People come and go in this world of ours. Some with which you’ve formed bonds of extreme strength and the severance is felt all the more intensely. Then at other times it can seem quite natural that you drift from certain relations. At this point in time I’m seeing my life as the playing of a master work of music. A piece of music, written by another hand, a spoken word of authority and existence.
This music has a melody that grows in strength and beauty with each passing day. It combines with many dancing harmonies, which play around, in and out of the work and contribute to its intricacies and intrigue.
When a harmony is played it sometimes takes a while for it to be heard. A whispering of similarly scattered notes played throughout the piece, at times so faint their significance is lost on the musician. At other points the harmony is given a place of pride and attention, maybe even before its due time. Does this mean I will miss out on its awesome crescendo? Or will I receive another chance to experience the thrill of plucking its richly strung notes in order to undergo its heralded climax?
This musician learns as she plays, sometimes stumbling over the bars provided, at other times playing with unnecessary gusto and bravado. Notes can be played with complete disregard for the composer’s genius, or even fail to resemble something of the writer’s intent.
Throughout the highs and lows of this piece called life, my melody is regularly called to play in sync with other master works. The interweaving of melodies can at times be a cacophony of unlikely notes that strangely make a lasting impression, sometimes one melody will carry the other, or hold up the dimly played notes that strain to produce a tune. There are many melodies that have been played with mine, and while all contribute to the unique flavour of my own, some provide the much required guidance my own playing lacks.
Maybe this melody of curves and distinct solo stanzas will one day be played beside another piece that exudes new strengths and direction, where the music flowing forth will become so intricately interwoven that listeners will say that it was meant to be.
Or perhaps this musician will continue to play alongside a host of others, yet a deep sorrowful solo note will resound.
There’s something tragic about knowing you are falling and knowing there is nothing you can do to break that fall. You’re already on your way down. The full force of your body will hit the cement beneath you. Your hands instinctively rise but you are beyond the point where their action will lever you back to perpendicularity. Within that moment you foresee the trauma that your slip of foot will give rise to. I wonder if facing death is like this.
I went to see Rice perform last night.
I know I’ve really been moved by something when I walk away and don’t want to talk about it. When I know that words are useless in relaying the experience. It was one of those happenings last night. I just needed space from others to digest the words, the gut-wrenching chords, the lilting harmonies, the understanding, the beauty, the sadness.
A fellow devotee and I had gone out to have a couple of beers before the gig and had ended up in a place of deep conversation on life and our spot within it all. It’s good stuff when you can talk with another and know there sits an underlying honesty between you, when things are not forced or conjured to fit the moment. What I also loved about this was that so much of what we had covered in our discussion was later touched on by Damien as he set about sharing his craft with us.
The gig was within the old Palais Theatre where the audience is seated on antique plush leather chairs. Down on the St Kilda beach this venue exudes the grandeur of a bygone era. I couldn’t imagine the music that Rice creates being thrown out to the mega audience of one of our arenas. He is an artisan, from another age, a craftsman. And his music belongs in a place that honours that and avoids the plasticity of now. He invites one to participate within his enigmatic spectacle.
The moments disappeared into my past like that. Wish you could’ve been there with me.
Today I entered my room and the light thrown through the partially veiled window across to my wall let me see something ordinarily hidden. I saw the waves, the ebb and the flow, of the air moving through my room. I saw my breath as it entered this atmosphere, I saw the air that made its way within me to feed the sum of my parts. The tiny particles that swam before me glinted spectrums of light – tiny diamonds filling the space before me. I breathed in these gems. I breathe in these gems.
Occasionally I’ll get a glimpse of the roaring wind carving its way through the tall Mountain Ash that grow around me. When the mist descends on my place I can see the rolling nature of the air that moves over the lie of the land. On a cold winter’s morning waiting for the 688 I watch my breath form little pillows of cloud before me. Never had I realised how precious this thing is that we do every living moment. Unattainable splendour.
Often I’ll hear this one dropped (particularly when something of favour has occurred); “It was just meant to be,” or, “it was fate that I meet her.” So what about when things work against what one considers to be a positive impact on life?
Is it just a cop-out to claim that something is a twist of fate? And what does fate imply?
The OED says:
Fate – The principle, power, or agency by which, according to certain philosophical and popular systems of belief, all events, or some events in particular, are unalterably predetermined from eternity.
I believe actions have repercussions. This world in all its glory and sorrow has been delicately formed. Life is always on the cusp of death. We make choices and we reap the consequences. Living alongside others, we also reap the consequences of the behaviour of others. Humans are fragile yet cruel creatures.
Filed under: waitressing
Here’s a rundown on just a few of the regular character types I come across as I do my job…
The ‘this is my shout or I’ll deck ya’ type – these are the ones that’ll go out to dinner with friends and will attempt to pay for the bill before they’ve even ordered mains. If both parties actually make it to the register a full-on brawl ensues until one party manages to push their money into the till and throws their friends cash onto the floor and stamp all over it.
The ‘could I have this, but with…and replace…” – please swap the roast veg with semi-steamed/slightly grilled but not soggy carrots and could you ensure that my lettuce is iceburg, I can’t stand that rocket stuff, while you’re at it I’ll have the hollandaise on the side and, no, actually please replace the hollandaise with the red-wine gravy, and can my steak please be medium rare, but more on the rare side. No worries – poor old Wolf in the kitchen loves these ones!
The ‘I can out-eat every one of you’ type – yes, alpha males beware, the Reef & Beef after sour dough starters and entrees of more dead animal is not the easiest way to show off your masculine prowess.
