Schreiben - construct. compose. create.

Remember me?

2011-09-09T10:03:00.001+10:00

Look who’s back, back again. Benny’s back, tell a friend.

Yes that is correct folks I am back.

Like a bear returning from a long hibernation I am still a big groggy, disorientated and a little hungry. My absence from the blogspace has been unfortunate, inexcusable and for that I beg your eternal forgiveness.

I have been busy. That is not offered as an excuse or a plea, more an observation.

In the past 6 months I have:

1. Met an amazing woman who constantly challenges and supports me, someone who I can trust, who always has my best interests at heart and never fails to make me smile.
2. I have relocated (yes, again!) to the sunny city-who-aims-to-be Brisbane.
3. I have undertaken the research and writing of a Masters thesis.
4. Balanced three part-time jobs.
5. Welcomed a niece into the world and been informed that another niece/nephew is waiting in the wings.

It has been a hectic whirlwind period but also thoroughly enjoyable – there are not many people who can start their day with a walk along the water, a freshly brewed coffee, breakfast with a loved one and then undertake their day with no pressures, deadlines or people nagging – just a view to the city, a fridge full of food and a pile of paper.

Change is a strange beast. I was only saying to Stace last night that anyone would forgive us for being a little stressed out – we have both undertaken some pretty extreme life changes over the past 6 months. For many people extreme change is trying a new laundry liquid, having a coffee at 10.15am instead of 10am or cutting their hair into a bob.

I don’t do change in small measures my friends. Oh no, when I make changes, I MAKE CHANGES.

So I am just getting my feet back on the ground. The thesis has been like a round the world yacht race – the beginning I was sailing though the pacific islands, life was rosy, sunny, relaxed. Now I have reached Cape Horn and the swell is rising, tossing my yacht from side to side and I am clinging to the rail, white-knuckled, hoping for a clearance in the weather. But once I round the Horn I will be in smooth waters again.

This is not a mountain I am climbing; it is a hill.

I have only about 7 weeks of my thesis writing to go, before I dump it on my supervisors desk and jet off to the cold reaches of Europe. 7 weeks is not a lot of time and instead of fearing it like a man awaiting the green mile I am trying to stop, breathe and savour the experience – before long I will be suiting up, grabbing my coffee to go and joining the corporate throng once more. Change is inevitable and once again I will step into change’s breach and see where it takes me.

But for now I am reading and typing away, trying to make the most of this time and not thinking about what lies ahead. A former boss used to tell me to ‘take bite sized chunks’ and that is what I will do.

It is great to be back in the blogsphere. I shall not leave it so long to write next time.

I'll be meetin' Millie in March

2011-02-04T14:13:00.003+11:00

I am sitting in a small cramped space, waiting patiently, a myriad of thoughts circling my head. As I stare ahead into the mesh I ponder what lies ahead and whether I am fully prepared. I am not a religious man yet I feel driven to confess. So here we go, the moment has arrived.

I am to be an uncle and, to be frank, I am not sure I am going to be very good at it.

There, I said it. It is out in the open. Phew, I feel better.

Recently, I had the pleasure of spending a few days with a very close mate and his baby boy, a bundle of arms, legs and an elongated torso (he is a beautiful bub) and I got a window into what my sister and her husband were heading for, and also I got an all access pass to what it is like to be an Uncle.

This is an important role – it is more than just twice a year phone calls, overpriced gifts and the promise of hosting your niece/nephew in the future when they wish to escape their parents, home town, friends, life or whatever else affects them – especially during those teenage years when the world is against us and we are against the world.

This role, in my extremely ill-informed and nervous opinion, is one of support and trying to be a role model. The significant geographic distance from my niece-to-be will prevent me from providing physical support or being a visual role model but with humans essentially wired into technology these days I do not imagine that constant communication will prove to be difficult.

There was a period in my early 20’s when I was a wonderful role model of what not to do with your life – A period which a number of people, least of all my mother, will remember with little fondness or humour. However, people change and the 2011 model is ready to be put to work and it is a challenge I am relishing to be perfectly honest.

How many times do you get to see the unadulterated joy of parents cradling their newborn; a tangible, living, and breathing testament to their love….oh and lots of pregnancy eating, sore backs, sleepless nights, morning sickness, waiting and late night trips to the 24 hour supermarket or servo.

It promises to be an intense, emotional, taxing but invigorating year for my sister and her husband as they come to grips with their new addition and how their lives will be forever changed for the better. It is a year that I am relishing the opportunity to share with them and try to pick up some tips along the way so when I am placed in their position (hey, stop laughing, it could happen!!) I will be better prepared than I am now.

So here’s to young Millie, the little Tasmanian. I’m looking forward to meeting you, cuddling you, feeling your vomit run down my neck and smelling your nappies.

You are everything that is pure in this world and I will be humbled to be your Uncy Ben!

Life is full of companions

2011-01-06T17:12:00.003+11:00

I have been blessed to have a number of companions throughout my life; friends (both real and imagined, when I was young), family, girlfriends, work colleagues, sports team members, school mates and people I have met on my travels who have shared a brief but enlightening companionship. There has been no shortage of solid, dependable, supportive and loving companions in my life and for that I am eternally grateful.

We always had pets – cats, budgie, and goldfish – so there was always a fluffy, feathered or scaly companion around. Mum still has cats so when I visit her I get to have my cat ‘quality time’.

An old flatmate of mind used to enjoy drinking sessions with a 'companion'. These were usually an inanimate object. I remember one enjoyable drinking session in a dodgy but welcoming Enmore pub where it was just the two of us and a BBQ gas bottle. By the end of the evening that gas bottle had an opinion on everything and a number of the punters in the pub were convinced that my friend and I were stark raving mad.

Inanimate objects have also provided me with companionship; he-man action figures, transformers, hot wheels toy cars, bikes, computer consoles (Atari, commodore 64, PC and now Mac), skateboards, cricket bats, cars, mobile phone and wallet. All of these items have provided me with solace in times of boredom, need, despair and sadness.

There are then the environmental companions, the ones you have very little control over, companions who can adversely affect you like nothing else can. The kind of companion you’d shield your face from or cross the street to avoid a meeting if they human. I have lived across the world in many different climates and thus have had the pleasure, or displeasure, of encountering a number of these companions.

