Jessica comes home

She's going to be 17 years old this coming Tuesday the 18th of May 2010, but Jessica Watson is capturing Aussie imaginations as she sails Ella's Pink Lady into Sydney Harbour in just under an hour or so.

She's been alone in her little pink "boat" for the past 200 plus days circumnavigating the world. She can't be recognised by any "official" bodies as being the youngest person to sail the world....but no one seems to care! She's so far the youngest person to sail across every longitude and the equator that has ever lived! For all the criticisms and the doubts... Jessica's determination and vision has proved that when a person craves something enough... they usually get it.

Her site is currently "down" at present so I can't link to her quote that is sweeping the television broadcasts and online. I'll do my best to recall it...

You don't have to be anyone special to do something big, you just have to really want it.

Sorry Jess.... you are wrong! A person who does something as unique, challenging, courageous and as intense as what you've achieved needs to have some very special qualities indeed - regardless of their age.

I'm approaching 50 and I still don't know what I want to do when I grow up! I've drifted through life absorbing experiences without really claiming a vision of my own to challenge myself to conquer.

I've "promised" myself all sort of idealistic desires...but they amount to mere wannabe dreams.

Jessica humbles me because she realised her vision . All the fears, the unknowns, the boring parts, the criticisms, the self-sabotage, the procrastination were, no doubt, there within Jess on the journey leading to today. But, there was something else that mitigated those querulous voices and conquered them so that in her mind her achievement becomes something "any ordinary person" could do.

It's that "something else" within that changes ordinary to special.

I believe its that single-minded determination to achieve what one sees clearly within their minds eye as being completely possible. Not everyone has that gift...very few know how to quell those ambition-killing voices either! It requires a vision so crystal clear and a belief that something is possible regardless of everything.

That's the difference Jess. This is what makes you above all others today ...very very special.

cry baby

What is it about myself that any kind of argument or confrontation causes me to shed tears?

I have been a cry-baby ever since I was a little girl. What I ask myself though, is "Why is it, that at age 48, I still feel an instinctive urge to shed tears the moment I am being confronted?"

There are a few things I do know about myself.

1) I feel guilty in any kind of conflict or tense situation whether I am or not.
2) I feel like I have let people down more often than I feel I have been clever or useful to them.
3) I feel like I may have done the "wrong" thing in any situation where my integrity or intelligence is being called into question.
4) I always feel like my integrity and/or my intelligence is being called into question.
5) I consistently doubt my intelligence and abilities. Sometimes my integrity too (I have a memory that isn't that pragmatic when it comes to facts or details).
6) I feel too much.
7) I categorically, never want anyone to think badly of me no matter what I do.

Now the big question, in answer to all of these is "Why?" Why should I feel any of the above when it is neither necessary, convenient or apparent I should do so?

My simple guess is this: At some point in my formative years, I intuited that I am not capable. As a result, my inbuilt pride barometer rebels at this core assumption and triggers a violent emotional reaction within me resulting in those embarrassing tears.

There must be some kind of internal revolt switch going off the moment I am in any kind of situation that, I believe, demonstrates my incapability.

My pride says "You are not wrong", whereas my conscience quavers, fusses and fumes that I might be "wrong" perhaps, because the details are blurry, and the facts are not at ready-reckoning distance in my mind. Ergo - I'm "bad" to have let someone down. "I am unreliable, unintelligent, unwise, imperfect". All my wanton flaws are exposed and I rail within, in a maelstrom of emotional factionalism between self-hatred and the primitive rage of an abused pride. And I cry!

This is no easy thing. To change my propensity for weeping when confronted will take an enormous shake-up of my mental landscape. It may well be that the very synapses, that formed during the early development of these core beliefs, will never be entirely eradicated of this pestilence! But accepting it? I am not sure I can at this point.

I DO get angry when I feel my integrity is being called into question! But I very often squelch that anger because if I have to express it - it comes out as an unabated flood rather than clear-eyed, cool-headed and reasoned argument for the defence! I want to be able to argue efficiently for my case but my unequivocal lack of eloquence when full of charged emotions stalls this ability and then some!

The thought-tapes inside my head need erasing and re-recording. Would my ego actually allow this? I am not sure! The Self is a funny thing! It gets rather comfortable with the status-quo. Surreptitiously, ego channels our energies into paths of least resistance. My intuitive and instinctive crying response to conflict situations is a well worn path to a known resolution and result.

Generally speaking, (and this is purely, a theoretical analysis stemming from my own biases about crying women): a crying girl disarms most people. A crying girl is diminutive and "sweet", her vulnerability and fragility exposed through her emotionalism. She's every man's "Perfect Little Daughter" whether he believes it or not, she speaks to the hero in him through her tears. She's in need of protection from a cruel world. Her naivety and demure femaleness are on show through her subjugation to the more powerful party. She is a victim in need of rescuing. She demonstrates a perverse and ironic strength by rallying forth if treated gently, her inferior Self stroked and soothed with kindness rather than harsh judgements on her lack of wit or intelligence. A crying girl is not really a grown woman yet - even if she may look like one! A crying girl makes people feel guilty. A crying girl is powerfully manipulative of others through her genius in the use of emotional blackmail.

This makes me gag at how pathetic it makes me look. Here I am! A weeping girl incapable of standing clear-eyed and strong in the midst of inaccurate (or accurate for that matter) accusations of her part in fault. My head believes none of the insipid trash above, but it seems that somewhere, somehow, I learned to behave like this for at least some of these reasons!

How horrible it is for a girl child to learn such things; how sad for the woman to realise she's learned them!

Will I accept this flaw in my character and nature? No! I shall rail against it until I have determined its source and healed this rift between my emotions and psyche.

Rectifying my propensity for being a cry-baby could take me the rest of my life and it may not stop the flow of my tears in an argument - but then again - it might help me grow up, and that is no small thing either.

My feet hurt!

Forget achy breaky hearts... let's try achy breaky feet shall we?

Feet that have stood too long.

Feet that have walked too far.

Feet that have been - it seems - forgotten during sedentary jobs.

Feet that get hot and bothered.

Feet that aim for comfortable shoes but which never quite manage that task.

Feet that hurt.

Feet that throb and throb so violently, if it were a noise, it would be the sound of a kettle drum pounding directly into your ears.

Feet that sing - loudly - all by themselves like Brynhildr does in a Wagnerian opera!

Feet that kill, thrusting spears of hot molten core straight up the shin bone and into the knees.

Feet that will allow you to stand but only if you are still enough that they stop throbbing and go completely numb.

Feet that blow up, so that it looks like you have bubbles on the ends of your legs.

My gosh!  One finally feels their feet when their feet feel.... everything!

writing style

I spent hours writing a speech for my boss at work today. It nearly killed me! A mere 1612 words too! Not much of a drop in the sentences bucket really. I enjoyed the work but I was vaguely stressed about it too. Thing is, writing a piece for someone else to read aloud is extraordinarily difficult.

The considerations to take into account are the prospective speakers language style, their fluency of speech, their personality and their interests. It isn't easy if you don't know someone "that" well, to come up with a clear and concise presentation of thoughts that reflect what they may have inside their heads.

My style of writing is - well let's face it! It's verbose! I'm every bit the "story teller". I can barely write a departmental report to save my life not given as I am to the concept of "dot points"! I like to explain, iterate, construct and delineate all possible angles of interpretation within a text. I write to construct a kind of fluid coherence more akin to that of poetic prose rather than succinct documentary. I use words where none are necessary or required but they go in anyway because it feels like its required; that the fluidity of the writing needs that kind of accoutrement!

