Christmas: a time for thanks and reflection

Christmas is upon us, once again raising the question of what exactly are we celebrating?

The birth of Christ? The arrival of Santa? A time to get drunk without the prospect of a work hangover?

For some it is the end of the work year, an escape from the nagging boss, mind-numbingly mundane natterings of co-workers and the daily invasion of personal space on the sardine tin public transit.

For others it is a chance to catch up with families, friends and loved ones, a time to chew the fat, consume food til distended and drink oneself into a fruit punch induced coma.

Whatever the reason for celebration it is often a time for reflection.

I went to church this morning – its allright you can exhale – and it was a pleasant experience. The Minister spoke of how Christmas has become commercialised and that much is true. As a child we celebrate the materialistic nature of Christmas; who doesn’t like getting presents? Even if they are from a crazy old man who flies around the globe at the speed of light led by a team of reindeer – how our parents got that one to stick is beyond me. But I digress.

Now that I am no longer a child, although some may think I act as one at times, I appreciate the less materialistic elements of Christmas. Not perhaps the ‘Birth of our Lord’ angle that the Minister was trumpeting this morning – but the gathering of family and friends, the celebration of how good life is and how lucky we are. I cannot imagine the painful degrees of suffering many of the world’s citizens feel today and every other day – to many Christmas is just another day in hell. How can we improve the lives of others? What can I do to make a difference? This is the message I took from today’s service and for that I was grateful I attended at stupid o’clock this morning.

I hope everyone has a wonderful Christmas wherever you are and can take time to appreciate the life they have, the friends and family, the safety and comfort and reflect on how we can help those not so fortunate.

Til next we meet, Merry Christmas!

The Summer of Ben

A long time in the making, the Summer of Ben has begun. It is a time for reflection, a time to relax, to escape the rush, fuss and pressure of everyday life. Few get the opportunity to grab the life remote, press the pause button and just live.

But what does that mean? What does it say about someone when they quit their job, begin to dismantle and assess their life? For me, it is about unburdening, about simplifying the way I live, what I focus on, what affects me – essentially, to not get too cheesy or spiritual as I try to be neither, what defines me.

This is a time to enjoy the simpler things. To not let the clock rule, be at the beck and call of the email or sms, to do what I want, when I want and for as long as I want. Yes, I guess it is a selfish time in a way – to get away from the grinding, crushing, weighty pressure of modern day – and focus on me.

The upside of this decision is that there will be more posts on Schreiben – yes, that’s right my good friends, I have not forgotten you. I hope to post on a regular basis and reconnect with all of you out there.

So, apologies for the lack of posts; it is time for that to change, starting now.

I’ll be in touch soon – have a great day.

Embarking on a month of the mo

Throughout history, many a gent has sported a moustache. The moustache (or mo) is prevalent in all cultures and has been affixed to men across the globe for centuries, even millennia.

Genghis Khan sported one, as did numerous British Kings, Princes & Dukes, wartime commanders, television personalities and sportsmen.

Magnum PI would not have been the same without a mo – he came the closest to making the mo cool.

Who can forget the cracking mo’s we were privileged to see in the 70’s and 80’s – Clive Lloyd, Viv Richards, Dennis Lillee, Rod Marsh, Allan Border, Merv Hughes, Max Walker…and the list goes on and on. When I was young everyone over the age of 15 seemed to have a mo…my dad, uncles, teachers, coaches…even the priest at my parents church had a mo.

The mo, however, was a passing phase for most of us. True, there are plenty of men, now in their 50’s who never gave up on the mo and have sported one for most of their adult life. For them, the mo has become like a piece of furniture, a favourite shirt, your best mate – without it you would not be whole, your life would be irreparably altered.

Every November, men in Australia, NZ, England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales, Canada and South Africa embark on a month long celebration of the mo. Starting from a bald canvas they cultivate a mo of differing thicknesses, designs and colours, to highlight men’s health issues – prostate cancer and depression - and raise money for worthwhile causes.

I have joined the Movember train and it has left station. Throughout November I will be keeping you all abreast of my progress and the state of the mo developing under my nose.

Wish me luck, as I have grown a mo before and the result is not complimentary….people will poke fun, ridicule will be directed at me and there could be a societal backlash. All in the name of raising awareness for two good causes.

I’ll provide an update in a few days.

Your Mo Bro, BK.

More coming soon - I promise

Hi to all my readers.

I have been ill and then travelling through the US for 3 weeks. I have a wealth of material, just need to find the time to commit it to paper.

Thank you for sticking by me and I will have some fresh additions for you very soon.

Til then...

BK

Girl with a Dolphin

I have attempted a review of a sculptural piece called "Girl with a Dolphin", by English sculptor Sir David Wynne.

For 6 months in 2006 I was blessed to live in the inner city London sanctuary of St Katherine’s Docks, across the road from the Tower of London and next to Tower Bridge. Outside the Thistle Tower Hotel in the shadow of Tower Bridge was a sculpture that fascinated me from the moment I saw it. “Girl with a Dolphin” is a marriage of two very different forms; that of the young girl and of the dolphin. The girl balances, like a prima ballerina, on the nose of the dolphin and, although static, it gives the impression of movement. The construction of the sculpture also gives the illusion of the figures flying unsupported, without a care.