In the small town I grew up in cold was a constant companion. The wind chill factor of a winter’s early morning was one companion you could well and truly do without. On the occasions I met this fellow I was left breathless, numbed and in the possession of two semi-frozen eyeballs. Not pleasant, not at all. This companion was persistent. Should you spend your nights indoors, snuggled up in a toasty warm slumber, the minute you went out to your car he welcomed you again. There is no greater joy on a below zero morning than to extract a credit card with numbed lifeless fingers and proceed to painstakingly scrape a thin layer of ice from the windscreen. That is fun my friends, good old-fashioned joy.

Toronto in high summer provided a different, but equally gracious, companion. The ‘Muggy-heat’ companion was always ready for action, constantly welcoming and hard to distract. That we lived on the top floor of an 8 storey tin box with a flat roof, no cross breeze, no curtains and no air-conditioning assisted this companion to maximise his presence. Many a day and night was spent prone on the couch, bathed in sweat, dehydrated beyond repair wondering when this companion would just #@$% off. When a good friend brought over an air-conditioner and our companion was banished I could have married her on the spot.

This summer (a word I use loosely) I have been introduced to a Queensland native companion. This guy loves the rain and this summer his boots must be worn thin from the rain dancing he has been performing. The flood crisis we are experiencing is testament to the ferocity and unnerving regularity of the rain. This rain, coupled with high humidity, provides the perfect environment for my new companion. Mould. Yep. Yuck.

I was looking through my cupboard and thought ‘what an odd smell’. It was not offensive, just odd. Upon further inspection I found my new mate ‘Mould’ hanging out on my bags, shoes, jacket and a few other items. I was unimpressed by his arrival and come this weekend he will be thrown out on his ear.

What this goes to show is that no one is ever truly alone. Even those living in a cave, shipwrecked on a remote island, or lost in the desert will still have a companion.

In this modern day can we not find somewhere, anywhere, where we can truly be alone?

It seems not.

We just need to make the most of it and be selective about the companions we keep and the ones we bid a swift goodbye.

Both sides of the education coin

2011-01-05T15:07:00.001+11:00

Education is the cornerstone of our society – if we all rested on our laurels and never attempted to improve our knowledge and skills the world we have come to know and love would hit a permanent snag. The ability to explore new avenues, share our thoughts and experiences with like-minded individuals, to challenge our beliefs and enrich our lives are some of the reasons that people continue to welcome education’s embrace throughout their lives.

Education comes in many forms – the structured form such as academic study through tertiary education providers or office based training, practical trade related education, through to conversations had over a cup of coffee or a good meal – the key is that through this education we are improving our knowledge, challenging our beliefs and are then able to pass this knowledge onto others, continuing the education process.

I have recently returned to tertiary study and it was a challenging undertaking full of adjustment, doubt, worry and wide-eyed optimism. After one semester I am a transformed pupil; gone is the doubt and worry, replaced by a heightened inquisitiveness, a thirst for knowledge and a need to explore.

I have also just completed my first foray into the labyrinth of tertiary tutoring – a world of questions, responsibility, instruction and challenges – and overall it was a rewarding and enriching experience. I’ll be upfront and say that a lot of the time I was barely keeping my head above water, and drowning was, at times, an acceptable option but it was an experience that has moulded my personality and provided me with skills and knowledge I can transfer to other areas of my life. Surprisingly it was not like Dead Poets Society, my life was not threatened like Michelle Phiffer’s was – it was very much like a University class presentation for 5 hours every week. Like a talk show host, professional sportsperson, public speaker or husband returning from a night on the beers I had to get my gameface on, take a deep breath and enter the arena.

To capture, sustain and entertain an audience consistently is very difficult and I drew on my repertoire of poor jokes, poor impersonations and party noises to compliment the educative experience, often to a mixed or non-existent response. 12-15 years difference in age does not sound a lot, but in the classroom it can really make a difference when communicating. A number of my 120 students have not known a world without mobile phones, internet and computers – when I first studied at University we barely had email addresses, the internet was a black screen with white font and the only phone I had was a landline. Teaching in 2010 is an electronic smorgasbord, where navigation and adoption is noticeably easier for the students than the teachers. The generational difference makes it a challenging environment.

Shaping minds is an enormous responsibility and luckily I was well supported by a content expert – my role was to reinforce and provide real-life examples – to mould the information into easily accessible chunks. The lightbulb moments, those times when you sense a concept taking hold and being absorbed, made the job rewarding.

The semester went well and by the end I was confident that I had represented myself adequately, the students were mostly pleased with the outcomes of the tutoring and I could walk out of the University grounds with my head held high. My student feedback arrived today and I must admit I was a little hesitant about opening the envelope – half expecting the puff of anthrax powder or the telltale click of a trigger mechanism. All I found though was a pile of response papers.

The results were in. How did I fare?

Pretty well, actually. There were a few negative comments; one especially low blow about the one thing I could improve was ‘my jokes’ – I mean, where do these people get off? It did show that personality, confidence and humour can get you a long way – that people can take on a unique challenge and do well; or, at least, create the impression of doing well.

I have experienced both sides of the education fence in recent times and both have been rewarding and enriching experiences. To extricate yourself from the workforce, relocate your life and enter an unfamiliar territory is not easy but it can be done. If you are not happy, if you crave a challenge, if you need to improve your life or prospects or if you just want a change then go ahead and do it. You’ll never regret taking a chance, only not taking a chance.

Do it, and let me know how it goes.

Video killed the photography star

2010-07-14T16:42:00.003+10:00

I was sitting on the couch this afternoon idly staring off into space considering something of little importance, as I cannot recall now. In short it was a silent, useless moment of bliss. Awakened suddenly from my daydream I heard raucous laughter coming from my flatmate who was seated at his computer. I enquired as to what was causing him such amusement and he said he was going through old photos, trying to cull some and save the good ones. An album of photos from an overseas trip had reminded him of some hilarious memories and this has lightened his day to no end.

This got me thinking.

I have a camera, which is not that old, in perfect working order…well, apart from the battery life of 3 minutes, which sits in my cupboard drawer and never gets used. I need to get that camera out of the cupboard, take out the battery, buy a new one and then get to the root of this issue! I have moved to one of the most beautiful places in Australia and so far have a few photos of me winning a 6 pack at the local pub raffle and very little else. Documenting my life has never been done so poorly.

