Saucepan Bach: News

Three pubs in three nights. Monday evening I drove to Surrey Hills - 100 kms each way - and ate before I played my two songs. This is a huge change over this year. It’s not that I’ve become fearless - it’s an incremental building of confidence which perhaps changes nervousness and outright fear about performing into anticipation and - dare I say it - yes - dare - quiet excitement!
It was good. Then Tuesday night and the songwriter night at Mount Victoria is starting to feel like home. Brad from BLUFM radio recorded the previous weeks performances for his radio show - all good stuff. It’s quite something to see performers progress over time.
Wednesday night I played at the Family hotel in Katoomba. This was a new venue for me and I did have to push through the ‘fear of the new.’ This is an open mike night organised by Elliot who is very welcoming. I played three sets of three songs and heard some fine musicians. A really enjoyable night. I’ll go again.
Nice synchronicity..... Mark Wilkinson - the singer songwriter about whom I’ve written in glowing terms is overseas building the career he’s destined for. When he returns to Sydney, he’ll play with Scarlett Affection, also superb and also been mentioned here in glowing terms. It will be a magic mix of performers.
While I’m glowing ... Daniel Pugliesi - songwriter with the band Open has a few videos on youtube - again, a wonderful songwriter and a special delight.
My sister sends me humour.
....... I went to the bookstore and asked the saleswoman, “Where’s the self- help section?”
She said that if she told me, it would defeat the purpose.

Old Chinese proverb ... “ Man who keep chin up - never look down.’.
I’m a visual creature but I delight in the ability of words to contain layers of meaning ... not that I ‘get’ them all, of course, but it’s nice to know they’re there. Humour finds it’s greatest home in words
‘Yippee’ for the Olympics. Truly a thing of wonder to watch excellence in action. Truly awesome to see grace in defeat. I know victory is sweet but sportsmanship is deeper. ‘Someone’ will win the medal - it’s the moments surrounding the competitive event which reveal the character of those involved. I don’t know who won the gold in this particular swimming race but the difference in time in respect to medal colour was tiny. In the next moment to losing gold the swimmer next to the winner leans over the lane rope and touches foreheads with the winner. “Well done.” she said - hmm - I was lip-reading but what a beautiful and revealing moment of both humanity and character.
We had a cricketer not so long ago who would leave the crease if he knew he was ‘out’. ‘Swings and roundabouts’ say those for whom winning is all it’s about. It’s not all it’s about. ‘It’s the principle of the matter.’ which motivates the batsman to leave the crease when he knows he’s out - even though the umpire says otherwise. It costs to have principles if you want to put them into practice. It costs more to pay lip-service.
The weather is showing the first thin traces of the warmth of spring. It can’t come quick enough.

The Emperor has no clothes.