This is a problem in my current job! Truly it is! I can't read anything to my colleagues, because to their ears it "sounds fine". However, to those experienced in the way of all things "Government Department", my writing style is is only a smidge short of total crud! The red biro gets a regular workout when my work is presented for "Editorial Comment" to my boss!

It sucks!

Perhaps, I was designed to simply tell stories rather than define the vagaries of volunteerism to the unwilling masses through my style of writing?

If I could write really well, I'd certainly be in demand job-wise. As it stands, I am too wordy; too florid and far too expansive for the kinds of writing required in my industry. It can be very frustrating. I still love doing this work though. I enjoy the process of writing for the most part, even if I have to edit things a dozen times before they're ready to go "live" so to speak. I guess its all good training.

I try very hard not to take it personally now. I figure, I might as well learn how to write a bullet point or two before I leave this mortal coil. It can't harm, surely?

Ah, but I do admit to a shameful desire to be able to write exactly what I please: my style, my words, my thoughts, my syntax: all mingled together into some prosy, rich and delectable word-soup for the edification and entertainment of others. I like having an idiosyncratic style all my own. It feels good to place words next to each other, matching them for the weight of their simpatico sentiment.

I'll be very surprised if my speech-writing skills will pass muster in the next day or so. The hours of labour spent on that thing today is, probably, similar to the amount of expensive film left on the cutting room floor. Someone has to gather it all up and discount the cost of making it and hope that some day, it might prove "valuable" to someone else!

I thank God for the blogging art-form. It's the one of the few spaces I have available, to construct sentences my way - in all my verbose, grandiose, wordy, littérateur way! For that I'm truly grateful.

The safest harbour 2

The Safest Harbour 1

Next morning the man woke stronger and ravenously hungry. He scanned every corner of Millie's hull and upper decks for items he might fashion into fishing hooks, spears and other meat gathering devices.

The gulls aloft, were nonchalant, not realising the man's intentions. His spear, thrust with an expert eye through the breast of a young gull, scattered the rest in shrieking horror.

The man did not have a way of cooking the bird but he stripped it of its feathers and then used the meat as bait for his fishing rod made from line and hooks found in the stern. Fish could be eaten raw - gulls could not. Millie was so proud of him! She admired the way he worked so efficiently. She admired his wisdom and clever thinking. She all but forgot her predicament of being so lost at sea in her fascinated observations of the man and his labours.

The man did indeed feast on raw fish that day. He made faces and threw up over Millie's sides a few times, but in the end he ate and it was better. He sat in Millie's cockpit and pondered what to do. He tested her rudder and was surprised to find it had survived the storm and she could be steered. Somehow, he had to get that old heavy sailcloth up from below onto the deck to work it onto the gear and catch the winds. It would be difficult work. He looked at his hands, bleeding in places from working ropes and hooks, blistered and peeling on the backs from the sun. He was determined to survive and this little boat was going to help him - no matter the cost!

It took nearly two whole days of hard labour - in between running to check his fishing lines and eating raw fish - for the man to get the sailcloth up onto the deck. Finding an old box of line and tackle stashed deep in the hold, he fashioned gear that would take the sail almost half way up Millie's empty mast. By day three, the man was ready to haul the sail aloft but found it so heavy he struggled against it for most of the day. He almost gave in and then an idea came to him to leverage the sail lines around the large spindle in the stern. The spindle had once been used to let trolling line out to sea.

The man spliced and cut line into other line to lengthen it enough to reach the spindle. He fastened the line to the spindle and prayed this approach would work to raise the sail. He bent at the handle, pausing briefly and speaking the first words Millie had heard from his lips "C'mon girl! Don't let me down now!". She clenched her eyes shut and willed the spindle to work with all her might. The handle turned, creaking and squeaking. The line strained and the man held his breath fearing his splices might tear apart. He turned the handle slowly and slow centimetre by centimetre, the sail was hauled up to fill with the westerly breeze. Millie could feel her keel shudder as her rudder started to flap with the promise of speed.

The man locked down the handle on the spindle when he could turn it no longer. The sail was up high enough to fill with breeze and move the little boat across the ocean. A running ocean current gathered pace beneath Millie as if in answer to her impetus. The man raced to the cockpit and grasped the tiller in his blistered, bleeding hands and tacked Millie with the wind. She was moving! Zigging and zagging across the ocean heading for "Somewhere".

For five nights and five days, the man tacked Millie. At night he scanned the horizon for the North star and fixed his sights on it as if it were a lighthouse showing the way. He slept with his arm draped over the tiller during the day and moved Millie towards the star by night. On night number five, Millie saw a real lighthouse. Her little heart fairly leaped out from within her. The man whooped and hollered and danced a merry jig on the deck. He guzzled the precious water he had collected and threw the rest of the rotting gull carcass over the side in celebration!

At the break of dawn on the fifth day, Millie entered the narrow head waters of a beautiful harbour. The waters were calm and deep. Dolphins chattered and giggled beside her as the man steered her towards the town on the other side. As they got closer, Millie could see that this town was so very unlike Brae as to be almost alien. The streets bustled with people and cars. The esplanade that followed the shoreline was peppered with people walking, running, fishing and chatting. There were young lovers on seats kissing in the morning sun and children shrieking as grandfathers dragged fish from the sea with their rods. There were boats lined up in a small marina, gleaming and loved. Millie felt suddenly embarrassed at how shabby she looked but the man, sensing her thoughts, patted her deck and said "You are the most wonderful boat I ever owned", with a catch in his voice that held a reverence and pride. Millie sobbed. She cried out all the fear, trepidation, and grief of the past week into the harbour depths and soon felt so light and airy that she thought she might start to fly.

A patrol of boats came out to greet Millie and the man. When the sailors all heard the man's story, they slapped him on the back and wrapped him in blankets and poured whiskey into panniers for him to drink. News travelled as if on wings back to the people on the shore. Soon, a large crowd gathered at the pier to welcome Millie and the man and cheer their amazing survival against the odds. The man thanked the sea patrol men and made a simple request.

Six weeks later, Millie could hardly believe how her life had changed. The man had requested only one thing in exchange for his story of survival and hope. Millie was now gleaming with new paint, polished decks and equipped with new sails. Her hold had been cleaned and her keel scraped. She was fitted with the latest nautical equipment. Her old spindle was oiled and now spun as lazily and easily as a spinning wheel. She had all new line and her anchor was rust free.

The man? Ah... well he shone too. His hair and beard were trimmed and clean. His hands were blister free and the wounds of his ordeal were healing over to become scars to be borne with pride. He stood tall and even handsome. His eyes sparkled with intelligence, wit and good humour and he longed to be out on the ocean again, fishing - making a living.

Millie found herself being taken out to sea once more. This time as a working boat. Her decks were scrubbed every day. She was given opportunity every day to earn the man and his helpers an income. Together they became a team. Nothing fancy. Just a solid working team. She was owned by someone who cared about her - loved her even. Millie's heart swelled with such happiness and joy that she practically near glowed; for Millie had found the secret to a Good life: she'd found the safest harbour of all. Companionship.

End

Trust: the thing we must do for others but not for things

Something wicked this way comes...

One of those slightly dodgy "current affairs" magazine style shows on commercial television was proclaiming the horrors of new kinds of mobile phone spy technology tonight. Yes! It was indeed a rather scary concept - that there are applications out there which make it really simple to track your every conversation and text message. In the hands of the wrong kinds of people this would cause an enormous amount of stress and inconvenience to anyone! I believe it is actually illegal in Australia, for ordinary citizens to bug other people's phone conversations and read their private texts. Obviously the technology exists to make it easy for the less than ethical to breach trust! Not a good thing.

However, this modern day breach of privacy horror aside - I was more appalled at the final comment from the journalist covering the story

"The simple message is - trust no one!"