I have a digital video camera, which has years worth of videos that currently reside solely on the camera’s hard-drive so if I lost the camera or it died so would years of memories. I am now downloading these 345 videos onto my computer as we speak.

Viewing a selection of these videos has evoked a combination of emotional responses.

The first is happiness that I have a permanent reminder of my overseas holidays, times with loved ones and friends; that when my mind grows weak and vague I will still have these video memories to fall back on.

The second is a mixture of sadness and loss, reminders of happier times with those now permanently departed or serving a new role in my life; memories that are very important and I never want to forget but am not ready to revisit at this time.

Lastly it has shown me that I am not an accomplished videographer – the clips are of varying quality from OK to downright shoddy. I take much better photos than videos.

Is it bad to rely on photographs and video to recall the moments that make up a life? Is it better to document these moments or to let memories reside in the mind alone? My sister has seen video of her birthdays and shudders at what she sees – does this mean that her memories should live in her minds bubble or is the truth a good leveller sometimes – we can only remember correctly if the evidence is there in stark reality on a screen.

I think it is important to have a mixture of both – it is fun to show people how much hair they had, what abhorrent fashions they sported, who they dated, where they visited – documenting the lives of others and yourself has been happening since the dawn of man. Who am I to rock the boat?

The perfect cup?

2010-07-06T09:36:00.002+10:00

In an ever-increasing pursuit of the perfect cup we frantically press, boil, plunge, grind, filter and inevitably drink coffee but most of us still find it a fruitless search. For every one cup of caffeine bliss I need to suffer through five steaming cups of pig swill.

Before my I step onto my coffee ranting podium I will point out that as far as coffee customers go I am already behind the eight ball as I am a soy milk drinker. I have no formal barista training and would not know the first thing about how to produce the perfect cuppa, but I have been told that soy milk is a worthy adversary of the barista and is difficult to work with. Baristas will say that to reach the desired temperature of soy is similar to parting the red sea or turning water into wine; most that attempt will fail. The common result is the removal of the first two or three layers of skin from the roof of your mouth, followed closely by an expletive laden tirade towards the unfortunate barista.

The next challenge is the beans. My sister explains that it is like gravel and sand. If the coffee is ground too fine then it blocks the water flowing through and the result is coffee that is burnt and bitter. If the coffee is ground too coarsely then the water flows past and you get weak coffee, what I term as ‘hot milk’. So, often it is not the fault of the barista but the ‘genius’ grinding the beans.

That being said I have had plenty of decent cups of coffee in my time; and on a regular basis from the same operator. There are true artisans of coffee production. My barista at Toast Café, Surry Hills was one such maestro, he could make the Toby’s Estate coffee beans sing and I have never craved 8.30am like that before.

Is it the training? Is it lack of attention to detail? Is it bad coffee?

I am not sure.

I have been on a coffee search in my new area and I have sampled around 10 different places on a few occasions. Of these there were only 2 places that satisfied my tastes. There were some truly awful offerings, there were mediocre one’s offered up by baristas who are easy on the eye, and then there were a couple of decent representations of the perfect cuppa. Merlo Coffee is a Brisbane coffee producer and if you get an opportunity to sample their wares then do so. They have not overtaken Toby’s yet but they are doing some good work.

I think if you are wanting to take the trip to your local café and hand over $5 for a cup of coffee then you can rightly expect something half decent, but don’t be disappointed if that is not what you receive. It is a tough business, mastering the coffee machine, a skill that takes time and practice. With so many factors influencing the coffee making process I may have to fall back to my tea drinking days. Well, maybe not just yet.

It is about that time so get the beans in the grinder, warm up the soy; I am on my way and ready for a cuppa.

The game that stops a globe

2010-06-24T14:16:00.003+10:00

Bleary-eyed hysteria.

Alcohol fuelled verbal abuse.

Unabashed displays of male embrace.

The air thick with conspiracy theories.

The World Cup Finals of football (soccer to you American folk) bring out the best and worst in humankind. People who in the normal course of their lives never consider the ‘beautiful game’ suddenly become informed, opinionated, learned and biased; they bathe in the pre dawn glory and sink in the post dawn sorrow.

I cannot remember what I did six minutes ago but I can remember, sometimes through alcohol-blurred recollection, where I was when the 2006 World Cup was being staged. Why is this? What is it about the World Cup that entrances us so? Is it the rivalry, the desire to know more than your fellow man or is it an artillery-less war, a way for us to conquer our foes without any unnecessary bloodshed.

I have watched almost every minute of the 2010 event – due to co-habitation with a fanatical football fan and a wealth of spare time. This tournament has not been without controversy and the referees are firmly in the spotlight again for all the wrong reasons. I promised my friends that I would not ramble on about the referees so I will just say this – employ video review technology or face ridicule. There, I said it. Sepp, if you are out there, listen and apply.

There have been some big casualties in the initial stages of the tournament – the farcical French have packed their suitcases, taken their baguettes and flown home. The English and US left their supporters with 90 minutes each of nail-biting, cynicism breeding, nausea inducing drama before the final whistle went and the fans could collectively sigh in absolute relief. This relief lasted 3 hours until the Germans disposed of Ghana and booked a second round appointment with the hapless English. They have 4 days to devise a plan to break the Kaiser’s strangle hold. Please no penalty shootouts; England’s strike force would rather drink a sauerkraut milkshake than face another penalty war with Zee Germans.

The Socceroos have departed but in style, sentencing Serbia to the lowest rung on the Group ladder, but they will feel one has slipped through the cracks. To win at the World Cup you need guile, finesse and a barrel load of luck. The signs are positive and we will have many more find World Cup memories in the land of Samba in 2014.

For now I sit and await the next selection of games – sleep deprived, full from a diet of convenience food, adrenalin and heartbreak. I may not agree with some of the outcomes from this current tournament but it has certainly been a very enjoyable ride so far. I am just thankful that I do not have join the hordes of aussie workers, eyes kept open by matchsticks, voices strained from the beer megaphone, wishing that the weekend was here. I can live and breathe the World Cup, an immersion that is rare. For me the days blend into one and when the World Cup finishes my life will be slightly emptier.