“These reports are accurate.” says George referring to the Russian - Georgian conflict. I don’t believe his reports. I cease to believe that America ever acts in a way contrary to its perceived interest. Nothing to do with Democracy, Freedom, Ethics. Nothing to do with ‘human rights’, ‘freedom of expression’ or ‘values’.
China is an Empire as is America. It’s hard enough to rule a tribe or a nation let alone a country, a federation or an empire without abuse of power along the way. It’s when corruption becomes built into the system that hope starts to evaporate and words start to lose their meaning.
When words lose meaning, communication is lost and the empire, the country, the tribe, the family starts to fall apart.
The fabric of society is not only a metaphor. I weave or link or network with others and connections are made. They cease to ‘work’ or have wider value if they’re not honest. It appears so obvious as to not be worth writing down yet the period in which we live is awash with information in a way not seen before in recorded history. Governments stand scrutiny as never before.
I find it difficult to listen to George Bush speak. Talk about ‘White Man Speak with Forked Tongue.’.... yes, he’s learned to get through a sentence without stumbling but he still is a woeful and empty shell to have as ‘leader of the free world.’
‘Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.....’. That line has stayed in my mind since first I heard it in song. It stands the notion of freedom on its head. In my experience, internal freedom comes from accepting ‘what is’ and working correctly within that limitation. Freedom is often taken as freedom from responsibility. Surely this is evasion rather than freedom. Freedom has meaning when one voluntarily accepts the limitation which responsibility implies. This is partly why I have so much respect for Chinese tradition. This is a society which has emphasised the value of strong family ties. Perhaps the Confucian ideal doesn’t get achieved any more often than in other societies but nonetheless ‘family values’ get more of a chance in a society where these values are actually written down.
I have an image in my mind like a scene from a film. For those who aren’t familiar with the story .... Once upon a time and in a far off land, a magnificent procession slowly makes its way through dense crowds of cheering people. Flags are flying, pennants are fluttering. The sky is blue, birds are singing and trumpets blowing. First come the Lords and Ladies all dressed in their finery. Every year the Emperor makes his grand entrance. Entrance and ‘Entrance’. Each year his clothes are more and more refined, beautiful and gauze - like. Shimmering garments which draw gasps of awe from the crowd.
All is not what is seems. The crowd are drawn by fear and not by affection. The Emperor becomes more and more vain and drawn to outward appearance. The Lords and Ladies hold their positions by virtue of corruption and force. The guards are not there to protect the people and those same people must cheer or face dreadful consequence. Sound familiar?
This is where the story becomes a little unbelievable - but only a little. The tailors who work so hard to please their master are at their wit’s end. Each year they’ve made finer and finer clothes until they can’t go any finer. They hatch a desperate plot. They’ll pretend they’ve made such a fine set of clothes that only those with refined eyesight will be able to see them.
The plot succeeds. The Emperor is vain enough to believe the story and no-one at the court dares to offend by stating otherwise.
The procession starts and the crowd dutifully starts to cheer. As the coach bearing the Emperor makes its way along the route, the voice of a small child rises above the noise.
‘The Emperor’s got no clothes... the Emperor’s got no clothes.’
Apart from the sound of the carriage wheels and the horses hooves, all goes quiet. After a moment in which the whole world draws breath and holds it, a huge roar of laughter goes out from the crowd. It ripples out in waves as those further away are told the story.
Whether the moral of the story was captured in my childhood mind or not, an image remains. The clarity with which the innocent young child sees the world can cut through the weighty considerations that the rest of society have to deal with.... that’s the gist of it. The other side of the coin being the perils of power abused.
Zimbabwe has an Emperor but no interference in any meaningful way by America. No pipelines, no interest.
Hooray for everything. I’ve got some pipe and chain which I’m now going to rig up so that I can hang, stretch and generally move my body before it expires from inaction. Roll on spring. I’m fed up with frozen fingers and biting winds and need some deep warmth.
Off to the Imperial Hotel tonight to sing a few songs ...I love synchronicity.