Hmm!

Coincidentally, the very next story was on purchasing cheap specs and the comment here was

"Go for brands you can trust!"

This is insidious and dangerous talk. The juxtaposition of these two themes around "Trust" make it clear that this television program's producers believe that all individuals are to be suspected of all manner of malicious dealings whereas companies, who produce "Stuff", are the ones to "trust" implicitly, for their "ethical marketing and customer service".

Hmm! x 2

I'm not happy about it. When human beings are taught that it is better to trust a brand name than it is to trust their neighbours - something very wicked and disastrous happens to a civilisation. It breaks down from the ground up. Suspicion, secrecy, deception and corruption ensue. Friends are no longer friends; families can no longer believe they are safe within the confines of home and hearth; business colleagues are left bereft of congenial support in the workplace.

Above all, it is ones privacy that suffers! Yes! The disastrous irony of this kind of thinking results in people actually losing the very thing they feared losing in the first place. Once trust is no longer a valid reason to conduct a relationship - of the kind between individuals - suspicion leads people to paranoia and the desire to spy on others anyway.

The television may be soliciting advertising revenue through this ploy too and that is indeed a massive breach of trust. It is one thing to inform - it is quite another to consciously manipulate. One does need to view these kinds of piece-meal, sound byte styled affairs shows with a certain level of scepticism it seems! Ergo - it is in this instance that the gift of trust must be most carefully practised. It is heinous to assume that individuals must always be assumed untrustworthy before the most widely marketed brand name! At least that is my personal opinion on the matter.

Trust is a currency. It is the payment given for relationship. To breach it is grievously wrong.

So... I ask this: protect the people around you. Trust others first before believing they are out to destroy or maim you. Give trust and trust returns. Do not let anyone (least of all - television shows) tell you that "no one" can be trusted for many, many people can be trusted and are above reproach. Build the foundations of trust between people with a smile and an aware but open heart

and lastly....

.... always remember that when it comes to buying "Stuff"....

Caveat emptor

The safest harbour

Millie sighed and bobbed unhappily in the briny sea next to the broken down jetty near the miserable little sea-side village of Brae. Her mast paint peeled in the blazing sun, her decks dull and spattered with the ruminations of seagulls, she eyed the forlorn little street that fronted the harbour above. No one came by to gaze out over the sea. No one stopped to cast a rod for a lazy afternoon of fishing. No children shrieked or shrilled with the joys of discovery from ocean depths. There were hardly any sounds in the street. It was as if it were a ghost-town with nary a ghost.

Millie recalled days long since gone when the town was a busy little port, with sweet girls in pretty frocks watching from the street above, for their fisher boyfriends to come in from a long days haul. She remembered how she felt after a long day out in the wild ocean, near-to-bursting with fish in her hull, coming in to moor at her little place by the jetty. The feeling was one of relief and utter exhaustion from a job well done.

The harbour was now almost abandoned except for the occasional visitor who scurried more than paused to take inventory of boats, and nets and then spin the wheels on their terribly posh cars out of the village of Brae back to the big city to frown and mutter at the costs of keeping "such rubbish" such as the likes of Millie. She felt so utterly abandoned.

The ropes that tied her to the moorings on the jetty were rotting away. She could feel the swell of the ocean deep below her keel, telling her that something was changing. She was frightened and did not know what lay ahead.

One morning the sky broke dawn in shades of red and gold so vivid that Millie woke from her sleep with a terrible trembly, burly feeling deep in her hold. Something was not going to be right today - she could feel it. The sky changed colour, everything became tinged in a kind of unearthly green. Even the clouds had bright green linings to them that had to be seen to be believed. The day went very quiet. Birds stopped ruminating from aloft. The town above ceased even the few noises it did have during a normal day. Things seemed deathly quiet. The horizon switched to a menacing blackness, with angry marching clouds galloping and fuming their way across open seas towards the village of Brae.

The Storm hit sometime around noon. Violent winds battered the few miserable boats in the little harbour so that some released their moorings and were cast adrift to an angry sea. Millie squeezed her eyes shut to brave out the vicious attack of wind, sea salt, sand and flashing lightening. She tried not to think of her mast standing still tall and bare to the open sky but sail-less being struck by one of those brilliant frightening bolts of power. Her own moorings suddenly released her to the mercy of the raging sea. The little harbour became a death trap for many of these unmanned boats. Some were dashed against the rocks and were scuppered. Some capsized to become bobbing hulls and nothing more and others again were thrown though the mouth of the harbour to be beached further along the coastline.

Millie however, seemed to be held by some unseen hand and her rudder, flapping wildly as it was, kept her from the rocks or from capsizing. She was however, cast out from the harbour into the wide and violent ocean to ride impossible waves for an interminable night of pain and gut-wrenching fear.

Silence reined once more and Millie found herself, alone and exhausted, but mercifully intact, on a wide-blue ocean. The gulls soon shattered the surreal calm with shrieks of joy at a place to rest on their journey to land.

"Where am I?" she asked the gulls aloft.

"Half way!" said most of the gulls inscrutably.

Millie cried. Half way to anywhere was nowhere to "Somewhere" and right now, as much as she was just a little bit glad to be free of her entrapment in that sullen little harbour, she was quite terrified at what lay ahead. Drifting in a quartering sea, she believed she was quite possibly, going to be alone for a very long time until she sank beneath the waves to the bottom of the ocean. Closing her eyes to sleep off her exhaustion and belay her fears, she let herself drift, not knowing how or where the whispering winds would take her.

She awoke with a start as she felt a feeble tug at the Jacob's Ladder on her Port side. She'd not realised that the ladder had become loosened in the storm and had been dragging through the ocean along her side for how long she didn't know. But here it was again... a gentle insistent tug. She felt it grow a little stronger and more determined.

A man's arm hooked itself into the sodden rope rung of the ladder and he clung there, a mixture of shock and relief plastered against his storm ravished face. The planking on which he had lay from a vessel torn apart by the storm was sinking beneath him as he hauled himself with the last of his strength, slowly, up the ladder to her deck. There he lay on his back for a long time dazed and confounded.

Millie's heart ached for the man. She could not tell if he was alive or dead. She wanted very much for him to be alive! Someone to steer her, guide her through this blue desert would be a godsend of unspeakable miracles! She willed the man to be alive!

Many hours... perhaps days... later he awoke slowly, his mouth parched and his joints aching. He stretched himself slowly, checking if he was still indeed alive and not a ghost on a miserable little boat in the middle of an enormous sea. He sat up, holding his head in his hands as it throbbed wildly in pain. Dehydration! He must find water and soon. Knowing boats as he did, he eased his way to the old cockpit. He searched but could not find a waterbottle. He went below deck, staggering and slightly unsteady on his feet, his eyes affected by too much salt and sun. Below he found old tin cans in the galley and a knife - a miracle really. He also found sail cloth and with the determination of survival hauled these treasures above as best he could. The sail cloth was heavy and he cut a section away from it to take to make a way of turning sea-water into potable water he could drink. A simple case of using the sun and the wonders of evaporation. Using utensils from the galley he made a filter with the piece of sail cloth, scraping away some of its greasy coating with the knife to bare the pure linen underneath. Hauling up seawater he set it into the contraption and very soon, the salt crystals formed on the topside of the cloth while underneath the water dripped into a panniken clear and drinkable. He spent most of the day sipping at and in turn hauling water this way. Each sip he seemed to grow stronger and more alert.

Finally he slept above deck near his water making device, the sleep of a man in determined recovery. Millie was so proud of him. Her little heart entranced at his strength of will and his determination to survive no matter the odds. She vowed to be like him and mustered her courage to face whatever lay ahead.