The Pied Pipers of Sippy Downs

2010-06-08T13:48:00.003+10:00

Midnight last Saturday, after a belly stretching Middle Eastern feast, a few accompanying red wines and some aviation fuel strength Fijian rum nightcaps, all was well. The French Open Women’s Final was on the television, fellow revellers were in high spirits and the night was flowing smoothly.

When the shrill tones of an alarm penetrated my drunken coma eardrums early the following morning all was not so well. This was not to be a ‘laze about on the couch watching scrubs re-runs with McDonalds wrappers littering the room’ Sunday, I had responsibilities. It was World Environment Day at the local University and I had volunteered, along with my sister, to assist them in any way, shape or form they chose.

I anticipated lugging boxes around, handing out information leaflets, instructing people where to park or not park – the usual volunteer type activities. I did not anticipate working with children, musical instruments and performing.

Following a rushed breakfast packed with grease and fresh fruit and a frantic drive at top speed to the Uni, we reached the information tent at 9.45am. Or so we thought at the time. They could not find our registration forms but judging us to be not too dodgy, pointed at a tent way down the back of the gathering and said that we should go down and help with the children’s activities. The cardinal rule of show business is to work with children and animals for box office success but not for sanity.

We reached the tent in question and were met by the organiser of the ‘animal parade’. I began to be suspicious of what my role here could involve – I had not had a cup of coffee yet and my hangover was not improving. I would also like to point out that at the best of times I am not overly gifted in the handyman realm, these hands are for typing and cooking, not building or labouring.

We were informed that we would be assisting in building panpipes for the kids out of black piping, dowel and electrical tape. There were three different sizes that emit different notes so that in the end there was a mix of notes for the final performance/parade. Performance? Parade? Building things? Oh dear.

After a lightning fast demonstration the baptism of fire began. The first few produced were a little shoddy but after a while Sal (sister) and I had a solid assembly line going. I would cut the pipe and greet the kids, Sal would then take them through the sawing process, and then I would tape the pipe together and send them off to the organiser who would teach them how to play it.

I gave the children my witty repertoire of funny jokes and banter – well on a whole most thought I was a very tall dimwit and I lost scissors/paper/rock a number of times – but it made the time pass quicker. After 2 hours we had finished the construction phase and were convinced our time was done and we were ready to see what else they needed to get done.

To our surprise we were told that it was great to get the panpipes built and now we had to assemble our panpipe troupe as the parade was about the start. Ben you lead the green team, Sal the red. Hmmm, excuse me Sir? Lead a musical parade?

So off we went blowing our panpipes, hoping that our lungs wouldn’t expire and the children didn’t get lost or bored. Of the 65 pipes we gave out only about 6 and their owners found their way to parade so a bulk of the music was down to Sal and I. After a tour of the grounds accompanied by a butterfly on stilts, a woman dressed up as a tree and the world’s largest platypus, we arrived at the main stage to raucous applause. The kids were ecstatic, as were their parents so it was a job well done.

As I slowly walked back to the car to head home I thought to myself what a unique experience it was and how it was something I never would have thought I would do on a Sunday morning. But that is how life is a lot of the time, doing the unexpected and running with it. Makes life enjoyable and breaks the monotony. I have to go now; Sal and I have a panpipe performance to arrange. Just kidding!

The 'Lost Sydney'

2010-05-31T15:25:00.002+10:00

I have recently relocated to the Sunshine Coast, an hour’s drive north of Brisbane and a world away from Sydney. Don’t get me wrong, both places have their appeal and likewise both have their idiosyncrasies that if left to fester would drive a man slowly mad.

The city of Sydney pulses to the tune of a collective 4 million heartbeats, a living, breathing leviathan that left unattended would destroy itself in spectacular fashion. Each suburb is unique in its demographics, awkwardly blending together to give Sydney its multicultural identify – if Sydney were to complete an immigration form, the nationality/ethnic background section would be involved and stupefyingly complicated.

Most people consider Sydney to be the:

Eastern suburbs, sandy beaches, glossy shopfronts, wanky hotels and sun kissed locals;

City with its hustle and bustle, deal-making, suited and booted frenzy accompanied by a flashing lightshow and traffic noise symphony;

Inner City enclaves inhabited by life’s kaleidoscope of characters, minute coffee houses, trendy restaurants, inexpensive boutiques, brothels and live music dens;

North Shore, frantic by day, whisper quiet by night – NSW’s version of Civic in Canberra; and

Northern Beaches, a coastal strip housing the super-rich, the super tanned and the super surfers.

It is this thinking that neglects the other 90% of Sydney, the undiscovered country, the ethnic multitudes who provide Sydney with its rich diversity, food that the mere mention of turns a mortal into one of Pavlov’s dogs, cross cultural unions that mend ancient rivalries – the Sydney that the guidebooks, travel documentaries, tourists and let’s be honest, most Sydneysiders who reside in the aforementioned areas, have forgotten about - the ‘Lost Sydney’.

I have not ventured into the dark depths of the ‘Lost Sydney’ much as I was trained to not consider it – “it’s dangerous out there”, “dodgy people live out west”, “it is too far away”, and so the list goes on. But I did venture forth on occasion and always enjoyed what I found. Cabramatta is a hidden Eden of Vietnamese culture, Parramatta has some superb cafes, and Lakemba dominates the Middle Eastern cuisine. The best avenue for experiencing these suburbs is through the stomach – food is a fundamental element is the culture of most people. In a suburban restaurant you can discover the magic of the hidden Sydney.

I am now 1200km away from Sydney so alas it is up to those of you who live or visit there to discover what lies outside the inner realm. The horizon promises a wealth of unique, eye opening and influential experiences – it just takes you to venture forth and discover. Don’t live the cliché; create your own Sydney. I know I will the next time I return.

In a holding pattern

2010-04-22T20:15:00.001+10:00

I am a plane, gliding through the clouds, in sight of the landing strip but forced by the tower to circle endlessly, to gaze from afar, to pine.

This is limbo, a land that no one wants to inhabit. It is not a scary place, nor is it joyful. It is the waiting lounge of life, a place for drifters.

I am in a situation where I am floating – a man caught between the land of his past and the land of the future. There is lot to love about both, so many memories inhabit the land of the past and there is potential in the future.