Snow on the treeferns. The slow growing variety withstand the frost, wind and snow with little damage to the fronds whereas the fast growing ferns have browned and broken fronds. While the days are getting longer, the weather remains at a hover between zero and under ten. We have a month or so of this weather before spring’s warm breath.
‘If hell is hot, hot, hot, what temperature is heaven I wonder.... Seven or under?’
It could have been Harlan Ellison or Gene Woulfe or another writer who prefaced a series of science fiction short stories with various takes on the above saying. They’re great.
There’s something about three glasses of wine and the early hours of the morning.
Scientology on the Discovery Channel and how repulsed I am by the belligerent way in which the spokesmen for the ‘Church’ conduct themselves. ‘Clear’ ... hardly. It’s no virtue to be able to talk over those who pose valid questions.
Jump to Rock ‘n roll Goddess who now wears Kabbala red threads ... hmm... you can’t reinvent virginity and aping masturbation with a crucifix would have resulted in an immediate Fatwa if it weren’t for the forbearance of Christianity. What’s the common denominator ... powerful people... looking for ways to justify, maintain and reinvent their power. Harsh ? ... perhaps so. A relative with a bright future believed the rock ‘n roller bullshit and didn’t understand that Goddesses have bodyguards... fourteen year old nubiles don’t. Poor girl only took a few steps off the way before a long term crash and burn. That’s why lyrics matter to me. They can and do have real and profound effect. Words matter.Three glasses of wine probably reinforces the feeling.
I spent $5 on a digital download of a book called ‘Alien Interview’ which presents itself as a faithful record of an army nurse’s ‘interviews’ with a surviving alien from the Roswell crash. I found myself scanning rather than reading and doing so with a sinking heart. If this is truth then heaven help us.
I was fortunate enough to have my early teenage years without T.V. and, when science fiction appeared on my literary horizons, I was captivated enough to go A - Z through our local library. By the time I had read Dune, I’d long left the ‘Cowboys and Indians in Space’ type of fiction for short stories which bend reality in a paragraph. Harlan Ellison, Ray Bradbury, Fred Hoyle.... many more. ‘Alien Interview’ had no ‘ring of truth’ for me. Just another feeble idea of a Universal Empire versus ... well ..... someone elses version. Yet another attempt to blend trillions of years and ‘galactic civilizations into a hodge-podge of ‘we are all gods,,,but caught in a Matrix.’
For myself ... aliens ...I’ve had my brief and wondrous sightings and don’t need to be convinced that the Universe is teeming with life. That some have made it here to visit indicates the speed of light is not insurmountable. That they’ve remained officially unannounced makes some ethical sense which is mirrored in our human project to send a probe to pierce the ice of Jupiter's moon, Europa. There’s ethical concern that our probe may infect whatever lies below the ice with microbes from earth.
And yet and yet... the subject remains somehow ‘ridiculous’ in the mainstream media. My dad had a pragmatic take on aliens which included the thought that even if they landed on the White House lawn it wouldn’t affect his moment by moment existence. Can’t argue with that.
I ponder on ‘Alien Interview’ and how the brief audio clip did have ‘a ring of truth’ from the author. How could he justify what I feel is a lie? If he believes his idea of a ‘matrix.’ then another ‘small lie’ to reveal the 'truth' becomes almost irrelevant.
We don’t need more lies.
I believe that exposure to the reality of the vastness of ‘it all’ and to the underlying and universal brotherhood of life may improve the way in which the human race co-exists but that idea may be idealistic clap-trap. That’s the problem with belief. It’s quite different to knowledge.
If aliens can’t understand laughing with delight then we’re unique in this universe in a wonderful way. Personally I hope that they love Monty Python, Blazing Saddles, Flying High and all the other absurdities and subtleties of humour which reveal the winding path to the heart of the human condition.
It’s too cold to do more than fetch the milk and be thankful that I’m not a cow in a field. Moo to you too.

