots in Sydney.

Maybe I'd carry slogans reading;

"Islam will dominate the world. Freedom can go to hell."

Islamic protesters in the Europe.

If some people are drawn to carry out such actions then I can't say that the same possibilities do not lie within me given another life, in another set of circumstances. But I've ventured into this life areligious and then with my own theological Christian views and in my current realm of experience I'm at a loss for why these people are doing what they are doing. What has gone wrong in their lives? When did they become so full of hatred and... megalomaniacal?

The above images were taken recently as Muslims responded to an anti-Islamic film made by an American. Muslims around the world seemed to get caught up in a rage about the film inciting violence and anti Western sentiments. In Sydney a protest resulted in a bloody riot.

To be honest, I was not surprised.

Images from the Sydney riot

Before moving to the New Zealand countryside when I was seven years old I grew up in South-West Sydney. Known for its ethnic mix and immigrant communities I had friends with names like Zara and Wasim. They had surnames like Bidaxous. I had aunties, uncles and cousins from Malaysia. As I can remember life was pretty good. Even though my dad was working long days as a carpenter and I'd often stay up as late as I could so I could see him come home before I went to bed I was always taken out for trips in the weekend. We'd go to the beaches at Bondi and Manly, cycle around the Botanic Gardens and Darling Harbour, explore the Blue Mountains to Sydney's West. Friends and cousins would get to come too if they were allowed. The more the merrier.

Now, after twenty-one years absence I've returned to Sydney and it's been interesting contrasting memories with present day reality. Everything is so much bigger. Traffic so much worse. I returned to the avenue I grew up in and noted that my childhood home is no longer standing. It's been knocked down and a mansion has been built in its place. Similar things have happened to the neighbouring houses in the street. They threaten to bulge over their sectional perimeters, they fight against each other for height, they fence each other out with ridiculously high walls. There is less green grass. More concrete. Fewer trees in the yard, if there is any yard at all. You can't have a yarn to your neighbour above the fence anymore. Gates are locked. It's rather depressing.

Likewise, where my Aunty lives, not too far from the Mosque in Lakemba and where I spend time when in-between work contracts I walk past the local public school and notice that the majority of children in the Public School are Arab. As years have gone by white families have slowly moved away. I walk the streets homeward from the train station and kids are running amok in groups without parents.

It can't be much of a life growing up in Sydney's South-West these days. With cost of living high, parents working long hours, kid's are basically co-brought up by television and video games inciting violence and terrorism. Quiet times without radio pop or gangster rap are pierced by the background noise of the incessantly traveled six lanes of Canterbury Road traversing the suburbs. There is no local haven, no place for peaceful solitude.

Sydney harbour

When people think of Sydney they think of the beautiful Harbour, the Botanic gardens and beaches. The Sydney lifestyle is pretty good if you live in these areas and have a lot of money to afford it. The reality though, is that you will fit somewhere in the socio-economic demographic that exists between the coastal outskirts and the less desirable depths of South-West Sydney. You're with the immigrant communities plunged into traffic fighting to keep your family afloat. Life may be tough.

The world is a busier place than it was twenty years ago. I can only imagine what it might be like arriving in Sydney with a young family from another country with a very different culture. I'm technically an Australian and returned on my Australian passport and found it difficult to settle in, get my tax-file number, medicare card etcetera and this was with having family and friends already here, speaking English and not having to find a place to rent. It is little wonder why immigrants stick to their own communities. It is what they know, it is what they are comfortable in. Uprooting families and moving countries and all the associated stresses that go with that can rank higher for stress as death of a loved one.
'White' Australians criticize ethnic communities for not integrating properly into society but I think they do not realize how difficult it can be. The only culture shock they have experienced is reverse culture shock after driving into Cabramatta, a suburb in South-West Sydney. Some of the shop signs are not even in English.

The suburb of Cabramatta in SW Sydney contains a strong Asian presence, particularly Vietnamese.

Even I experience a sense of reverse culture shock when visiting Cabramatta and I'm half Asian and well traveled across the globe. Whilst it saddens me to see lack of integration by immigrant communities I don't blame them. It's a two-fold story. How are immigrants supposed to adapt if not welcomed by others. Without getting to know our neighbours how is a community supposed to function?

Especially in a country that has never been free of racial prejudice. When people have ideas of superiority, that they epitomize the country and that their way should be considered the status quo.