This is a time where the mind is constantly conflicted. Which gets the focus? The present is the easy answer – people will say to just enjoy the moment, make the most of time you have left in your current town. This is great advice and, at times, easy to take on board. But the nature of the human brain is that it drifts. Thinking occupies time, dreams of what lays ahead, dreams of what has passed.

I have decided to take this advice on board. I aim to make the most of the month I have left here, to get out and meet new people, catch up with old acquaintances, dine with lifelong friends and soak up the surroundings.

Yes, I may return one day to this fine city, but these times will never be here again. You cannot bottle a moment; it lives on in memory only.

So I am about to knock on the cockpit door, take control of the aircraft; quit the endless circling of the airport and set course back to the present. I still have time to make the most of this month, to create lasting memories and leave without regrets.

Then in a month, I can board the plane and whisk myself away towards the horizon of opportunity. What a trip it promises to be.

Beaches

2010-04-13T14:43:00.001+10:00

I have just returned from a delicious lunch with a friend who is visiting from the UK. In the course of a chat over a Vietnamese feast fit for 10 (eaten by 2), she remarked how she was not a beach lazing holidayer, more a trekking, sightseeing, photographing, generally doing kind of traveller. The idea of spending umpteen thousand dollars to go sit on a beach, get a tan, occasionally swim and not touch even the faintest skerrick of a foreign culture does not appeal to her. Nor to me to be honest.

Is this an Aussie phenomenon? Are we so blasé about tropical getaways because a large percentage of our population lives so close to the ocean? I know plenty of people who holiday to the Whitsundays, Gold Coast, Byron Bay – you name it – but rarely are they from a city/town close to the beach. Why spend the time and money to travel to a beach when one is a short walk, drive or bus ride away?

I am soon to be relocating to the Sunshine Coast of Australia, a laid-back area 90km north of Brisbane. It is the holiday destination of thousands every year and many people go for a week and stay for years. It is exciting but not the beach part so much. Admittedly I am not the hugest beach person but I like a trip to the sand and salt water as much as the next man. It is the lifestyle I am looking forward to – the climate, the slower pace, the lack of planes, trains and anything else that emits 150+ decibel noises with unnerving regularity. Not the beach. To me it is an added extra. This is due to the fact that I have had ready access to the beach for the past 18 months and let’s be honest, so many times in life we take what we have for granted. If I was moving to Canberra or the bush I would be crying about the lack of beach – perspective is needed at all times.

People like many different things about the beach – for some it is the salt spray, others the sand littered with scantily clad bronzed beauties, some the sound of the rolling waves crashing into the shore, others the feel of the sand between their toes as they take their morning run. It is the image of the eternal summer that gives the beach its pull on our psyche.

I have come to realise lately that we need to be happy with what we have and never take it for granted. This is easy in theory but hard in practice. Too many of us crave the unknown, that which is out of reach or unattainable. Get out and enjoy the beach, lake, river, paddock, mountain, lookout, walking track – get out and make the most of what is on your doorstep for one day it may all change.

Me, I’m going to head north, embrace a new life and go to that beach. I will go there, soak up what it has to offer and enjoy it. That way if I ever find myself in an office in London, in the dark, staring out of my cubicle at a sleety, grey murk outside I can dream of that beach and the times I spent there – and avoid jumping out of the office window for one more day.

Thinking

2010-04-07T21:01:00.001+10:00

One of the features that defines being human, that separates us from the animals is a consciousness, a sense of self. Thinking is a major component of being human; an essential cog in an intricate machine.

Thinking is the single greatest contributor to our state of mind – without thoughts we would not be human. Thoughts of all shapes and sizes swirl through our heads, thousands a day and we seemingly have no control over them. Most of us are at the mercy of our thoughts – they can bring you to a state of ecstasy, provide crisp clarity, cloud our days and drive us to the depths of despair. To even attempt to control our thoughts is a process steeped in complexity, riddle and mystery.

I have never really had control over my thoughts. They have always won the battle, controlled the play, and held all the cards. I have made progress; thoughts do not rule me like they once did, I can now watch them come like a wave, and then wash away again. This is a breakthrough, as thoughts need to be tamed. Someone once told me that you need to cut the thought off at the thought stage, or it becomes an action or emotion and then behaviour. This was a revelation as I had never broken it down in my mind, examined the process. To me thinking was like breathing, an ingrained part of being alive – no one thinks to breath, to pump blood through his or her veins – it just happens.

Lately I have been doing a lot of thinking. A favourite author of mine spoke of one of his characters seeing things in his mind that were not real, but could be, and it was that possibility that drove him mad, drove him to murder. Shakespeare also used this ploy with many of his characters, planting seeds of thought in another’s mind and then casually, slowly, and purposefully sowing those seeds until the desired outcome was reached. This often resulted in bloody murder, torture and mental anguish, the staples of medieval entertainment.

It is amazing how thoughts can creep up on you, waiting patiently for the most opportune time to strike. They can floor you or raise your spirits in an instant. I have had many conflicting emotions of late, my focus flitting between scenarios, concepts and memories with unnerving speed and vigour. It has not been pleasant, but life can be like that. The key is to not focus on the thoughts, to not entertain them, don’t invite them into the confines of your mind, as they will spill their drinks, stub their cigarettes on your couch and kick the cat. They need to be kept at the fence line and vetted with stringent and thorough critique.

I have been trying to focus on all the positive things I am privileged to have in my life – the friends, family, material goods, health, memories and experiences. Life for me is not all apples but nor is it misery and doom. There is a lot to be thankful for, a lot to cherish. When the thoughts circle I am ready to be selective on which I consider and which are confined to the scrap heap.

I wish you the best with your thoughts, let them influences you, excite you and enthral you, just don’t let them rule you. It is a fine balancing act.

Chin National Day

2010-03-01T12:54:00.002+11:00

Occasionally we are privileged to experience something so unique, so fresh, and so foreign, that we wonder how we happened to be there at all. The chance to be involved in a moment so unlike anything you have previously experienced is rare and should be embraced.

Recently I was fortunate to have such an opportunity presented to me and I clasped it with both hands. The event was the annually celebrated ‘Chin National Day’ and I was clueless as what to expect.