.... tbc (though given my track record on finishing stories like this? we shall see)

Hugo and the irrelevance of logic in Christ

Hugo Schwyzer is a pretty broad-minded, leftist, feminist bloke! He writes insightful discourses in all manner of subjects about gender and sexuality as well as history and other esoteric things.

He's also a professed christian.

It makes no sense of course. There's that lovely Rennaisance assumption alive and well to this day, that says that rational and intelligent persons who "believe in science" cannot in all seriousness also believe in Christ. For me, science is as much an aspect of God's bountiful blessings to be a non issue. I have absolutely no problem with science and so on. For those who believe in Science, the issue of Faith is very difficult to grasp. Faith as a thing isn't easy to pin down in objective laboratory tests. It's not logical.

As I always say... You cannot know something until you're inside of it. You cannot understand the experience a thing until you're actually experiencing it.

Faith.

You cannot know Faith until you are living inside Faith.

There's no greater conundrum than to sit outside Faith and simply not "get it". It's like trying to make sense of a painting by Dali or a optical illusion by Escher. Even Rorschach tests make more sense than having Faith in Christ.

Hugo is correct when he implies that logic is irrelevant to Faith. Faith is something slightly to the left of actual belief too. One can believe many erroneous things as well as good and logical things. I believe in gravity and I also believe that man has walked on the moon! Some don't and that's still a belief which may - or may not - be wrong.

Faith however isn't "just" a belief - it's also a medicine, a crutch, a prop, a hope, a plea, an intuiting, a knowing, an emotional construct beyond mere beliefs in illogical things. It's watery, amorphous, esoteric, utterly illogical and asinine. Faith is a living, breathing entity in the metaphysical hearts of some people who cannot imagine life without it there.

The HOW of living out ones Faith is however, dependent on reason and logic in many instances. Even I have a wariness and scepticism of miraculous signs. One must weigh all things from the perspective of an altruistic love which can be difficult enough even with Faith. We're such a selfish kind of creature. Certainly, there are some scientific facts that one believes on the tangible, touchable, sniff-able evidence and to bend these can create a storm of protest in the mind too.

The WHY of living in Faith is a different matter entirely and its mostly subjective and emotional. It's so deeply set in the parts of a human being untouchable by the logic of science that unless you somehow tap into that untouchable "knowing" - you will never know.

This reminds me of the scenes in the recent movie Avatar where the Na'vi entwine nerve endings from themselves into the literal fabric of their environment. For many Christians, myself (and it seems, Hugo) included, this entwining into the Godhead gives us a perspective that's just not possible to convey to those who do not have the same entwined symbiosis to it.

To nearly misquote a line from Jethro Tull's "Thick as a Brick" ....

Without Faith:

god is an overwhelming responsibility

Which I think is entirely true and quite logical really. There are many who profess to be Christians who's version of god is utterly reprehensible and I will have no part of their interpretation of the Christian Gospel at all! I cannot however, question their Faith - for I do not have the power to pass judgment on it when my sort of Faith is so exclusively my own

So, given that Faith is so hard to convey, the miracle in all of this is that lives continue to change - for a resounding "Better" to those who experience it - through the impact of Christ. It's as if there's some kind of magnetic attraction between the illogical dimension and various and sporadic persons. Once enmeshed inside that dimension, Faith eventually may (or may not) take root and flourish in the spiritual centre of the person. For me the embodiment of that dimension is Christ.

I may perhaps gain everything but I will lose nothing in owning this "foolishness".

Indian cooking: a symphony for the nose

A new Indian restaurant is opening today just a few doors down from my workplace.  The smells emanating from their kitchen today, drove my salivary glands giddy with desire and my belly with hunger.

I've thankfully, refrained for now from indulging in the massive range of delicacies on offer.  I'm sure this won't last long!  Goodness knows how many kilojoules of wonderment await in this den of culinary vice!

Indian food!

There is truly a symphony of gastric song in just the words alone.  Nuanced spices structuring basic ingredients to culinary heights of gastronomic beauty; basic ingredients, such as rice, chicken, vegetables and fish steaming with fragrant possibilities for the palate! 

The heart - and the belly - crave the promise of such a siren's song to the nose!

There is no other international cuisine quite like the scents and flavours of Indian food.  It is a law unto itself.  Not all Indian food is spicy hot of course.  Even so, the piquant blending of selected spices, herbs and condiments adds notes to food just as music adds notes to sound, morphing them into pleasantries for the senses and the soul.

I can't wait to sample the food at our new Indian Restaurant!  If the smells coming from there today are anything to go by  - the food promises to be utterly divine.  Today however, I shall have to be a gastronomic Odysseus and tie myself to a dietary mast in order to listen with my nose but make my body wait for this wicked but potentially satisfying grace. 

Such sweetly fragrant agony!

from encyclopedia's to Google: thoughts on portals for information collection.

Once upon a time, information was power.  Those who controlled the information had the power to make, break, change and iterate their particular polemic.  The rest of us accepted that those who "knew", knew what was in our best interests.  Those who controlled information flow could control not only its dissemination but also its generation.  What was written, kept hidden, made public, exposed, created, imparted and expressed was in proportion to the benevolence or malevolence of the arbitrators of that information.

This state of affairs has changed markedly in the past 40 years or so - my lifetime so far.  Information - good information - is probably as valuable now as it ever was but with one significant difference - it's now accessible by much greater proportion of the population.  This means that information - even good enough information - is cheap, ubiquitous, ever-changing, endless, and it has the life-span of nano-seconds compared to the information available even as late as 30 or 40 years ago.

When I was a little girl, growing up on a farm kilometres from the closest town, with little access to television and little understanding of the pompous and esoteric murmurings of public radio - my only source of reliable information at the time was my father's beloved set of Encyclopedia Brittanica.  This was the place my father sent me when I wanted to know the meaning of something, the history of some event or the workings of the human body.  I was forced to learn how to use its indexing system - complicated enough as it was for an 9 year old - I would spend hours pouring over the 24 gargantuan tomes in their maroon bindings searching and cross-referencing to learn whatever I could about what it was itching in my brain.  Most of the time, I could barely comprehend the language, but learn it I did for there was no other way for me to access the information I wanted.  Effectively, I was controlled to know whatever it was that EB deemed it appropriate for me, my father and others blessed enough to own a set of Encyclopedia's!

Now, I Google! It's easy, it's fun, I can sift and sort information quickly, making pretty reasonable judgments as to its accuracy and intent - I hope!  In this day and age, Information is not deemed "of quality" until that fact has been intuited by the consumer of that information.  This makes the information available today quite a bit more subjective than it was many years ago I think and its perceived "quality" may be often questionable.   It's also a probably truth that what EB imparted as information back in the first half of the 20th Century was just as "questionable" to the biases of those in control of its dissemination - we may never really know. 

The web has distinguished itself as an inexhaustible vault of Information.  Qualitative and quantitative information may be harder to find but its there.  I already see a kind of frenzy happening around me - particularly in my work in community development -  in reining, boxing, corralling, sorting and sifting all this information in so that it becomes "easier to handle".

Government departments are attempting to make online "portals" to collect vast amounts of information into isolated repositories for different sections of the population - much like a kind of limited encyclopedia of knowledge about one subject at a time for one kind of group at a time.  It's all about control but in the guise of making this information easier for people to find.  A part of me fears this kind of approach.  To me it smacks of an inability to both accept the impossibility of being able to control information and the sheer effrontery to assume people want that information controlled in the first place.  

There's no question that the web can make hunting down scraps of information a bit like sifting for needles in haystacks but I'd rather people were given the options for how to make the search than having others dictate to certain groups via "portals" or "info exchanges" just what information they "need". 