Complimenting the form is the position of the sculpture. Located at the edge of the Thames, the view of the sculpture changes dramatically as you circle it. One minute the figures are suspended above the water, the next they are cast into a concrete wilderness – in both settings the figures are oblivious, caught up in their dance, absorbed in the moment. This is a piece of pure sculpture; cast from steel it shines in the sunlight and takes on a dulled quality in the murky London dusk.

Wynne is a reclusive figure, responsible for a number of famous works in London including the companion piece to the one featured, “Boy with a Dolphin” on Cheyne Walk, the Fred Perry bronze outside the Centre Court at Wimbledon, or the Queen Elizabeth Gates by Hyde Park Corner; pieces seen and admired by millions. If you get an opportunity to visit London, I recommend taking the time to view these pieces as they are awe-inspiring.

Wynne has taken two very recognisable figures and paired them in a magical way that is representative of our world, but unlikely to occur.

Like art, sculpture evokes an emotional response. When viewing “Girl with a Dolphin” I feel alive, the movement and joy evident in the piece is uplifting. You can imagine the laughter and excitement of the girl as she is whisked around by the dolphin, that brief moment where they are one, nature and man.

To be able to sit and enjoy something that has no moving parts, does not require electricity, does not interact with you or emit any sound, is a primeval experience. “Girl with a Dolphin” accomplishes this by allowing us to marvel at a scene and experience the moment from a variety of angles and perspectives. It is a piece to be savoured, with each viewing a unique and rewarding one.

A fresh perspective

I am a fan of art, in particular the Impressionists like Monet, Manet, Pissarro and Sisley; however I have never written about art or done an art review.

One of the highlights of my travels was a recent trip to the Musee D’Orsay in Paris. My girlfriend and I like to visit the independent galleries as well and on one such trip recently I was privileged to view an exhibition by Paul Selwood entitled ‘Perspective Cut-outs’, a series of wall mounted sculptures.

I have included a pictorial link that showcases the exhibition: http://www.wattersgallery.com/artists/Selwood/tinsheds09.html

Perspective Cut-outs – Paul Selwood
Tin Sheds Gallery, University of Sydney

It's amazing how easily the eye can be tricked into seeing things that are not there; how easily the mind can be entertained by manipulating dimensions.

MC Escher pieces always fascinated me; the way he bent the laws of dimension, the eyes and mind fooled into seeing something that does not, or cannot, exist.

In Selwood’s work, the viewer is offered wondrous perspective – shapes that seem to bulge outwards from the wall, hovering above the polished concrete floor – seemingly three dimensional pieces that, as it happens, are nothing more than two dimensional.

Upon first viewing it seems you are seeing a solid, wooden, carved sculpture; a piece with substance and form. As you move in a 180 degree arc, around the objects, the laws of perspective are reversed; instead of a side view offering more detail, it offers less. This is a curious experience as the brain is tricked. You know you are seeing something as it is, yet it seems manipulated. And the wood is not wood, it is graded and worked steel, shaded with rust and human effort to create the illusion of depth and perspective.

Also the pieces are large. You feel as if you could walk up and climb on the structure, or if tired, recline on one of the horizontal arms. When it becomes apparent that the structure is in 2D, 5mm thick, and mounted on a whitewashed wall, it is hard to fathom.

‘Perspective Cut-outs’ is a triumph. Selwood has achieved evoking instant emotion from the viewer; awe, wonder, gratification and disappointment. Although simplistic in form, the pieces are complicated in effect; fooling the brain into seeing something that does not exist.

This is art to be experienced, not just viewed; changing the way I view perspective forever.

Time after time

Throughout human history there have been sacred items that civilizations have sought, treasures they have craved. Wars have been fought over these items, countries ravaged, people slain; all in the pursuit of mystical items such as The Ten Commandments, the Holy Grail, and the Book of the Dead.

People have also sought that which should not exist, the stuff of legend, living only in myth; Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster, Santa Claus, the woman who likes test cricket, an Australian not fond of vegemite.

I have been on my own quest, searching for something without a face, the composition I am not entirely certain of, but which all people know exists and influences the lives of every person on Earth.

I am in search of ‘Time’.

All my life I have heard of this mysterious enigma but never known what or who it was referring to. After some preliminary research I have ascertained the following:

Time is something that a number of us do not have enough of. Often I have heard “I’d love to, but I’m out of time” or “Not enough time today” and wondered how do you get more? Will I wake up with a fresh batch tomorrow morning? Is it something the cat may bring in and toss at my feet?

Time must be a tangible substance, probably similar to ink or glue. Hence why you hear that Joe Bloggs has “Too much time on his hands”. Poor guy. That stuff is hard to get out.

You may be able to create more time in your own backyard – if only you could build your own ‘Time machine’.

Time is also something that is easily misplaced. ‘Can’t find the time’, ‘where did the time go?’ Slippery little character this ‘Time’. Evasive.

Maybe Time has fled the country, gone on holiday – this must be what people mean when they refer to ‘Time travel’. He probably got there on his own steam as “Time flies”; seemingly even more so when you’re having fun.

When you arrive at your friends house, huffing and puffing, gasping for every last breath, very late and are greeted with “It’s about time”, does that mean you have someone or something to blame for your tardiness? Bravo.

There is a link between Time and human existence though. A planet must have a human population, not just plant life, insects and dinosaurs; otherwise it is referred to as “the land that time forgot”. Did he forget to put humans on there? Bit of an oversight. Oops.