Accompanied by an equally puzzled Kate, we travelled to the celebratory venue with my Mum. She works with refugees, assisting them to manage their transition into Australian life – drivers licences, English lessons, day-care, hospitals, housing and counselling. She has been assisting a community of Burmese refugees, the Chin people, who she warmly describes as a loving, peaceful, caring bunch, with a pinch of mischievousness mixed in.

The Chin people are an ethnic minority of Burma (Myanmar), with many now residing outside of their homeland due to the oppression and systematic human rights abuses of the ruling military junta. Most of the Chin people my Mum works with have spent many tough years in makeshift refugee camps on the India/Burma border and the transition to Western life can be very hard.

This year marked the 62nd anniversary of Chin National Day, a day of historical importance, emerging through the course of the Chin’s struggle for self-determination. In February 1948, instead of the traditional hereditary system of chieftainship, Chin representatives were elected at a conference in Falam town near the Mizoram border. The final day of the conference, February 20, was thereafter recognized as Chin National Day. Although the military junta rescinded this agreement in the early 60’s, the Chin people still consider themselves a separate state and celebrate their national day with gusto.

After a short drive we arrived at a local primary school in Goulburn, the venue for the celebration. On first glance it was hard to determine if we were at the right place, aside from a collection of flies and a few leaves from the surrounding gumtrees, nothing stirred. Then a speeding blur of metal and beaming smiles appeared and we knew we were in the right place. The Chin people, my Mum informed me, are reliably tardy when it comes to schedules.

We were escorted into the school hall where I immediately felt uncomfortably tall and the unfamiliar sensation of being an ethnic minority. Other than the westernised look to the hall, this could have been anywhere in the world. As I sat down on a bright orange plastic school chair I felt too close to the ground, but also a sense of anticipation at what lay ahead.

The Chin people were dressed in traditional clothing – intricately patterned woven shawls, shirts, dresses and headwear. To the untrained eye, mine, they looked similar to Native Americans in their dress. On stage there was a ceremonial flag for the occasion with 2 birds featured in the middle. I needed to find out the significance of the birds.

The celebration began with a ceremonial address – delivered by the local leader of the Chin community, followed by an explanation of Chin National Day and its significance. So far so good; nothing untoward, no surprises.

Traditional songs and dances have significant cultural and spiritual meaning to the Indigenous people and the Chin are no different. Well, in some ways. The Chin youth boarded the stage with seemingly limited enthusiasm and began to dance. The dances were representative of the rice harvest and the stars; performed admirably. The backing music was the intriguing part. No percussion or unique ancient traditional instruments here, the backing music was delivered via an electric keyboard and an electric guitar. It was Burmese soft rock applied to an age-old custom. Many would find it ridiculous but for me it added to the intrigue and spectacle of the evening and I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Prayer is tough to understand in a regular church. When delivered through a barely functional microphone in the Chin dialect it becomes near impossible to a solely English speaking Australian. I didn’t know whether to stand or sit, when to say Amen or the context of the sermon. I did my best ‘smile and nod’ impersonation and waited for others to act.

By the end we had witnessed two dances, a number of speeches, some solo vocal performances and learned some of the Chin history. There was only one thing left to do; sample the traditional food.

A feast of biblical proportions was laid out on trestle tables: enough food to feed the attendees and probably half of Goulburn. I spied a curry dish and, on confirmation that it contained ‘cow’, ladled a generous serve onto my structurally challenged paper plate. Add some rice, salad and a glass of lemonade and I had the makings of a feast. The curry was tasty, unlike any curry I had eaten, and it was a fitting way to finish off the evening.

Before we departed I wanted to thank the Chin leaders for having me along to their celebration. I also needed to get some clarification on the birds featured in their flag.

It didn’t take long. The birds are the Hornbill – a male and female. The Hornbill is native to the area the Chin people originally resided and it is a fiercely loyal bird. The Male bird hunts food for the Female and any offspring. Their bond is a lifelong one. If the Male bird dies then the Female will not find another Male, she will starve to death. This is meant to symbolise the closeness of the Chin people, that they are loyal, they stick together through any crisis. I found it to be an appropriate symbol and was very thankful for the explanation.

As I weaved my way through the crowd and out into the summer evening heat I was thankful that my Mum had extended me an invite to this celebration. Sure, it was not on time, speakers did not turn up and the music was bizarre, but the emotion and resilience of the Chin people had impressed me and warmed my heart. They said see you next year and without hesitation my reply was, “yes you will.”

Cityrail adventures 1 (well kind of)– Cabramatta

2010-02-03T10:20:00.002+11:00

On Cityrail adventures: I have put together a list of all rail stations within 50km of my house and using a random number generator I pick a place, then travel to it, have a coffee, lunch or beer and then return. This trip was not undertaken by train, but by car, as time was short. In my mind it is still a Cityrail adventure.

I have often heard of Cabramatta, the food, and the people: a city within a city. Up until yesterday I had shrugged off peoples insistent suggestions that I visit there. However yesterday I did venture to Cabramatta and what I saw and experienced blew my mind.

Cabramatta is a suburb of Sydney, located 35km south west of the CBD; a nondescript area of the city, surrounded by dry, grassless fields, tacky ethnic mansions with lions and gargoyles standing sentry on their fences, and vast series of highways – expanses of tarmac stretching in every direction. This is not a wasteland but it is close. It is not the area you would expect to find a thriving, vibrant, rich community.

Community is the best way to describe Cabramatta. I have not been to Vietnam but I have visited Hong Kong and Cabramatta reminded me a lot of Kowloon’s hectic city streets – street hawkers, market stalls selling fruits, sweets, vegetables, meat and seafood, and the tailors flush with fabric awaiting the next customer. There was vibrancy to the scene, people scurrying to and fro, the urgency apparent. It was also a place inhabited by Asian people; Anglo Australians were in short supply. This gave the street legitimacy, improving the experience, allowing the visitor to get lost in the moment. This wasn’t Sydney; it was Hanoi – well, in my mind at least.