People need to be skilled up and educated in how to search the web for what they want and need to know just like I was trained to hunt and understand the information I wanted from those precious books as a child.  Search engines need to be impartial and not geared to show the information of the highest bidders.  We simply cannot easily decide as  collective groups what is qualitative information anymore and the quantitative aspect of information control is most likely impossible anyway.  The skills for assessing and utilising quality information from across the web must taught - to individuals, so that they can decide for themselves what is useful to their needs.

We value freedom of speech.  Let's now also value and encourage the freedom of people to find and use good information for themselves rather than corralling it for them in the mistaken assumption that its control and manipulation is required.

the email test blog

I'm actually writing this from within my email account.   Bizarre but true!  If it actually works it may yet revolutionise the way I blog!  For the past four years, I've conscientiously gone directly inside blogger.com in order to record my impressions, thoughts and creative ideas.  I'm always up for a trick if it makes life easier and in the past year, writing in blogger has succumbed to a malady mainly called "Can't be bothered!".

I still yearn for my blog.  I still want to write in it and express myself within its hallowed virtual  halls.  It's just been too tedious a process to open a blank page and begin writing.  Yet, from my email account, where writing is almost as natural as breathing for me, I might perhaps find the wherewithal again to bare my soul and aMuse my "Genius" in the cosy glow of blogger's footlights.

Let's test this puppy out and see if the possibilities are there!

a little pool of freedom

Hold me lightly
cupped like water
and do not clench
or grasp
or squeeze;
just lightly
soft -
carefully casual like,
precious even.
I shall rest there,
in your hand
so soft -
courageously gentle;
a warm resting place
for freedom
to lie still a moment.
A little pool
of freedom
inviting you to sip
but not hold.

michelle
Feb 2010

Just because he's not famous...

Matt Stevens huh?

My little journal entry about my trip to see Porcupine Tree last week seems to have generated far more interest across the globe than I might have expected! Bizarre how the blogging world opens up microcosms of connections really... but that aside:

I had a rather strange email land in my inbox this morning - in the Junk Folder. I'm not inclined to trash junk just too willy nilly and probably just as well too or I'd never have had a listen to Matt's music.

Matt invited me to write "something" about his music here in my blog for him! hahahaha!! How CUTE is that I ask you? Blatant promotion aside, I confess to being just a little chuffed that he at least appeared to have read my blog! We hobby bloggists are so egomaniacal ain't we?

Okay... so I checked out Matt's site via the long trail method rather than accepting his blatant call for action - in my junk folder no less - as gospel variety truth.

Glad I did!

Sure! The guy apparently CAN play the guitar - and then some. His album is available to download at his site http://www.mattstevensguitar.com/. You can offer him anything you want for it it seems, which seems to be the way of new music now thanks to the innovation of "Radiohead" a few years ago.

Matt sounds like he's classically trained as there is lots of classical riffs and spanish influences on his "Echo" album. I gave it a good listen and quite enjoyed it but I still sorta think the man needs a full band to round out his compositions with more depth and layers than the acoustic guitar layers he's added. I yearned for driving bass fills and the tight patter of drums. As it stands some of this stuff begins to sound much like the other to the untrained ear - a bit like chewing on gum for too long, it gets all bit "meh" once the initial flavour is gone.

There is a lot to like here of course. He has this layered loop thing going on with other acoustic guitar work doing the part of what other band members might have done with other instruments. For purely acoustic instrumental sound - its definitely pretty cool. For the "right" context anyway. I imagine this is the sort of stuff you can play unobtrusively in the background over a dinner date with friends.

Some of it is clunky and uninteresting, other parts are warm and intimate; other parts again, are just plain weird like all good prog should be in places *wink*. I have listened to some tracks more than once already. There are catchy melodies here, repeated lines that capture the mood and encase it like sticky honey on a spoon. There are chords that grate on the teeth like metal against fillings and then - just to mix it all up a bit - there's lilting Spanish classical picking juxtaposed against rapper-like background staccato sounds. It might be too much of everything trying too hard to be all one thing but most of the time it kind of works, the occasional glitch aside. This isn't polished production - it is however, an ordinary blokes' music and just like I blog for fun - he writes music for fun. He no doubt does it as much for himself as for the world.

What does interest me is how he is marketing his stuff! Direct email to blogger's who write just for the fun of it is a new one on me! Does it smack of desperation? Yeah! Perhaps!

Does that matter?

Not in the least!

My own reaction was one of suspicion and distrust initially but there was also something inherently "natural" about his email in my junk folder as well, which piqued my need to go Google him up! I am duly impressed by this effort to market his sound to the world on a bootstrap. And this is effectively what this is.... bootstrapping! This is obviously, his real business - his music - aside from his day job if he has one! He is using what is already available and working at it, strategically, using just the tools at hand to generate public interest and in time more sales. It's risky, courageous and determined and not lacking in passion.

It is unlikely that any major music producer would conclude that Matt Stevens had "something" marketable to make lots of cash from. That's the point here though. More and more we are going to see talented, highly creative and determined young men and women taking charge of their own artistic destinies and risking a chance on fame and fortune through a niche of other ordinary creative people taking notice. The tools are within their grasp to do this now on a global scale. Matt may be the harbinger of a new kind of Minstrel plying his trade across the ether rather than on a road.

The way Matt approached me to write about his music is to me, marketing by the incremental, rather than grand splash flashy advertising with sink or swim outcomes. This is the slow crawl towards making the music heard by as many as necessary even though the Matt Stevens of the world who are making this stuff, may remain relatively incognito throughout!

So good on yer Matt for having a crack. Your music is perfectly okay and yeah...just because you're not famous doesn't mean you don't deserve to be promoted or listened to. I have been happy to oblige by writing this post even as I listen to your new album on your site. I still think it's weird you think my blog will make a difference to your journey to fame and infamy though! *snort*

Oh what the hell! I reckon I might download "Echo" after all *grin*

Cheers :)

Porcupine Tree and mini-breaks for over 45's

I've had a wee holiday. A "mini-break", if you will.

It all started yesterday. Sunday 7th February 2010 (and yes... the fact that it was the anniversary of "Black Saturday" does not escape me as I shall never forget the 2009 version of this date for the rest of my days). I left for Melbourne on the bus + train combo we endure just because we live so far from the "suburbs" etc etc (dramatic eye-rolling of course).

The trip was uneventful and restful. I was pretty sleepy for most of it but did manage to get a listen of the new album by Porcupine Tree on the ipod. The music made me smile as always. Dramatic, theatrical, eminently moody and exacting - listening to PT is a surreal experience akin to a joy-soaked bath in healing but ominous looking black mud! I couldn't wait to see them live even though I little knew what to expect other than that their sound seems to thrill me ways I can barely describe.

It was really quite hot when I arrived at Southern Cross Station on the edge of Melbourne CBD. I generally like to walk the CBD, eschewing the fantastic public transport system for "Shanks Pony" because well 1) I need the exercise any chance I get and 2) its faster than waiting around for anything and 3) everything in Melbourne CBD is tucked within a very compact 2.5kms walk from anything else really...give or take a few metres. It only ever takes me approximately 20 minutes to walk to Bourke St. Mall and not much after that to get to where I generally stay on solo trips such as this one, the trust old Victoria Hotel in Lt. Collins St.

Mind you... that last 5 minute crawl up the hill to the doors of The Vic is torturous and will guarantee burning hamstrings and the feeling of blades turned upwards into the soles of ones feet on really warm days - particularly for the grossly unfit and overweight such as myself *sigh*.