It seems that Time is a worthy adversary, one which can both assist us and threaten our very existence. You need to be quick to get a piece of Time’s action. There is no room for error; you cannot miss your opportunity…especially if you are male as we all know that “Time waits for no man.”

If that is the case I think I’ll get my sister or girlfriend to continue the search as I ponder just what “A stitch in time saves nine” refers to? Beats me. One for Google or Wikipedia I think.

Rare, medium or well-done?

I could feel the clammy mixture of sweat and sunscreen on my pale, exposed limbs as I trudged the 475km from our parking space to the maritime wonderland of Balmoral Beach. Unseasonably warm temperatures had set the alarm bells off in our heads, instructing me, and thousands of others, to drop our Sunday chores, adorn ourselves in beach wear, and converge on the beach like homing pigeons returning to their nesting place.

My limbs had not seen direct sun for a while; I was therefore blessed with a public sector tan, my legs glowing like freshly painted pickets on a Truman show fence. I was not alone. There were a vast sea of pasty bodies littering the sands, the first heat of spring had surprised us all, and many of us were unprepared for its fiery wrath.

Once a position had been staked on the sands, cream has been applied, the business of doing very little commenced. Some do this with a book, others a casual chat, some with booze; some just lay there and contemplate nothing. The end result is the same; row after row of exposed flesh, sizzling away in the spring sun. If Aliens arrived at this location, they would see a human barbeque laid out in front of them; choices for all tastes.

* Tourists fresh off the boat or public sector workers – RARE;

* More regular devotees of the sun, or those blessed with an olive complexion – MEDIUM; or

* The old timers, those who view the sun as their best mate, constant companion, ones with skin that resembles a leather hide or the covering from an American Indian drum – WELL DONE.

With a salad of fresh trees and shrubbery, these alien beings would find few dining establishments better suiting their needs than an Aussie beach.

The scene resembled a summer’s day at the beach; the sun was belting down, the breeze was warm, people were scantily clad; but this was a mirage. Upon shedding all clothing bar my rarely used board shorts I ventured to the water’s edge. This is normally a slightly upsetting experience; there are parts of the anatomy that do not take cold water too well, so I was on high alert. What greeted me was a bolt of electricity, like a taser had been propelled into my legs. Instant numbness is a strange phenomenon; the limbs fail to move, walking becomes impossible. I felt like the T-1000 in Terminator 2 when big Arnie poured the liquid nitrogen over the refinery floor. Except I could not snap limbs and keep walking, that is the stuff of Hollywood escapism.

So, numbed from the waist down I decided that although it looked like summer, this spring beach dish is best served dry and I made a beeline for the sand. A painful lesson had been learned.

Aside from the arctic water, the trip to the beach was an enjoyable one, something to be replicated in the coming months. Due to the military precision of my girlfriend’s sunscreen application, we remained protected - pasty and unburned. In the modern world of sunsmart practices, designer beachwear, and SPF 1900+ bridge paint sunscreen, the process of gaining a tan is very difficult.

But we’ll all live longer right; at least until the next cancer link is made and we can’t breathe air, or sleep anymore. Maybe caution should be thrown to the wind and a good roasting of the limbs is required after all. I’m off to set the dial to medium-well done and we’ll see if any of these aliens want to dine on me for their main course.

A not-so-good catch

What is the fascination with being able to catch? We spend large amounts of our lives feverishly trying to catch something. So much time, energy, concentration, and resource is dedicated to the pursuit of ‘catching’. 

Early morning we run down the street, slice of toast between our lips, shoelaces half tied, trying to ‘catch the bus’. 

People down on their luck, out of work, out of relationships, broken and downhearted pray to ‘catch a break’. 

If you are seemingly attractive, successful, wealthy, healthy, generally desirable, you are viewed by society as a ‘good catch’. 

If you are absent from work or school and there is work that needs to be done, your boss or teacher will invariably remind you that there is ‘a lot of catching up to do’. 

If you are able to drag yourself out of your warm bed on a cold winters morning, braving the chilly air, people will tell you this is a positive thing as the ‘early bird catches the worm’. 

I have never been a fan of catching. When I was a small boy I was unable to catch; catching was a skill I had to be taught. Catching does not come easily to a lot of us, it is something we have to strive for, something to relish when attained. Well, not all catching. 

I have been very successful these past few days in the catching realm. I have achieved something that many of my fellow Sydneysiders have been unable to this flu season. I have caught a cold. Why anyone would want to catch a cold is beyond me. 

Surely it is a case of the Cold catching us. I see the Cold as a dark, spectre like being, akin to the grim reaper. This wraith follows us all, waiting for an opportune time to strike. 

It is not like any sane person would trail Cold around town, down darkened alleys, in and out of hospitals, doctor’s surgeries, schools and shopping malls. We have better things to do with our time than track a Cold, the prize of catching him being spending a rotten week in bed, doped to the eyeballs, full of mucus, watching daytime television. In short, Cold is someone you don’t want to catch.

Now that I have learned to catch and have proven I can catch something as revered as a Cold, I am turning my attention to another important pursuit, cutting. I have so much work ahead of me; venture to a university to ‘cut class’, head to the supermarket to ‘cut in line’, annoy my boss so she tells me to ‘cut it out’; there is a lot to this cutting escapade. 

In fact I think it is time to cut this piece short.

My phone's ringing...or is it?