I'm all for multiculturalism and I'm a product of it myself. Both sides of my family are completely different. At times it might seem like they are at odds with each other. When both sides of the family have met there have been elements of uncertainty and awkwardness on both sides which I've found both frustrating, amusing and essential. It might sound strange but my whole life I've clung to these awkward silences, the bonding attempts, the retractions, cautious niceties, the cultural faux pas. I've lived in these spaces because they speak of who I am. I see my acceptance as being a product of two different cultures uniting.

I bring the conversation of immigrant communities up a lot with my patients at work and it's interesting to see their responses. So many of them think that their country is being invaded by foreigners and that they should go back to where they came from. They say this to me, the person who is rehabilitating their injury, and I wonder if they know that technically I am one of the people they are telling to 'f**k off'. And if not, if they consider me one of them, then what of my mother? My aunties, uncles and cousins.

After all. Unless you are an Australian Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander you came from somewhere else as well.

I've been on the other side of the cultural conflict as well. I've hung out with Asians and individuals from other ethnic groups who have hurled anti-white sentiments and that doesn't make me comfortable either. I feel as though caught in the middle and never really belonging. I'm the gap. The divide. I'm the bridge. I'm the metaphor. I'm either the recuperating casualty or the triumphant victory.

Which brings me back to the Muslim riots.

There's a lot of pent up frustration, stress and aggression out there. The mental and spiritual health of many people is not good.

I refuse to believe that many -if any- of the Islamic rioters had even seen anything of the film that was said to offend their prophet Muhammad. I had no idea of the film's existence until the riots occurred and would have had no interest in it but after the ruckus and stink that was created I was curious to see what the fuss was about.

I checked out the trailer on youTube;

Has anyone bothered to watch it? It's 14 minutes long and so terrible that I could barely manage to watch two minutes of it. And that's just talking about the acting and cinematography, let alone storyline or message.

How this movie could cause such worldwide turmoil is beyond me.

But that is my point. I believe that most wars that have ever been fought are never truly in the name of what they are fighting for. There is some other motive, some other agenda. The Muslim protests turned into riots for other reasons.

Capitalism reigns supreme in the major cities of the world. We have 'the haves' and the 'have nots' and there is a tooth and nail struggle for most of those that exist in-between. Social media has also made us a very vain and superficial culture. We justify our self worth and success by what other people think of us, by the lives we are perceived to have, we are a collection of smiles and good times but we seldom allude to all the time in between.

It's not much of an existence crammed into the suburbs struggling to get by week to week. When you don't feel welcome in a country that you call home. When all you see is concrete, buildings, roads and traffic. Nothing is natural. Your parents are barely home and don't have enough time and or money to afford multiple bus and train fares to take you to the beach or the mountains. Maybe they don't even know the joys of the outdoors and how necessary it is for the soul. You spend your time on computers and play games that involve mass murder. You listen to music that encourages negative introspection and being the victim. You see other people. They have it better, easier. They have more. They have everything. And now they are making fun of you and insulting you. But you have an association with an impassioned group. You can unite and act in the name of something bigger. Jihad.
I can see it happening. It's happening now.

As a passage in the Bible states;

"For wherever jealousy and rivalry exist, there is disorder and every kind of evil."

My Aunty's place in South-West Sydney got robbed a few weeks ago. A few weeks earlier she had been home and noticed some Arab youths snooping unabashedly around the street. They were checking out houses and cars. When they saw my Aunty looking at them they pretended to hide behind a tree. A neighbour's house down the street was robbed also. They stole money, jewelery and electronics. They went through all of my stuff as well but decided I didn't have anything worth taking. The idiots. They could have taken two of my most prized possessions: my Gortex rain jacket and my Gortex bivvy tent. In some ways I wish they did. The dick heads could have done with getting away from the city and getting amongst nature and the elements. They could have found a quiet spot where no noise was manufactured, where there was an uninterrupted natural expanse as far as the eye could see. A place devoid of concrete and traffic and advertising and signs and rubbish. A place where they would not be distracted from their own thoughts for several days and where they could have a long hard think about things, maybe experience an epiphany.

In some ways I don't think I'm any different to the robbers though. If push came to shove I could probably manipulate my mind into theft. I imagine it would probably spring from envy, then perhaps a manufactured hatred for others with more than me, pity myself for being one of the 99 percent. Maybe I'd play a race card. Other races haven't done anything special for me so why not steal from them if they are better off. Each is for their own. I'd never do it but I can see how easy it could come about.

It's sad when races don't intermingle. All parties should make a concerted effort to get to know, understand and care for each other. Maybe if they did there would be less hatred and extremism. Maybe if the neighbour of Taliban members baked them some nice fluffy pink cupcakes they would chill out a little and maybe give up researching construction of bombs. Maybe they'd pass up an opportunity to riot and not really feel in the mood.