The Vic's rooms are are arranged in an Escher'esque way - aka. in labyrinthine but sort of logical confusion. It took me nearly 15 mins from alighting from the first floor lift to find my room. I got hopelessly lost up in there you know! Then again, I'm the "Least-likely-to-know-which-way-is-East-even-if-the-sun-were-rising" kind of girl so that was probably to be expected.

I finally found room 119 tucked into a tiny cul-de-sac through doors, down stairs, up a ramp, down a corridor, around a corner. It was spacious with a double bed made from the off-casts of some cement factory; however, given as I am, to preferring firmer mattresses than overly-soft, it suited me fine. The room was really hot though, so I was grateful for the small air-conditioner set into the wall. The one small window above the air-con was darkened with a small slatted blind, the slats closed, making the room very dark. I rather liked it this way. My bathroom was barely the size of a postage stamp with the barest essentials required for ablutions. Quite frankly, having a door on the bathroom was superfluous and my feeling is that swinging saloon doors or a sliding door would be a far more agreeable option. The swing door took up most of the space and as I was on my own, the need to close it seemed a bit over kill really except for the fact I kept banging my hip against it as I washed my face or brushed my teeth.

When I had finished surveying the room, I dumped my bag on the bed and grabbed key and wallet and promptly wended my way back down the labyrinth of corridors and ramps to the lift well. I was on a mission now - food! One of my biggest weaknesses as a single 48 year old female is the obsession with both food AND girth all in the same breath and mindset. It's the most fundamentally annoying conundrum.

I want to eat really great tasting food but on the condition that I add not one iota of a gram of fat to my already overburdened frame. In fact, I want to eat really good food such that my body says with grateful happiness "Oh Thank you so much! I am very well fed! I do not need to reserve all these extra calories you just devoured and store them in your thighs and arse, just in case I need them for later when I think I might, potentially, be starving; so I will release these calories into the ether and stay thin because I'm perfectly happy to do that for you!" etc etc.

Sadly, my metabolic rate is such that gaining weight is easier than breathing - no matter how "healthy" the food is or appears! These days, losing the kg's requires the disciplinary skills of a regimental instructor in an army boot camp and I actually rather despise following "rules" - even the ones I make for myself. So, there I sat in bakery eating great food and I am still purring at the memory of pastry crumbling over my lips in all its decadent, delicious, and malevolent beauty. Sluggish metabolic genetics and a predilection for sugar + butter is a cruel disease!

I digress:

I wondered if I should go "do something" while there in Melbourne on my own. No children to groan at me as I perused the Masters in the National Gallery: no friends to get tetchy with me as I wandered around the alley ways looking at cafe menu's "deciding" where I was going to eat later - having just had lunch: no schedules other than an 8pm appointment to see a band. Bliss.

I opted instead, for a "Nanna nap" in my cosy little hide-away hotel room. And just as well I might add. My day had started at 5am that morning and the thought of having to fire on through until well after midnight just made me cave. The nap was divine except for a surreal and rather realistic dream where I kept hearing noises from my minuscule bathroom and on rising from my bed (plank), noted that there was a coterie of American High School girls and an older female "Chaperone" who looked like she might have come straight from the set of "One flew over the cuckoo's nest"! Their room was apparently adjunct mine and we were forced to "share" the bathroom. This did NOT please me one bit. They literally invaded my space and as the room shifted and morphed into other rooms with doors that wouldn't close I was "forced" to stand my ground and demand that everyone fuck off immediately in the nicest possible assertive way I could. This was a blimmin' dream I might add and I was rather bristled by it but also sort of assured that my confidence is perhaps coming back. Despite that dream though, the nap was restful and I got up about 5pm to prep for the concert.

Now, given that I AM 48 years old, I decided not to get just too carried away with all things "primping". The chances of me needing to impress anyone were far too preposterous to give any credibility to. I just wanted to look presentable and as "normal" as I possibly could. I had had an inkling for days that women in my demographic are not normally associated with 'Difficult-to-categorise-progressive-hard-rock-bands', so I just preened enough to feel comfortable that I was not going to frighten children and left it at that.

I decided that I actually wasn't "that" hungry and eschewed a large meal for dinner. I walked up Bourke St to The Palace so that I could get a sense of the lay-of-the-land so to speak. I wasn't sure if I was going to actually hang outside the front doors or not at this point as it was a good two hours before they would open: I did however, want to be sure that I had the right place and that all was in order. I opted for a small take away meal that I actually didn't finish and knew it would be enough to tide me through. I had packed "light" opting only for the two pockets in my pants to carry bare essentials.

There was a queue already forming outside the doors of The Palace. In the end, I bought a bottle of water from the 7 Eleven just a bit further down and chose to go stand in that queue. There were perhaps 20 or so people already there. Most were youngish, slightly geeky looking and they appeared to be the sort of expected "type" who would probably choose to listen to the music of Porcupine Tree. A young woman was standing in front of me with her boyfriend chatting to some blokes in front of them. She looked at me and without batting an eyelid said aloud but quietly and quite politely

You do not look like someone who would normally be seen at a concert like this!

We ended up laughing and chatting, both of us amused and amazed at how the power of music has a way of drawing unlikely people together. Personally, I was awe at the lengths people actually went to, to get to this concert. The girl and her partner were from Perth, opting to visit Melbourne for the first time ever just to experience Porcupine Tree up close and live! Another guy just in front of them in the queue was effectively a bona fide groupie having been to heaps of PT concerts in Europe and who had apparently, travelled from "Goodness-knows-where" to see them in Australia too. I met another guy later on from New Zealand who had travelled over, specifically to catch these guys in concert! A band with that kind of geographical pulling power must be worthy of attention surely?

The two hours waiting in the queue for the doors to The Palace seemed to go by really fast! I didn't even get that nervous "need" to go find a tree so to speak! That in itself was amazing (or I was very dehydrated! One of those options!).

Once inside I was surprised to see that this was in fact not so much a theatre as a club. The floor space dropped in graduated stages via short steps. The huge boarded space directly in front of the stage looked inviting and I "might" have stayed down there for the duration except my feet and legs were killing me and I needed to find that "tree" by then anyway! I went upstairs to the first level mezzanine and found what I was looking for. I also found a rather comfy armchair perched on steps. The whole place is effectively one giant bar with alcoves where one can be plied with alcohol or water in exchange for vast sums of money! I decided that since I had what I thought was a pretty prime piece of real estate - aka that big squishy and comfortable armchair - I wasn't going to go frolicking about looking ridiculous by ordering Lemon, Lime & Bitters and a bottle - small - of water. I parked my weary butt and waited.

The support act finally came out not much more than an hour later. Sleep Parade were cute, young and yet just seemed a bit desperate to me in some ways. It might be a common problem for supporting acts starting on their journey to fame and infamy. To me SP just seemed to be trying so very hard to be counted as serious prog musicians - which I suppose they are. To my naive and untrained ears they sounded tight but not really relaxed enough as a unit to lift their originals into the Memorable category. They definitely show promise though in the progressive rock market. So? That being said, they'll no doubt be on the lips of generations much younger than me in the years to come. Indeed they are probably to quote the lead singer:

...luckiest bands in Australia to be chosen to support Porcupine Tree. [unquote]

Watch this space. :)

At approximately 9:45pm, Porcupine Tree opened. I stood immediately, mainly because the two TALL guys just in front of me also stood. *sigh* Why is it that tall people don't naturally select the very back row as a matter of course? I will probably regret in the ensuing years not being pushy enough to scramble a spot on the railing right down at the front of the mezzanine overlooking the ground floor and with a perfect view of the stage! I could see okay though from where I was if I ducked and dived and generally stretched in and around the tall men in front of me. I could see the bare footed Steven Wilson (be.still.my.beating.heart.) and the amazing Gavin Harrison on the drums, Richard Barbieri on the keyboards and other eclectic sound morphing devices and Colin Edwin on the bass. They had a fifth member as a guest performer - an Aussie - but I missed his name and did not recognise him unfortunately. My apologies if he ever happens to read this (*smirk* - astonishing ego have I yes? *smirk*). Let's just say he fitted in perfectly well! :)

The band played most of the first seamless track from their new album "The Incident" which was released last year. I'd been listening to it for a few days prior so by the time they started playing it I was beside myself with joy and excitement. I just could not stop grinning like a fool! I had no children with me to embarrass and it was...is... highly unlikely I will ever meet anyone of the people at that event again, so I let my body "talk" with the music as it is always inclined to do so. I moved, jiggled, swayed and generally bounced along with sheer unadulterated pleasure! I had fun!!!! Amazing, awesome, wonderful, In-this-moment-I-am-happy fun!