Wonderful things occur while we sleep. Our body regenerates and our mind rests, ready for whatever the new dawn will bring. Occasionally, the night will bring strange injuries, aches and pains with no apparent origin. This morning I awoke, uninjured, to find that my mobile phone had performed an incomprehensible advancement while I slept.

While on the train to work I generally leave my mobile phone in my bag, set on silent mode so my morning commute is free from any early morning hassle or employer related work ‘disaster’. Today, my phone, seemingly happy in its leather cave, was primed to perform its new amazing feat.

Without warning, a tingling sensation similar to when my phone rings began in my right pocket. This struck me as odd as I normally carry my mobile in my left pocket. I curiously reached into my right pocket to pluck my phone only to find my wallet and thin air. This puzzled me as I was fairly sure that my wallet was not equipped to vibrate as it had no moving parts or vibrate function. This posed a number of puzzling and confronting questions:

Had my phone pulled a ‘swifty’ on me or was I perhaps going slightly mad?

Was my phone really a Transformer, capable of morphing into a wallet? No.

Was my phone capable of vibration ventriloquism? No.

Was my phone hiding in my wallet? Unless it was the size and thickness of a credit card, then again, no.

Once that was established and I had regained my composure I then wondered what would cause my leg to vibrate as if a phone was pressed up against my flesh. I had heard of ‘phantom phone rings’, where our brains are so trained to the ringtone or vibration of our phones that we falsely hear or feel them, so I decided to investigate.

Wikipedia*, the collector of human knowledge, had a section on Ringxiety which is “described as the sensation and the false belief that one can hear his or her mobile phone ringing or feel it vibrating, when in fact the telephone is not doing so.” False vibrations are not well understood and the causes are said to be neurological or psychological. Therefore, the false vibration appears to be the 21st Century human version of Pavlov’s salivating dogs.

So, along with a number of other mild disorders that our modern day population is afflicted with, we now have Ringxiety to add to the bulging list. I think that Nokia should consider this phenomenon and put a team of their brightest minds to work on designing the world’s first wallet phone for men. Most men carry a wallet and a phone so to combine them into one functional device is the next frontier of science.

I'll be keeping my eyes and ears peeled for the new Nokia Mobilet, and let my wallet do the talking the next time I head out shopping with my girlfriend.

* Wikipedia’s information should be treated with scepticism as it is written by regular joes like you and I.

Selling the unsellable

Urban centres are a hive of activity. Scores of people flow out of compressed subway platforms and heaving buses, spilling onto the street, frantically scrambling towards their destination. It is a chaotic place where the societal rules of personal space, courteousness, even concern for the welfare of others, are often discarded in the pursuit of progress. The sayings, ‘time is money’, ‘time waits for no man’ and ‘time is precious’ have never been so true and adopted into behaviour by so many, as in the inner city cauldron. It can be a brutal place, built for the wise and determined, not the weak or uninitiated.

The upside to this office tide that washes people into the city’s bowels is for the multitude of businesspeople that line these city streets, enticing the passing crowd with an infinite variety of products and services. For the owners and operators of inner city businesses, the working crowd are their lifeblood; without them the closed sign is swiftly nailed to the front door.

The Oxford English Dictionary describes a business as:

1. a person’s regular occupation or trade.
2. work to be done or matters to be attended to.
3. commercial activity.

You can apply this definition to a number of the businesses in the inner city, established international fashion stores that sit aside independent family owned businesses, each serving a niche. This definition becomes more clouded when you venture away from the noise, colour and crowds, into the periphery of the inner city, where a ‘business’ can consist of an upturned milk crate and a collection of hand made braided bracelets.

This is where the entrepreneurial spirit is alive and well. Akin to a market stall, these operators sell anything and everything, their ‘wares’ only limited by your imagination. On my travels this lunchtime I saw a lady selling magazines, and a man selling lighters and mobile phone covers.

Occasionally though there are people selling goods or services that strike the passer-by as strange. No scratch that, flat-out odd.

Today I was lucky (?) enough to stroll by two such ‘businesspeople’.

The first guy I came across was selling ‘Advice - $2’. I stood across the road from this guy, pondering exactly what advice he could provide and what do you get for $2? I thought he may need to clarify his area of expertise a little, narrow it down for the customer so that there is a clearer indication as to whether the $2 investment would be worthwhile or a huge waste of time. Unfortunately I was all out of gold coins and a suitably pressing question so I bid this gentleman farewell and continued.

I had not ventured another hundred metres before I came across another man who caused me to pause and stop, in bewilderment and mild confusion. The second chap was also offering a service, one that I was not interested in from him and I’m not sure many would have taken him up on. He was a little scruffy, your average-joe, similar in looks to Bob Dylan, maybe a 20-something year old version. He was holding a piece of white card with the following emblazoned across the front ‘Kisses - $1’. Thinking I had misread, I turned and had a more focused look. Nope, I hadn’t misread, he was selling kisses for $1.

I am all for entrepreneurial pursuits and salute the endeavour of businesspeople. However this was something I could not process.

Before I continued on my way I was sorely tempted to walk over to the man selling advice and tell him that the guy selling kisses down the street was in desperate need of $2 worth of his best stuff.

Who knows, he may have got a kiss for his troubles?

Bowled over by my inheritance

Inheritances are a strange animal. I am unsure how to feel when possessions come my way via an inheritance. It is a mixture of intrigue, anticipation and curiosity, tempered by loss and guilt. The reality that possessions which were once treasured by a loved one are now yours due to death can be unsettling. This can drive you to not accept the possessions, or begrudgingly accept and then hide away in a long lost corner of your attic.