After three days, guests and fish both smell the same .
It’s strange how pithy little statements can have such a ring of truth that they cut through the woolly garment that usually cloaks us in ‘niceness’.
A guest has obligation to .... leave a small footprint..... to, at least, try to put more into the situation than they take.... to not stay too long.
Decades ago ....as I stretched, bent and lunged at pieces of windblown garbage, I’d take a fierce delight that my body could cheerfully perform such yogic work. I had plenty of time in which to reflect upon this daily task, as part of my job as ‘the Cleaner’ in a high school.
I fell into the cleaning job straight from a financially unsuccessful but very fulfilling entrepreneurial venture in which a friend and myself would go into the forest of the Northern New South Wales coast, behind the loggers and rescue the treeferns, staghorns, orchids and other protected plants. Dragging treeferns up a gully and picking off the leeches crawling up and into the jungle boots isn’t a lot of fun. It is, however, an adventure and it was one which kept us occupied with building bush green houses and filling them with injured and recuperating plants.
It was towards the end of our stay that we experienced the Min-min lights.
We were living in a small house sitting on a little hill within a valley. At night, it was as dark as country Australia can be. Ken was standing at the window which looked up the valley towards the forested horizon. He called me over with some excitement. If you can picture a light - near ground level - making its way slowly down the valley, through the trees. Not a bright light, but as there are no other lights.... As we watch - two grown men - we see what I describe as ‘the light a giant glow-worm would cast if it were erratically bouncing along on a pogo stick between ground level and twice the height of a man.’ It’s a funny image but quite accurate. It also really frightened us. As it got closer to the house we actually felt anxious. A strong sense that, whatever this thing was, it wasn’t either friendly or interested in us. Not the sort of thing that would prompt you to run outside and go to meet it and yet I would have done so had this been a UFO. It wasn’t alien. It belongs to this country in a way that we don’t. The whole experience lasted five to ten minutes and that was the end of it except for the reverberations.
I came back to Sydney broke and found a job or it found me. I can’t remember how I knew the previous cleaner at the school but he was taking three months off and would I like an easy job where gardening was more important than cleaning.
The job rolled on for five years after which I took my higher school certificate at the school. I cleaned, gardened, painted murals, revitalised a stage lighting system which, in turn, allowed for many shows and concerts. I had acreage to look after, trees to plant, windows to clean and more garbage than you could poke a stick at. I painted the garbage cans with bright colours and ‘Please Care’ stencils.
‘Do the right thing.’ was the official slogan of the day. A bit superficial to my mind. It’s only those who ‘don’t get it’ who need the message in the form of a slogan. ‘Do the right thing’ is a command. The natural response is ‘Why?’ or ‘Who’s to say what’s the right thing.’ or, more commonly, ‘Fuck off.’
I got all three responses plus the perfect understanding of my intent from the hundreds of very aware kids who needed no slogans but did need example and encouragement.
It takes a huge consistent effort to clean up after eight hundred kids. It was a matter of personal honour that every bin was emptied every day regardless of other obligations I may have taken on. In this manner, no kid could say the place was dirty at the beginning of the day.
Idries Shah, somewhere in his wonderful work on Sufi wisdom, leaves me with a picture of a man walking through life with such focussed reverence that the grass itself bends, sways and bears his step which, in turn, leaves no trace when the grass springs back. I suppose we take from ‘things’ what we are capable of understanding at the time. I don’t know that ‘leaving no trace’ is the point but, if I picture my life in terms of physical trace then the line of cigarette butts stretching back through time is not pleasant to behold.
After three days, guests and fish both smell the same .
Another possum died a week or so back when I was last at the farm. We could hear it making piteous cry’s for ten minutes or so before silence. As there’s no room for humans in the roof space, we could only speculate whether a snake had got him. I found him the next morning on the ground with no obvious reason for death. The boys dug a grave and put a few tyres on top to keep the dogs away. Burial is a solemn moment.
Played music, mowed grass and came close to doing horrible damage to my leg due entirely to carelessness on my part. It’s not enough to ‘Please Care.’. You have to care enough to take the necessary action when needed.
I’m mowing near a log and pulling backwards towards a small spade which has no handle. My mind registered the danger, my body started to make the movement which would have had me pick up and remove the spade, the thought arose....’nah ... just go close...you’ll miss it’ Instant retribution and thank God I was facing forward so that when the spade shot out like a discus it hit the bone rather than the muscle in my leg. No serious damage but limping for ten days.
My friend’s farm is where I don’t smell like a fish after three days. Probably because I’ve known them all so long that I’ve long since passed that degree of sensibility..... and yet....
I haven’t found the third verse to ‘White men have no Dreaming.’
Quite appropriate to leave it on the back burner.
The Imperial Hotel continues to be a warm spot on a Tuesday night. It’s great to see all of us progress as performers.
About eight years ago I sent a song called ‘Black Dog Mood.’ to the Black Dog Institute which had just come into being..What a delight that, eight years on, they’d like to use it in a fundraising effort. I love the recorded song for its insistent bass and drums. Two chords ... E and A ... played up the neck. You can hear it in the music section.
When I was at the farm I ran into someone who had read some of my news and thought I led an interesting life. This floored me a bit because I often feel kinship with the cuckoo in a cuckoo clock.....only comes out when needed.... or - slightly different vein and as they say in Sapphire - ‘you’ve got to move a lot of dirt to find the stone.’
I lead a quiet life but it has its illuminating and lovely moments. Nearly all my daffodils face the north-east but that just indicates direction. They are actually facing and embracing the morning sun. That’s beautiful instead of academic.
Funny thing ... I’ve gone off meat and have been eating fish for weeks. The sublime to the ridiculous.

http://au.youtube.com/watch?v=uKYHLozypr8

I don't know if this song is complete and perhaps it doesn't need any more words .... a third verse would give a resolution and I'm not sure that there is one. I played it at The Imperial Hotel last night and it feels good to sing. It's a fairly slow rhythm at the moment.
The chord structure is Am x 3,C,G,Am,C,G,Am. First lyric repeated 3 times with Am before the one chord for each line ending up back at Am.

“WHITE MEN HAVE NO DREAMING”

WHITE MEN HAVE NO DREAMING x 3
HAVE TWO EYES BUT NOT FOR SEEING
HAVE TWO EARS BUT NOT FOR HEARING
HAVE TWO FEET BUT NOT FOR TREADING
HAVE THE LAND BUT KNOW NO COUNTRY
NATIVE SON SAYS OH SO BLUNTLY
WHITE MEN HAVE NO DREAMING


THESE WORDS HAVE ALTERED MEANING x 3
STOPS ME IN MY WAY OF BEING
TELLS ME THAT I’M HARD OF HEARING
SHOWS THE FLIGHT BUT NOT THE LANDING
SEES THE STEPS WHICH MUST BE TAKEN
IS A VOICE WHICH NEEDS BE SPOKEN
WHITE MEN HAVE NO DREAMING.