The ‘I know how to better arrange your furniture than you do’ – that’s right, you’re paying for the meal so why not just reposition your table so you can be 23cm closer to that window, swap chairs and request a lighting change. Oh and yes of course you can be the DJ tonight and change my dull old Goyte cd for Enya.
The ‘this is just right’ customer - yes, you do make my evening. You are genuinely thankful and you understand when your order’s a little slow because it’s been placed behind three large tables. You have a laugh (even if it’s at ‘I know how to better arrange your furniture than you do’s expense). You guys rock.
My mobile’s got brain damage. Usually I would be okay with that. Phones get dropped; things break off or they lose a little memory. But the thing is that I think my 6-month-old phone came with these internal problems. I believe he was born with it. I close his little lid a tad too quickly and his colourful screen blinks a couple of times and flicks over to a place free of button pressing and ringtones. The spine of a book gently knocks against him in my bag and he goes blank. In the last month or so he’s also developed a little problem with putting letters together as I compose a txt msg by over or undershooting the letters pressed on the dial pad.
I was listening to a radio talkshow the other day and the issue of planned obsolescence was raised. That is, when goods are created to deteriorate at a rapid pace after they’ve been used a certain number of times. An engineer rang in and explained that within the design process the materials and measurements of a product are fed into a computer, (we’ll use a plastic garden chair for our example), whereupon the strain and average frequency of use are virtually simulated in order to establish the usage required for the item to break. So in the case of the garden chair the designer would determine the number of sittings required before the plastic legs buckle and down comes cradle, baby and all.
It appears as though this amazing technology is being used quite criminally so that products (or particular pieces of products) conveniently fall apart and require replacing.
The thing that really irks me regarding all this (other than having to replace things that have just outdated their warrantee) is the waste produced by products that are made to break. Australia prides itself at the amount of recycling it does in a year (I think we’re second only to Germany – stop me if I’m wrong) and residents are expected to sort through more than half of the waste to see that it doesn’t become hard-rubbish. But as we sort, companies are reaping the financial benefits of deliberately creating waste. This really sucks.
In well-worn but true words of all old fogies, things just aren’t made like they used to be.
Last night I went to the opening of a friend’s art exhibition, Land, Love and Memory. I would probably describe his works as minimalist abstract landscapes, although somebody also suggested ‘colourist’ because of his focus on bringing a single block of combined colour forward to convey the experience of a place and time. Anyway…the art was amazing, as was the very good quality free red wine.
In a room alongside his exhibit another artist was also launching his work. This guy’s stuff was titled Tales of Old Siam and it was as busy as my friend’s art was minimalist. Each painting was woven with layers of iconic imagery – traditional Buddha motives found their way into each canvas and seemingly random words sat crossed out upon a palate of primary colours. One piece in particular immediately grabbed my attention. It appeared to be telling the story of migration from Thailand to Australia and the many problems associated with language and residency application. It set the picture of a complete change of culture. I sensed hardship and loneliness.
Looking at these compositions reminded me of the beauty of storytelling. An ancient craft, yet one that emerges anew with each telling or retelling. Interwoven into the culture of a people. The history of humanity passed down from generations by word of mouth, visual or written texts, songs, etc.
I’m not a natural at telling a good story. In fact, I struggle to recall a movie I’ve watched the previous week. I need time to sit down (preferably with some ink and paper) and think over events/timeframes/spaces/places/etc. But I admire the ability to capture the attention of others by retelling things of the past (be they fictional or as true to reality as the memory allows).
I’ve always thought that our knowledge is just a compilation of our own experiences and I suppose in that sense, stories too become a part of our character’s make-up and context.
Filed under: communication
Walking down through the bustle of human forms I see something so familiar, yet miraculously unique to my eyes. The face of an individual. Eyes, the windows to a soul. Lips, the gateway to one’s lifebreath. Features common to all, yet distinct from any other. What blueprint allows such universal qualities, yet requires such disparity?
A combination of hairs, skin, iris and pupil, muscle tone, jaw, nostrils, lips, bone and blood can imprint itself on our mind and become so familiar to us as we relate to its workings and respond to its owner’s behaviour. We read a face, evaluate the gestures and react accordingly to the signals provided.
The human face intrigues me. A message-laden glance from one of our kind beckons me to create over any other thing. What hides behind this? What cannot be hidden?
I wonder about the messages I fail to pick up on as I read your words on this computer screen. How would I respond to you if you were sitting beside me speaking these exact words to me? What does the typeface not tell me? Technologies bring with them new ways of communicating with others. We can use our little emoticons (or the ‘LOL’ that for some strange reason makes me cringe big time) to attempt to relay some of the inner feeling we desire to share, yet I feel something is lost in such transactions. At the same time, maybe there are new layers of meaning that are expressed within these evolving means of interaction. 
Handing over a customer’s change at work today my thoughts strayed to money and how a world without money would differ from our current state of affairs.
Who was the smart one to create a system where a token object had intrinsic value, allowing one to accumulate more and more so that one could be comfortable and ensure security for his/her ‘own kind’?
I think of the early communist ideals, where all excess land/food/wealth could be divided evenly between the needy. I cry when I see clumps of humanity vengefully bombing the crap out of their neighbours in order to get their dirty fingers into some liquid gold.
I suppose money itself is not the problem, but rather a product of the workings of humanity. The problem is the lack of willingness to look beyond ourselves. If we, as human beings, had the generosity to make those communist ideals work, then we’d also probably own the potential to make a money wielding society operate successfully.