I have not inherited much in my life, luckily most of my loved ones are still alive to use their stuff. The possessions I have inherited have often been useful ones – furniture, watches, shares, money – along with memorabilia such as photos, letters, books, medals, cards and coins. All of these items hold some form of sentimental value and, at times, can be therapeutic to hold, view, use; a permanent reminder of the previous owner, a link to your past.

Then there are the quirkier items that make you wonder, ‘where did they get this from?’ or ‘why was this left to me?’. I have been on the receiving end of a few of these ‘doozies’ in my time. The floral Hawaiian shirts, a small demonic monkey with cymbals attached to his hands that claps and smiles at you, gaudy jewellery; the kind of items you smile, say thanks and then swiftly confine to the bottom of the cupboard.

Other times, you receive something that you would never expect, something out of the ordinary, a real treasure. On the weekend I made the pilgrimage to my mum’s place in the country to collect some items of inheritance from my grandmother’s estate. My grandmother, Nannie, was a hoarder of sorts and her house was a treasure trove of family memorabilia which my family had painstakingly sifted through over a period of weeks, and extracted a collection of real gems.

My collection was housed in a Meggit’s sunflower seed sack, a legacy of my late Pa’s farming background, and consisted of a knitted blanket (family favourites), a teddy bear, a few books and some illustrations done my Pa when he was a boy. There was also a nondescript suitcase, small, brown, tattered – it looked old. I had watched the original Indiana Jones movie the night before so as I laid the suitcase out on the bed and jiggled the locks, a wave of anticipation swept over me. What would be enclosed in this beaten leather shell? – Spanish gold coins, ancient bejewelled idols, a shining light like the case in Pulp Fiction??

Upon opening, what greeted me was grand sight. There, in seemingly perfect condition was a set of lawn bowls, complete with cleaning cloth and a set of rules dating back to the 1960’s. Not my grandfathers, but my great-grandfathers – a link to the past. After recovering from the joy of my discovery, I was beset with panic. With my experience of lawn bowls limited to a few barefooted attempts with drunken friends under the harsh aussie sunshine, I was not sure I could do these bowls justice.

My inherited bowls brought with them a number of pressing questions:

Would I have to join a bowls club?
Do I have to buy a pair of white shorts, white shirt, knee length socks and bowling shoes?
Who gives bowling lessons?
Would these bowls be structurally intact to absorb an impact with the jack or a concrete gutter?

This gift seemed to be providing more questions than answers but it was, without doubt, a great gift. It seemed this was a gift that would keep on giving.

I better run, I see that the local Bowling Club are having an open day this weekend.

I’ve got some clothes shopping and bowls polishing to attend to.

I have a legacy to uphold.

A night with Ed and Leena at the Enmore

The solo acoustic show can be a lonely place. With the spotlight trained on you and no band members offering support, the audience hangs on your every movement, your breath, your whim.

This would be nerve wracking enough in a suburban café or country pub, but in the cavernous Enmore Theatre the stakes are raised. It is a moment where you can sink or soar; last night two very different performers took the stage and soared, with grace, power, and dynamic energy.

The small town of Margate in Tasmania’s south was where Leena began the journey which has taken her to Perth, Melbourne, around the globe and last night to the stage the Enmore Theatre in Sydney. A diminutive figure, she breezed onto stage, greeted the crowd and then commenced a breathy performance of depth, emotion and quality. Not content to play the role of the supporting act entrée, she enraptured the crowd with her finesse on the guitar and piano, and her powerful vocals which belie her small frame. She grasped the crowd in her small hands and took them on a short but unforgettable journey, which by the end the raucous applause could barely do justice.

Ed (or Eddie as he now likes to be known) Kowalczyk, is a spiritual man who brings an infectious happiness and warmth to all his performances. As the front man for the post grunge rock group LIVE, Eddie was responsible for some of the most popular and iconic songs of the late 90’s and early 2000’s. Small in stature, he possesses a powerful stage presence and booming vocals that filled the Enmore with a rich sound. He regularly dug into his overflowing bag of hits, reimagining some of them with an eastern twist, others belted out with his trademark intensity, volume, and energy. This was not a performance for the timid; this was raw rock on an acoustic leash. After the second encore the crowd stood as one, a wave of applause echoed throughout and it was over. Eddie promised to return, a promise that many hope he will keep. If ever there was an excuse to venture out on a school night, an audience with Eddie is one of the best.

Once the crowd dispersed the Enmore was once again silent; if only the patterned art deco walls could talk, what wondrous tales they would tell.

Listen to Leena at:

http://www.leena.com.au/
http://www.myspace.com/leenamusic

Find Eddie at:

www.eddieklive.com/

Just another Manic Monday

The sombre spectre hung over the masses in my carriage and on the city street. It pursued people in and out of cabs, through building entrances and into lifts. It was not the Black Death but for some it was not far off. In the lift of my building one man remarked to another, “Monday, eh.” The other man lifted his bowed head with a resigned look on his face, and muttered a pained, “Yeah.” The both looked like condemned men waiting for the gaoler to lead them to the gallows.

Why does Monday have such a poor reputation? Some fear it like they fear death itself, busily occupying themselves on a Sunday night to avoid it arriving any earlier. Others let Monday dictate their Sunday, hampering any enjoyment they may get out of the fading light of their weekend. Most allow it into the opening moments of their working week and their mood adjusts accordingly, including trepidation, disgust, horror, hatred, dread and hopelessness.