I had heard many positive reviews of Tan Viet, a local restaurant and so my mate and I headed there for some lunch. Tan Viet is very popular with the locals and this day was no different. A line snaked out the door and down the pavement. After a short wait we were shown to a table. The restaurant smelled of fish sauce, oil and onions and was packed to the rafters with eager consumers. With a cup of tea in hand we perused the menu. It took about 5 seconds as we both agreed on the crispy chicken and soup – this was the dish of the house and every table was eating it. To accompany I had a soybean milk drink, Roger a sickly sweet concoction that resembled an icy cocktail, minus the booze.

When the main meal arrived it was understated but delicious. The delicately flavoured noodle soup paired well with the saltiness of the crispy skinned chicken. I quickly saw what the locals loved about this place. After 30 minutes we had polished off the lot and had the shared grin of the diners we sat with – a grin of satisfaction at a job well done. For $14 each, including drink, it was a bargain and I would not hesitate to return.

A quick dash across the main road and we arrived at the local cake shop. I was keen to purchase a treat to accompany my afternoon cuppa. I settled on pandan sponge – a lime green sponge cake. Apparently the cake is either dipped in pandan juice, or the pandan extract is used in the cake making process. Either way it was an interesting cake, although not one I would flock back to buy.

As we left Cabramatta I lamented that it had taken me so long to visit. Cabramatta is a shining example of the value of multiculturalism, a little slice of Vietnam in the middle of seeming endless urban sprawl. It was such a rewarding experience and somewhere I will hasten to return with my friends in tow.

Combination

2010-01-22T11:53:00.000+11:00

This random word generator exercise is stretching the brain. Each time I write for the blog I get my random word and then write a short piece based on it.

Today’s is ‘combination’. Yep. Good one huh? Starting with a piece of original fiction I will attempt to explore ‘combination’.

Dressed entirely in black, moving with catlike agility and military precision, the team of shadowy figures descended on the vault door. Imposingly robust, the door was an impressive and threatening testament to man’s ingenuity; its design and size injected a sense of hopelessness and fear into would be assailants. The only way that the team was penetrating this barrier was with the combination; a luxury they didn’t possess. However, within their team they had an unwilling participant; shackled, out of breath and paralysed by fear was the key to the door’s puzzle. Albert Koelsher was the man who had designed the vault door: the only man alive who knew how to penetrate it.

This is how I remember the heist tales of my youth – before high tech gadgetry, military weaponry and superhuman strength got in the way. Safecrackers, working against an imaginary clock, sweat pouring off their brows, attempting to crack the combination. That final click, the sounds of metal cogs turning and steel doors opening – the sounds of success and relief.

People often comment on whether another person has the right combination of skills, attributes, knowledge etc. It is this combination which some feel is the key to success, power, prosperity and popularity. Aristotle once said, “the whole is greater than the sum of its parts” or words to that effect. I this is so then the combination of a person’s attributes is not as important as the person themselves – however I feel the combination of the parts is the essence of the person. “We are but a sum of our life’s experiences” is another quote I enjoy and this speaks to the importance of combination. I think that Aristotle may be a little off the mark when applying his theory to humans.

Combination is also widely used in Asian food. Most of us would have experienced the westernised version of Chinese food – infused with MSG and vegetable gums so that each dish is very similar to the next – meat with gluggy sauce and rice. One of these bastardised dishes is the ‘combination’ dish, seemingly a mish-mash of last night’s ingredients - the Asian bubble and squeak. I am sure this was not the original intention, and revered Chinese chefs would be sick to the stomach, but in Australian Chinese restaurants this is a dish to miss.

People are forever searching for the right combination – food, art, design, sport, attributes, love, work; combinations form the basis for our society. Without combinations it would be a sterile environment indeed.

Consumption

2010-01-19T11:23:00.003+11:00

I travelled to a friend’s birthday over the weekend and the group of friends in attendance are keen consumers. Aside from the material goods they covet, this group has a shared love of consuming booze. Large quantities of it. Quickly.

No excuses accepted; no questions entertained. Simply a ruthless, devil-may-care, unapologetic consumption of beer, wine, spirits and anything vaguely alcoholic, over a sustained period. And no, we are not irresponsible teenagers out to rebel or prove a point. We are grown men, many with families, children and mortgages. Grown men who, in some ways, find it extremely difficult to outgrow binge drinking.

I am not proud of this behaviour, but will not apologise for it either. No one became abusive, rude, objectionable or anti-social towards residents of our Nation’s Capital. This was a well-behaved congregation of beer chuggers.

But it is a worrying trend. As a group we have grown out of a number of activities we enjoyed as teenagers and young adults. For example, I no longer:

steal road signs that have my surname on them,

run nude at parties,

skull jugs of beer for money,

gamble my last $10 on a pokie,

eat the same meal 5 nights in a row,

sleep til 3am and rise at midday.

And the list goes on and on and on.

I drink rarely and I do enjoy a beer with the lads. When drinking I refer to myself, and a number of my contemporaries, as ‘Pringle Drinkers’ – once we pop you can’t stop. This is possibly the worst type of drinker.

In discussions with mates it seems that most of us share the view that commencing drinking prior to lunch and finishing a few hours before most people are heading to work is something we are not interested in doing anymore, yet we continue to do it. It is a real mystery. The power of peer pressure? The need to remain young in our minds?

We all have areas in our life we can improve and booze consumption is one of mine. Sure, some of the funniest and most entertaining times in my life have been linked to booze, but also some of the lowest.

But fear not, alcohol is not the only thing that I enjoy consuming. I am an avid reader and keen eater – ‘consuming’ habits that are far less life threatening and anti-social. The key is finding a balance between the good and the bad.

Reminder

2010-01-18T14:16:00.001+11:00

The unrelenting madness of the modern world means that every moment is accounted for, rushed, absorbed, calculated, appraised and treasured. To control this madness the modern day human relies on a series of electronic aids to attempt to control as many of these moments as is possible. Email, calendars, alarms, reminders, to do lists, personal assistants – whole economies are kept afloat through the reminder industry.

Then there are the human elements – assistants, wake up calls, secretaries; people whose lives revolve around organizing moments for others and hopefully themselves.

I am beautifully disorganized. When I know I need to be somewhere or meet someone I am always ridiculously early – but the key is actually remembering the occasion or to set a reminder. This is where, for me, the process falls over.

I have no interest in filing, cataloguing, arranging, organizing, reminders, alarms – I like my life to take a more fluid path – free from the constraints of planning. This is nigh on impossible and instead I find I am missing out on a lot as I am unprepared, disorganized and often absent.