The visual effects on the screen behind the band lent a surrealist landscape to the sound. And what sound! Effortless and inspired sound coming from depths of human suffering and yet morphing that suffering and pain into irrepressible cause for joy within my own soul. HOW can music be this Good? Guitar riffs morphing into psychedelic arpeggio's made of synth and keyboard then crashing over you suddenly, wave upon wave of heavy metal beat, interwoven with poetic, melancholic and ethereally beautiful melodies. I am awed at the musicianship quite frankly. Not one member of the band grand-standed; nor did they make a big show of anything - it was all about immersion in the sound; the music.

I of course - being very old and very practical - had brought along earplugs! I AM very grateful I did this because I snuck my right one out periodically to get a sense of how loud it was. Oh my giddy aunt! If I had have been down on the floor in the crowd - I am sure I'd be in the emergency dept by now screaming for my hearing to return and holding bloodied towels to the sides of my head. It was deafeningly loud. The earplugs actually made the experience MUCH better for me. I could clearly hear every note, every beat, every melody and every word! I went to bed later that night with no ringing in my ears and I can still use a phone without having to shout at people to "speak up"! :) A worthy addition to any concert attendance.

After a short break, the band returned to sing some old favs from earlier albums such as "Fear of a Blank Planet" and "In Abstentia", both of which get a regular airing in my iTunes playlist and on the ipod too :) Bliss....pure bliss to know this music even though I hardly know what the titles of the songs are really. I realised this because a bloke kept turning in the quieter moments (rare and profound), to ask what song they'd just played. I never knew what to say other than I "knew" the song but couldn't remember what it was called! *blush* I know - I am hardly an expert on these things. He kept saying "Amazing band!" over and over with each new song having never heard of PT before in his life until that night when a mate had dragged him along. A new fan born I reckon :)

When I finally made it out not long after midnight, I was so pumped and excited, I felt as if I was 16 years old again and as light as air. I sent a few text messages to let the kids know I was okay and proceeded to walk the few blocks back to The Vic. I had been more than a little worried about being on my own at this hour walking back but it was fine really - lots of people about and very well lit, much safer than it all seems in theory I guess. I settled into my room after a lovely hot shower. I hadn't realised how sweaty and icky I'd become standing for hours in a darkened club but there you go - live and learn! :)

I lay in this morning and leisurely pottered about my room on waking, packing up and moving through some exercises to relieve the stiffness in my legs and ankles. I guess this stiffness came from having to teeter on the edges of steps in order to see over tall people the previous night. :) I had a divine breakfast/brunch at Gordon's in The Causeway of light rye toast with sausage, tomato and cheese and a long Earl Grey tea *mmmmmm*. Then I wandered, rather aimlessly, and very leisurely, back towards the station for my train/bus home.

Again, the journey was uneventful and as I read my book and listened yet again to PT on my ipod, I could not stop smiling and feeling utterly relaxed and content with the state of things in this moment.

A blissful couple of days and I'm still purring.

Hope for Haiti Now Album

Apple cobbled together a few of its pals to make a music tribute and raise money for the victims of the recent Haiti Earthquake.

The album is definitive 2000's pop + 20th Century classics, some apparently re-worked by the artists especially for this album.

Most tracks have a slightly more down-tempo feel which I suppose is to demonstrate respect but also appeal to a much wider than usual audience. As a result, I find it a bit a heavy on occasion as if its too earnest, too forced. I imagine most rock and pop stars must absolutely dread a world disaster these days! Disasters must mean an expectation that their profession will automatically line up for the fund-raising effort. The charity burn-out factor must be becoming a bit of an issue. Surely? Making and selling a music CD IS an easy way to "raise money" but its getting a bit tired! Where are the big Hollywood movies being donated to "raise money" for example? I might just be naive perhaps.

This album features most of the male and female A-Lister's of modern pop including Madonna, Christina Aguilera, Wyclef Jean, Bono, Justin Timberlake and so on. I am listening intently but did they HAVE to include Beyoncé's vocal theatrics? *sigh*. Might be just me - but her version of Halo on this album grates and comes across as forced and overly theatrical "compassion". It's the most irritating track and I skip it on each listen now.

Stand-out tracks for me are Bruce Springsteen's version "We shall overcome", Taylor Swift's "Breathless" (beautiful pop!) and Dave Matthews and Neil Young's version of "Alone and Forsaken" (brilliant stuff!). Then there's "Lean on me" by Sheryl Crow, Kid Rock and Kieth Urban. The weirdest track is Wyclef Jean trying to do a out-of-sync coolness (not!) version of "River's of Babylon" which is just "meh!".

At AU$13.99 (via direct download from iTunes) its not too bad value though its hardly going to be a memorable album in years to come I reckon. Overall, the album is too chunky, too serious, and feels more like a brick - albeit plated gold - than a feel-good treat and a thank you for my donated funds!

The album is apparently doing well though in sales and has raised a modest amount for the Haiti Appeal. Yes! US$3m + to date is "modest" in this situation. The Haiti crisis is going to take years to mend. It will cost billions to fix and a few sales of a CD aren't going to make too big a dent in that required amount. Truth be told - the money raised doesn't always get to where it is meant to go either! Once the ordinary folk of the world realise this travesty of justice... who knows what will happen to "Charity" then?

The organisations that can clearly demonstrate an ethical distribution of donated funds will prevail. Let's hope so anyway!

carpets in the halls of hearts

Soft. Deep, like the coat of a wintering cat,
my heart feels full and sensuous;
luxuriating as I am in the pleasure of this touch
upon its long, un-walked halls.
Toes curling in delightful wonder,
on a carpet of alluring possibilities.
It's not the room at the opposite end
that holds my enthrall,
but the sense of the way there -
each step a wondrous epitome of discovery.
New love in every sinuous move -
every fibre beneath my feet,
a growth towards completion.

the ubiquitous resurgence of emotional turbidity

Cloudy. Cloudy thoughts like those kinds of clouds raging across an unsettled sky. The questions are the clouds.

What is actually necessary? What is actually required? What is beneficial?

I "know" idealistically what I want but what I want may not be what is beautiful or perfect or desirable over the long haul.

The answers are feint; hidden as they are behind impenetrable mists of confusing needs and wants, idealistic propensities and zealous pragmatism.

There are times when my desire to know the future and its promises, becomes an intractable and unwieldy yoke. This may be one of those times when I probably could allow the question clouds maelstrom their way across my Thought Sky, without wishing for those answers to upset the swirly chaos.

Perhaps in the interests of simple Experience, its time to allow my questions to remain unanswered and be unfettered by fears of an impossible-to-know future and simply enjoy the ride.

Welcome romance...eschew what if's....

....simply enjoy the ride.