Is this the lasting legacy of Monday? The Boomtown Rats posed the question “Tell me why I don’t like Mondays?” and the Bangles ‘Manic Monday’ had the line “just another manic Monday, wish it Sunday.” Monday; a day that few seem to enjoy, a day few people longingly anticipate; a day, seemingly, most are happy to see the back of.

It may just be a Western phenomenon though. In Middle-Eastern countries Saturday heralds the beginning of the work week; Monday is a day with religious significance and holds none of the negative connotations associated with the day in Western society. In many Eastern monasteries Mondays are observed as fast days; because Mondays are dedicated to the angels, and monks strive to live an angelic life. Surely something angelic can not be viewed with such foreboding, soul crushing dread as Monday is?

There is another group of people who view Monday as an opportunistic day, a time to begin a new project, outlook, challenge, and state of mind. How often have you sat at your desk on a Friday and thought - I really need to start that project, quit smoking, go to the gym, talk to Barry, or do my filing? – the list is endless. A nanosecond later you think to yourself, yeah, but I’ll do it Monday as I’ll be fresh and ready to tackle anything that stands in my way. I’ll grow an extra leg on Monday; stand tall in the face of any challenge. Monday will make me superhuman. This thinking is closely aligned with New Year’s Day resolutions – promises made in a drunken haze to complete strangers so that accountability is zero as no one will remember, and if they do, they are strangers so you’ll never have to defend your decisions.

My view of Monday varies with the week. Sometimes it is an oasis from the challenges of daily life, other times it is akin to nails down a blackboard or a trip to the dentist. Today I am distracted by the pain of a thousand minute muscles I was unaware I had, screaming at me for playing cricket the day before. To them it is not Monday, merely the next day, 24 hours after the catastrophic event. They will painfully keep reminding me once Monday has faded with the sunset.

Whichever opinion you have, one thing is certain, it is one of the most discussed and considered days of the week. However, perhaps Monday is not necessarily the enemy; maybe it is its forefather Sunday who intoxicates us with weekend spirit and then leads us willingly into Monday's embrace.

Sunday could very well be the culprit. From now on I'll be keeping a close eye on Sunday, just to be sure.

Balibo - a must see

I normally reserve a trip to the movies for the big budget films, ones with a raft of special effects, deafening sound, and action sequences – the types of films that pale into mediocrity when viewed in the living room. Occasionally I break the mould and venture to the movies to see a film which falls outside this genre. Last night was one of these nights as I attended a charity screening of ‘Balibo’. The following are my thoughts on the movie.

Balibo – 111 mins
Starring: Anthony Lapaglia, Oscar Isaac

What is the value of a human life? The value that one person puts on their own life can differ greatly from the value they put on the lives of others, a concept explored in vivid realism in Balibo.

This is the story of the “Balibo Five” – a group of five Australian journalists who travelled to East Timor in 1975 to film the invasion of the newly liberated East Timor by the Indonesian Army. This invasion was one that the world turned a blind eye to, one that western nations had blood on their hands over; one that to this day most people never know existed.

The Australian journalists were sent to cover the invasion and felt an obligation to show the rest of world the evil that lay off the coast of Timor and on its jungle clad mountain borders; an evil without compassion and human decency.

That the journalists met their death is not a secret, it has been the focus of many a program and analysis in the ensuing 34 years. Balibo recreates the time leading up to and immediately following their untimely deaths and what transpired in this period.

There are two standout performances in this film. Anthony Lapaglia is outstanding in his role as Roger East, a washed up journalist who barely survives on a diet of Darwin stubbies and fitful sleep – a man who is his own words is ‘too old for this shit’. Oscar Isaac plays a youthful Jose Ramos-Horta, the freedom fighter and future leader of East Timor. He is smooth and suave but also haunted, determined, and ruthless. He is driven by the demons he has witnessed and mourns for his country and its people throughout.

These two head into the East Timorese jungle to locate the ‘Balibo Five’ – both at times ready to quit, only to be reinvigorated by horror and loss. The film is shot with an almost documentary quality, one part home movie, and one part first person recollection. The cinema almost felt humid, you could sense the sweat, the mosquitoes, and the engulfing blanket of the jungle.

The character study of East and Ramos-Horta is central to the success of Balibo. Throughout we are privy to their public exultations and their private, tender, heart wrenching moments – when they are alone with their demons and cannot run and hide.

The examination of human interaction and psychology is disturbing and enlightening at the same time. The chilling glee on gunman’s faces, the way different people approach imminent death; some with reservation, and others with fierce opposition. It is hard to imagine regional neighbours treating one another with such disdain and callous indifference – how can life lose meaning so quickly? It would be like Australia invading New Zealand and slaughtering the population. It is unfathomable. What is also unfathomable is how Australia and the rest of the World stood by and let it unfold. But these things did happen in 1975 and have happened regularly throughout history.

Like Schindler’s List, Hotel Rwanda and other films that centre on people in wartime, Balibo is an important study of human behaviour that we all need to watch.

In doing so, hopefully we do not repeat the sins of those who have come before us.