What is the answer?

Option A: I could move into the hills, see no one, wear a loin cloth, live off the land and communicate with smoke signals but I have never liked camping and am not great at hunting or fishing so not a viable option.

Option B: I could drift aimlessly through my current life, living each moment, setting no reminders – however I would frustrate every person I know and end up alone and probably at option A.

Option C: Utilise the technology available but not overuse it. I use my mobile phone alarm and a Google calendar – this is probably enough, along with a complete reorganization of my bedroom and cupboard.

I think that C is the only respectable option. I think that reminders are tools to assist us in navigating through the confusing maze of our lives and should be embraced not feared. By using reminders I can keep on top of things, remain friends with my mates and don’t end up living in a cave and being mistaken for a yeti by inquisitive children or conspiracy theorists.

Escape

2010-01-14T09:25:00.002+11:00

I was making my bed this morning and out of the covers flew a butterfly. It was a strange thing to appear out of a bedspread and I watched it apprehensively flutter around my room and rest on the windowsill. Try as I may I could not coax it to fly out the open window. For the butterfly, the idea of escape has not entered its mind; it was content to stay on the windowsill, in the comforts of my room. I thought that it would be happier outside – as butterflies obviously have feelings – but on the outside there are all matter of foes. Children, birds and small animals all pose a threat to the butterfly; all reside just outside the window. Knowing it would surely perish inside without food I coaxed the butterfly outside. It had an escape, even if that was not in its original plans.

I have always been trying to escape from something. For too long the grass was greener on the other side of the fence. I am not sure why; it was just the norm for most of my life. A life, upon reflection that has been a blessed one and far more comfortable and fortunate than 99% of the worlds population.

What makes our generation so restless?

What is it we are hoping to find out there?

Many of my school and university friends are unmarried, unsettled, and not dissimilar to how they were ten to fifteen years ago. They have not been idle; travelling the world, been in and out of love, had rewarding careers, cultivated meaningful relationships. But they have not settled down, laid roots, or anchored themselves to someone or somewhere. Is this a form of escape, an unwillingness to conform to society’s rules or an inability to commit? Does is matter that they are not settled? Is being unsettled the way it is now for our generation, the way it will be moving forward?

For me, change is refreshing, not challenging or terrifying. Change is an escape. The ability to live another life, see how other people live, experience their jobs, cities, friends. Escape from one thing can result in stability somewhere else. Many people fear change; they need the regularity of routine. To them the idea of escaping consists of an annual holiday or buying a different brand of cereal. There is nothing wrong with this; I envy these people to a degree. To have contentment must be wonderful. To wake up each day, doing the same routine and be genuinely happy must be a great feeling.

The search continues, and for me it is an exciting journey. Escaping will continue to be a part of my life, in many forms, and that is OK.

Oh Forty, why are you approaching so swiftly?!

2010-01-13T11:28:00.003+11:00

I have recently read a highly entertaining book entitled “Fat, Forty and Fired” by Nigel Marsh. Former work mates gave it to me on my last day, as it was applicable to the situation I was heading towards. Although I am neither fat, forty or fired I understood the sentiment and accepted the gift. It proved to be great read, full of humour, insight, and sadness; however the ending was disappointing as for over 200 pages Marsh had strived to build a better life, be more in touch with his family, achieve personal goals and just as he is reaching the summit of his achievement mountain he accepts a job and regresses back to his former self. It was like he was saying you can attempt to swim against the tide but ultimately you will be swept back downstream. This was a devastating blow as I had followed his progress with a lot of inner “well done Nigel” and “way to go, I can do that too” – to be faced with hopelessness at the end is disappointing.

However, enough on Nigel Marsh and onto the subject of 40. I recently calculated that I am closer now to 50 than I am to my last day of High School – an interesting, sobering and in some ways, terrifying proposition. In a short 6 years I will be 40 and 6 years does not seem that far away.

I always imagined 40 as a time when I would have a house, dog (or cat), wife, and kiddies. That is not to say this will still not happen, but it is not looking that way at the moment. The key to this is that it is no longer a problem as times change, we change, and our priorities change.

In 1985, when I was 10, life was much simpler. My days consisted of eating jam sandwiches, playing run across or handball, riding my bike and fighting with my sisters. To be 35, let alone 40, seemed a world away and I guess, in a way, it was. We put a time capsule in the ground at my primary school where it was to stay for 25 years, the year 2010, when it would be opened. I imagined returning to the school playground in 2010, hopping out of my hover car, ably driven by my robot servant, and catching up with my schoolmates of 1985. I may very well attend the surfacing of the time capsule later this year, however the hover car and robot may be noticeably absent.

It is funny how much the future does not resemble what we imagined. Many times it is better than expected so it is not all doom and gloom. I think it does show that age should not be a limiting factor, an invisible barrier or yardstick we are confined or ruled by. Age is just a measurement and nothing more. How many people have defied their age to perform amazing feats?

Yes I am very close to 40, but what does that matter? It really has no bearing on my life unless I have an expiry date of November 2015 and no one has told me. If that is the case, I have work to do…you can find me in the garage, I have a hover car and robot servant to invent.

Christmas: a time for thanks and reflection

2009-12-25T16:00:00.003+11:00

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

2009-12-14T12:31:00.001+11:00

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

2009-11-09T13:17:00.001+11:00

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

2009-11-02T12:49:00.001+11:00

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

2009-10-02T09:15:00.001+10:00

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

2009-09-22T13:41:00.001+10:00

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

2009-09-18T15:58:00.002+10:00

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?

2009-09-14T15:39:00.003+10:00

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

2009-09-08T12:07:00.002+10:00

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?

2009-09-01T13:58:00.003+10:00

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

2009-08-27T14:15:00.005+10:00

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

2009-08-25T12:09:00.001+10:00

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

2009-08-20T10:08:00.003+10:00

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

2009-08-17T11:31:00.005+10:00

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

2009-08-14T15:42:00.003+10:00

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

2009-08-14T10:11:00.003+10:00

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

2009-08-13T12:12:00.000+10:00

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)

2009-08-13T09:03:00.000+10:00

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

2009-08-12T20:46:00.002+10:00

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.