Keeping to ourselves is not the answer in a multicultural society. Love and community was never created in a vacuum. Constant signs of hope need to be shown by people reaching outside of themselves for others.

That is the real war.

To understand and f**king smother everyone with love.

If anyone wants to kill me after that they might as well go ahead and do so because life would not be worth living.

There is only one race: the human race.

We are the 100 percent.

In regards to fate and destiny

2012-10-05T00:08:00.000+13:00

What if

In a one time shot we each traveled through hundreds and thousands and millions of years and settled on this particular time and space. We found ourselves in the same hemisphere, in the same country, in the same town, in the same street, in the same ten meter square perimeter. We’re only going to be here a short while and then this experience on this earth will cease to exist. Hundreds and thousands and millions of years will go by long after we are gone. Millions of people like you and I will meet on this very spot. They will have traveled for eons through time and space just to find themselves in the same predicament. In this moment. Both here and now. Amidst millions of years that exist when we are not.
The future is already happening and so is the past. We are dimensions folding and unfolding. Reference points in time, minor blips, yet in that, possessing the inexplicable spark, depth, complexity and endlessness of the universe. Each moment in our reality on some plane is timeless. It reaches into the future and it reaches into the past. It is connected by something absolute that is, was and always will be. I'm a part of it and you're a part of it. Before we were and beyond when we are.

But right now in the present held by earthly dimensions, I’m here and so are you.

Super-connected. How uncanny is that?

So, like, do you want to hang out?

Backwards

2012-09-27T00:50:00.000+12:00

Heat. Chemicals. Arched backwards over a wooden bench she stares at the lines in the ceiling and feels her hairs stand on end. Her exhalations are large and hands tightly clenched. Possession. Feeling. He helps her up and does up her blouse before hurriedly pulling up his pants. She fumbles to help him, her fingers struggle to gain traction on his jean buttons, pushing and matching them with the holes at great speed. She kisses him long and hard, bodies tightly juxtaposed as they rise, warm hungry air whispering threats between each kiss, penetrating the skin. He leads her out of the darkened depths of the tent, away from the collection of unclothed bodies groaning and grabbing at each other in the dark.

Back in the mass of the crowd the air is warmer and moist and they explore each others mouths. She feels his form and he feels hers. Each movement of the hand is suggestive. A game of movement and pressure. Sinking and sliding. Testing and teasing. They are blind at close proximity. Everything is an engrossment of sensation.

But she is losing him and he is losing her. Their hands lose their intent. Their mouths lose their appeal. A space opens up between them and they can now see each other. Clearly. Freely. She feels his hand slide off her waist and her hand slides off his chest. They can feel the pull. The longing. For some reason he is different from the rest. She feels her hormones at their peak. He wants her and she wants him but they are now drifting in opposite directions and although she keeps her eyes on him and his eyes remain on her the distance between them grows and other people get in the way. She is being drawn back into the crowd. She tries to peak over and around the other bodies but they draw her in and she loses sight of him. The energy of the crowd takes over. She forgets.

In the nexus of the crowd she finds herself in a series of embraces and touches. Packed like sardines she reciprocates and feels forms without faces. Her hands interpret and communicate. She feels the difference of each individual's touch. Forceful. Desperate. Rushed. Some linger. They speak of feeling. She responds with the language of her body. Inviting. Retracting. It happens in rapid succession. Like a dance. She responds subconsciously. Unbound and free. Anonymously entangled in a hedonistic sea.

But she drifts away slowly from the centre. At first it occurs slowly and she doesn't notice. Touches suddenly become more forced, unnatural. The tactile language becomes less fluent. Interrupted. Circumspect and foreign. She loses interest. Her arousal wanes.

She finds herself on the outer perimeter of the crowd and stepping back. There is such a space between her now that and she sees everyone clearly. Their features are obvious. Their age. Their sex. Certain features and blemishes. She can read their body language. Uncertain. Unconfident. Awkward. She looks at them and they look at her. They approach her and hug her and then step away reflecting on the process and how they will go about repeating that with someone else. They react differently. Some laugh. Some seem unconvinced.

She feels awkward.

Everything seems too clear. The details. The concept. The barriers. The space.

She lifts the flap and exits the tent. The sun instantly blinds her and she has to wait for her eyes to adjust.

She sees her friend waiting and walks to her and they both look back at the tent.

"What do you think it's all about?" she asks her friend.

"HUG TENT" reads a sign above the tent door.

And so they stand, curious.