From superhero to costume designer

I’ll never forget the childhood joy of having Spiderman sit on my lap, yes MY LAP. I was used to sitting on other peoples laps; mum’s, nana’s, pop’s, Santa’s, so to have a real life superhero agree to sit on my lap was truly a magical moment. Everyone loves a superhero. They make the impossible possible. Able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, move faster than a speeding bullet, become invisible and see in the dark. To put this into perspective I was only eight at the time and Spiderman was actually my sister Sally dressed up, but the magic was still there and to top it off I got a photograph to permanently capture one of the greatest moments of my life.

From a young age Sally was not only keen on dressing up but also fashioning costumes from whatever she could lay her hands on around our house. With only two years between us, Sally and I regularly inhabited fictional worlds together – the Land of the Giants, A-team, Star Wars, Monkey magic, posh tea parties – all of which required the appropriate costume, of course. Who would have thought that a beater or a whisk could be a sword, that a tea-towel could be a bandana, dress, wound dressing, nurse’s smock or a whip? ‘Make believe’ is the imaginative and creative domain of the child and we embraced our creativity. The X-Box generation are really missing out on something here. They inhabit foreign soil and alien planets on a television screen, we recreated it like the Hollywood studios did with the moon landing.

Costume designing is not only the profession of the child though; Sally still relishes any opportunity to build a creation for herself or someone else to wear. Ingenious examples of costume design and production abound in our ‘noughties’ society. One trip to Facebook or YouTube will provide the web surfer with an abundance of strangely clad individuals parading around without a care in the world.

Offbeat. Left of field. Quirky. Kitsch. All these terms accurately describe Sally and her creations. Not content to just put a patch on her eye, make a sword out of foil and call herself a Pirate (although she has once or twice), she dreams on a more grandiose scale, of costumes that no one expects, with surprising complexity. She has produced amazing costumes at home - a full length Lego man suit, a Vegemite jar – and more functional ones which I will now describe in more depth.

A casino night in Whistler, Canada, beckoned, and there was a need for an appropriate costume. People arrived as James Bond, Playboy bunnies, mobsters and then there was Sally, dressed as a croupier (nothing strange there) with a poker table around her waist. People could play a round, rest their drink, socialise and win chips all at Sally’s mobile poker table. Service with a smile, except the smiles soon disappeared when human poker table needed a toilet break or to rest her weary legs.

The pièce de résistance, the epitome, the crème de la crème was the men’s urinal. You may now have a puzzled expression, squinted eyes, wondering “what is Ben talking about now?”, but fear not. A party invitation arrived once with the instructions to arrive as something beginning with a ‘P’. On the night of the party a collection of pirates, pandas, policemen and princes arrived, along with Sally, who fronted as a piss-trough (PT), a men’s urinal. Before you cringe in horror or judge, hear me out. This was a stunning creation, the detail impeccable. It was worn around the waist, straps on each side over the shoulders. It was clad in foil to resemble stainless steel and had two trough cakes (used to scent the urinal) as the final touch. Partygoers were stunned, frightened, appalled and intrigued. Laughter ensued once it was explained. Unfortunately some of the world’s finest creations have been subjected to vandalism and Sally’s crowning glory was no different. Whilst resting outside, PT positioned on the ground beside her, a couple of inebriated partygoers mistook this work of art as a merely functional receptacle. Their business done, they stumbled on, oblivious to the damage they had inflicted. The PT was no more, the dream had died. Another testament to modern society had been defiled and left to ruin.

It seems that even the greatest minds are subject to ridicule, embarrassment and abuse. Sally’s resolve was tested but not broken. Just next week she is planning a comeback, and I am waiting for my Budgerigar suit to arrive in the mail, so I can attend the trivia night at my local pub as the mascot, and proudly show that my sister’s creative spirit is still strong. I just hope nobody arrives on the night dressed as a cat!

Addressing the Big Issue

The capacity for kindness, empathy and charity is something that all people should possess and can be viewed and experienced on a daily basis.

Sydney’s Central Station is not renowned for its kindness, empathy or charity. It is a chaotic symphony of noise and colour, an ethnic melting pot, a hive of activity, where individuals from different demographics converge on their way to somewhere, from somewhere or to meet someone. It is not for everyone; noisy, smelly, ill-equipped. If you get caught in the rush-hour stampede the throng can whisk you away to places you have never been, and may never want to return. Stylishly clad businessmen brush shoulders with unwashed foreign backpackers, giggly students and elderly women brandishing small shopping carts like weapons.

Just outside Central Station is an expanse of concrete reserved for three distinct groups; city commuters, the homeless and street vendors peddling ‘genuine’ Armani sunglasses for the price of a pub meal. My friend Glenn belongs to none of these groups. Monday through Friday he stands, absorbing the atmosphere, conversing with passers by and proudly plugging the latest edition of the Big Issue.

The global financial crisis of 2008 affected people worldwide – few were immune to its wrath. Glenn was adversely affected, losing his job as a car salesman and plunging his life into a temporary state of disarray. Some would have ‘thrown in the towel’ but Glenn was not to be stopped by the loss of a job. He still had drive and something to offer. The opportunity to sell copies of the Big Issue was a way for him to maintain his dignity, put food on the table, a roof over his head and allowed him to do what he loves best – talking to people.

Glenn has plenty to say. Anyone who is privy to his sales pitch will attest to his voluminous lungs which he uses to good effect. In another age he would have made a fine town crier. He has a wealth of trivia knowledge and would make a useful companion at my local pub quiz. He also has the opportunity to chew the fat with people from all walks of life and never shirks a conversation. While not at all extroverted he is comfortable in discussion and is always interested in the coming day’s events.