The cool, calm quiet

It's going to be hot here in the next few days! Damn hot! Forecasts suggest in the realms of the low 40's Celcius (104F and then some). The temperatures these past few weeks have been up and down and all over the place. The highs and lows of the weather seem to be matching the roller-coaster ride of my life this past few years!

Right now it's very mild. There's a tinge of coolness on the air as if Mother Nature is blowing softly across the landscape with her lips pursed: much like a mother blows on her little child's food to take the edge off the heat. Respite.

Inside my own heart, I am also aware of a kind of coolness of spirit. A calm gentle mildness of Being. It's nice! My life has seen all manner of upheavals this past few years. Death, disease, anguish, pain, intense loneliness along with mountain top highs and euphoric moments of pure joy. It's been a roller-coaster that's for sure.

I used to think I would be partial to a roller-coaster but having experienced a real one in recent years I know I am not. Either I left my roller-coaster riding experience too late in life or I am simply far too acutely aware that these mechanical beasties have way too many bolts and bits that could shear off at ANY moment catapulting the riders all over the place! No thanks! The rattling, straining, speed and hurtling downhill pace of the roller-coaster is not for me. Far too scary.

Thank God (literally), we really can't read the future for if we could know about the little bolts, the noises, the squeaks, the down hill runs, the straining up hill climbs too well.... most of us would probably stay at home - in bed - under the covers and plead for Him to make us die!

Yes! My life has been a roller-coaster this past few years. Has it been fun?

*wry smile* No!

Yes!

Sometimes maybe on occasion.

Today as I sit here before heading to work, I am blissfully aware of an inner calm - a sort of peaceful acceptance that my life is my own and my roller coaster ride is perhaps coming to the end of its current session. However brief the hiatus between this last ride and any prospective future one will be, I will enjoy the cool, calm quiet of these moments very much indeed.

Silent Night

It is Christmas Eve 2009.

Mellow air and warmth caresses this evening like a kind of balm. Christmas Eve has always had a sense of the unabashed Holy about it. Years ago I used to spend this night in a frenetic anxiousness and the crazed and over-extended ardour of The Director. I revelled in the Chaos of Christmas Eve and relished the crowds at Church, the heat and noise and blustering nerves in my belly as my theatrical homages to Divinity were splashed across the Worship/Premier Night stage.

I always spent Christmas Eve essentially alone even amidst the people. My children were my saving grace, giving me purpose and reason beyond the recognition of the Christ Child. I was a studious and well organised Christmas Eve Mum so as to ensure my babes were able to wallow in the magical wonder of Christmas morning surprises.

I was married back then but still effectively alone.

Tonight, I am also alone. I am observing the ever present beast named Loneliness, wending its way around my ankles like a black smog, slung low to the ground and threatening; but I am used to being alone on Christmas Eve, so it can never really harm me. I am used to being immersed in the silence of this night. Loneliness will eventually give way to contentment again but it can be a struggle sometimes even so.

It may well be that there is a rhythm to my character that defines Christmas Eve as a sort of sacrosanct hermitage of the soul... of my soul. It seems that each year at this time I do retreat into the centre of my inner world more and become more reflective and muted - less inclined to socialise or engage with others in grand gestures and party oriented persona's. Not that I really engage with others much these days anyway. The dynamics of my current lifestyle are not conducive to it.

There was a woman alone on the street today. She was stranded and surrounded by all her belongings in suitcases and bags, sitting on a box and sobbing for she has nowhere to go. She had apparently been thrown out by her partner from her home. My cynical suspicious nature wonders but well yes...she was...she is... effectively homeless. Her bruised and beaten soul screamed "Victim" at the top of its metaphysical lungs. Even the Salvo's had no place for her in the inn tonight.

Is she the Christ child come to earth in disguise to find those worthy of grace?

There is none before or since who can be worthy such a thing! And besides, it has already been given and it is sitting there waiting patiently for us to unwrap it like a child on Christmas morning. That's all. Christmas Eve is supposed to remind us of this Truth. More often than not, we just see what we want to see and never mind the rest.

So, Christmas Eve has a polish and a patina of its very own for me. It's a haven and a hell, a beautiful paradise of impeccable spiritual retreat as well as a kind of purgatory I must travel through towards genuine humanity - and elusive intimacy - again.

Tonight is THIS Christmas Eve. in 365 days I will have grown and been moved, and changed by the circumstances of life and will have most likely re-shaped my perceptions yet again. We will see!

affairs of an online monster

Short, short story time! :) Dashed this one out in under 30 mins. It probably needs 'work' but hey? I just blog for the fun of it - not because I'm a perfecto editing freak. This is really just to ease me back into this space gently. If you enjoy it - good for you! If you reckon it's autobiographical...*smirk* ... maaaayyyyybbeeeeeee......but I'm not telling! :p

***
Judy was an affable and rather entertaining girl with a quirky grasp of English and a despotic attitude to all things prudish.

In the real world, she daily presented herself with a kind of equanimity that was at once baffling and intriguing because people got strange sensations and vague hunches that she was really a mess of chaotic undercurrents of troubling emotional genius under all the placid crust.

She beguiled people into thinking she was a sweet, vivacious and very contained soul. An easy laugh and a wicked sense of humour belied her rather straight-laced and kind of primmish posture.

In truth Judy lived a double life of sorts. Every bit her Self in both of them though. In one life she had all the hall-marks of the complex simplicity, we call Average, which all human beings are prone to displaying in society. She was both an individual and yet she '"belonged" to the groups she was aligned with, absorbing their customs, emotional energy and directive pace, easily in sync with anyone else in the group. She was simply an Average woman. Nothing more, nothing less.

In the other life, Judy was anything but Average! In her other life she was Extraordinary. She was beautiful - extraordinarily so. She was incredibly clever - extraordinarily so. She was wise and charming and witty - extraordinarily so. For Judy, there was no masks to be worn or persona's to adopt. She was intrinsically her Self in this world no less than she was her Self in the other world.

But the difference remained. In one life she was stymied by the faulty misappropriation of identity through absorptions of other people's expectations. In the other life she was utterly free to be everything she was - as she perceived herself to be. In one world she had to use voice and gesture and body to convey her nature and she was embarrassed by that, perpetually so.

You see, her body was not beautiful. Her face was neither beautiful but nor was it grossly ugly either. She was, if anything, merely plain and ergo invisible to most people. Just another person - no more - no less. No one knew her clever turn of phrase or her biting intelligence and her skill in pulling eclectic and unrelated data together into coherent concepts that actually made some kind of logical sense of the world.

The other world knew this about her and apportioned it; but in this world, there were also words and a characterised representation of her Soul, drawn like the wife of Roger Rabbit. Her avatar was in effect the very mirror of her Self as she aspired to be but could not for genetic and rather mundane earthly reasons (like food and exercise for instance!).

Nevertheless, Judy was simply incredible online. Masterful and confident. Assured and gracious. Warm, witty, lovely and very nearly darling. She was also completely and determinedly independent. She could date male avatar representations without ever having to pine for the smell of their skin on her own. She could fuck them without ever having to flush with utter embarrassment at the mere thought of nakedness in a real life man's presence. She could engage males and females in warm and intelligent conversations with nary a flicker of small talk - the usual dance of wary guarded anxiousness between strangers.

In that world, she was a queen of her own making. She could be free to be exactly her Self with no apprehensions on how that Self might be rejected, engaged with, entertained or absolved. She was everything and nothing and it didn't matter and that mattered a very great deal.

And all the while, Judy crept backwards from having to be courageous about engaging in one world and leaped forwards to being utterly poised and self-possessed when engaging in the other. One world had to have her... the other world was her choice.

No one else was the wiser as to the dichotomy of her being.