The Big Issue is not a hand out; a distinction that Glenn feels is important. Sellers purchase the magazines for $2.50 and then sell them on for $5.00. The profit is theirs, effectively they are the entrepreneurs of the street. The Big Issue is available throughout Australia and sellers congregate on most street corners in the bigger urban centres, always ready to offload a magazine to the astute buyer.

This morning, as I strode up the gangway from the underground platform to the outside world, I spied Glenn and paused to take a fiver out of my wallet. When I looked up I saw an amazing sight. Glenn, a man living on life’s knife edge was drawing his wallet out of his pocket and removing a fiver of his own. This fiver was for another homeless man who had approached Glenn. The symbolism of this gesture was not lost on me. Even though Glenn has very little money of his own, he had the compassion and charity to share his money with someone in a less fortunate position than himself. That he could sacrifice the proceeds of his work should inspire us all to reach into our pockets and do our bit for our fellow man.

The French playwright Moliere said, “Every good act is charity. A man's true wealth hereafter is the good that he does in this world to his fellows.” I wish you well with your good act; today, tomorrow or when you have the opportunity.

Do-it-yourself dining (Ikea style)

Let’s be honest, trips to a restaurant are a real lottery. There are so many intricate factors involved in conjuring a memorable restaurant experience. The smallest, most miniscule deviation from the norm and the whole production shuts down. Disaster is never far away, always lingering in the air, sniffing out an opportunity to plant itself at your table and watch with glee as the meal unravels.

This is not meant to seem as if it is a pessimistic view of restaurants and the eating away from home culture so famously trumpeted in modern society. It is merely an observation that a great dining experience is more often than not sheer luck or the result of factors other than the restaurant, food and staff.

Some of the dingiest, least hygienic, potential death traps I have visited for a meal have provided the most magnificent dining experiences of my life. If a place looks like salmonella with curtains but is sardine-can full every night then there must be a reason. These people are either dying regularly and have cloned themselves to attend the next night or the food served is not only edible but enjoyable enough to warrant a repeat sitting.

The Sunshine Coast of Queensland is a beautiful part of world known for its postcard perfect coastline, temperate climate, friendly people and laid-back lifestyle. It is home to some fantastic restaurants – none of which I have visited – and hosts a famous food festival held annually. It also has the world’s first ‘Ikea restaurant’.

After a vigorous session of drinking beer and gazing at the waves rolling in onto golden sands, my sister Sally, her boyfriend Rob and I decided that it was time for me to be introduced to what my sister describes as “one of the craziest restaurants on earth”. I was not disappointed.

With pokie winnings and a BYO of Oyster Bay’s finest Merlot, we strode into the local Vietnamese restaurant where we had a table booked, or so we thought. It seems that making a reservation and taking a reservation are two very different concepts. We were directed to a table which still had people sitting at it and left alone to barter with the feeding hordes. Eventually the hungry hordes departed, leaving us to sit down and review the menu.

Much like shopping at Ikea, when dining at this restaurant you are left to your own devices and have to navigate through the experience alone. The first challenge was the lack of seating. We were three strong and had two chairs. Reluctant to have another person on my lap for the duration of dinner, I searched out another chair. OK, table. Check. Chairs. Check. Crockery and cutlery. Hmmmm. No. Rob became the hunter-gatherer and returned with three plates, all different sizes and designs, and three cups, all plastic, one still with coke in it (this was washed out with water we stole off another table). The cutlery was a crude selection of spoons, knives, forks and teaspoons.

The food ordering process was a hectic one involving one part tackling a waitress, one part repeating the order ten times and one part flipping a coin and praying for the best. Our food did arrive, eventually, and when it did the quality and quantity were commendable. We had so much food and so little table space, Rob had a dish on his lap, our wine was under the table and another dish sat on the floor next to my sister’s handbag.

There are two choices for the toilet. One involves a leisurely stroll out the back, behind the building to an outhouse. The second is only taken on by the seasoned veteran, fresh cadets need not apply. This involves a stealth mission through the madness of the kitchen and a step through, yes through, a hole in the wall. Not a neatly rendered hole like a doorway, more like a hole made by a wrecking ball. Bizarre.

Restaurants like this defy all conventional wisdom on what constitutes a great dining experience. The service was non-existent, the booking was not taken, our utensils were independently sourced and the trip to the loo resembled a scene from an Indiana Jones movie. It is however one of the most enjoyable meals I have ever had, rich in flavour and worth the trip for the entertainment alone. I almost choked with laughter on my fried rice more than once and was still chuckling on the plane home the following day.

Not content to have this typical experience as their highlight this particular restaurant is raising the stakes. On a recent trip there Sally and Rob were instructed to take a seat outside. They went outside and could only take ‘a seat’ as that was the only furniture available. They spotted a tabletop and four legs lying on the ground towards the rear of the outside dining area. Not inclined to shirk a challenge they proceeded to build a table with their bare hands and this became their banquet base for the remainder of the evening.

This was truly the pinnacle of self service.

The final evolution of this restaurant was complete.

It was now the Ikea of restaurants.

Numero Uno

OK. So I have arrived on the blog scene. I have a few pieces to be placed up on here...when I extract them from my PC. Yes, yes...I have entered the world of the mac and it has been plain sailing so far, a real breeze. So stay tuned as I will be back with some writings very soon.