I'm going quiet for awhile.

When does a groove become a rut?
The phone rings. It’s Hannah ringing to ask if I’d like to do the night shift at work. I’m playing tonight - thank goodness. I slept yesterday for fourteen hours straight, recovering from the two prior night shifts and the broken rest which goes with it.
Hannah is Maori and is one of the great souls to whom the Maori turn when ‘the wheels fall off’, for their errant sons and daughters, living in Australia. She doesn't see herself that way.She has the observational skills of an eagle and serves her people as true royalty does. She is part of the reason that I say that I work with profound women rather than ‘men and women.’ The men - generally speaking - don’t really ‘get it’.
When does a groove become a rut? I’m ready to move on..... and - if you understand English enough to understand nuance - you’ll know what I mean.
The groove was set by the Romans - moving to a different track - when they set the standard for the width of the roads across Europe two thousand years ago. They did this by standardising the width of a chariot, at the rear end, to just accommodate the width of two horses arses. This, in turn, set the width of the axle and wheels.
As time passed, wagon makers across Europe found that , if they didn’t adopt the same standard, their wheels would not fit the grooves in the road - which soon became ruts - and would break far more frequently than if the wagons had adopted Roman custom.
When railways arrived many standards were used for the width of the track. We have different gauges within Australia. Get off at the border and change trains. America adopted a width, from the British, which goes back to the Romans. This action resulted in a railway tunnel through a mountain having a track width of ‘just over the width of two horses arses. This, in turn, meant that the booster fuel rockets on the sides of the space shuttle had to be reduced in size to what would fit through the tunnel - two horses arses.
What a story and thanks to an article on rense.com which I’ve paraphrased.
When does a groove become a rut?
I start my path on either an existing road or I break with tradition and tread my own way. The first exists because it has proved to be useful for the purpose of getting from one situation, in space and time, to another. One of the prices paid is that the rules of that road are set. The groove is already there and you follow it. If it turns into a rut - that’s one of the implicit possibilities and is also part of the price. Of course, there’s no-one there to tell you the price.... that’s also part of the price ... and so the width of two horses arses affects the exploration of space and we try to determine the pathways of our lives without much understanding of the foundations upon which those paths are set. The thought comes to mind that nothing is as it seems and that every tradition requires re-examination over time. What was the premise and does it still hold good.?
“White men have no Dreaming” said an Aboriginal man as part of a radio snippet. It made me prick up my ears as this is the first time I’ve heard this stated so bluntly.
I’ve been blessed on the path I’ve taken. I mean no harm - which matters if aligning oneself with the Divine. Intention matters. This doesn’t mean that I do no harm but, again, intention matters.
The cup is half full. What this means, in effect, is that you have my respect until or unless you prove otherwise.
Thirty years ago, I had the opportunity to ask - of a fair dinkum tribal elder - whether The Dreamtime would exist if the Aboriginal race disappeared from the Face of the Earth. His response was that The Dreamtime exists irrespective of belief. Not only that - you don’t have to be Aboriginal to experience The Dreamtime.
The profound implications, if this is taken to be statement of fact, contain the revelation that all of humanity has the capacity to actually experience another dimension of reality.
Mathematicians accept at least eleven dimensions yet we experience the same three or four.
We don’t really believe the idea of a Dreamtime because - as the Aboriginal bloke on the radio said so bluntly and, probably, with so little effect. “White men have no Dreaming.”
I say ‘with so little effect’ because - ultimately - ‘we’ as white men don’t have a Dreamtime to experience and thus we don’t ‘know’. You can describe purple to the blind but they won’t know it and thus can only believe or disbelieve. Same principle applies. We have religion, we have spirituality but do we gather as a group to discuss what happened in another reality?
The trackless territory is much of the mind as it is a physical reality.
When does a groove become a rut?
If you move off the road you pay a price. Again no-one tells you the price. There is no rut to get into. Each footprint matters. You make all the critical choices. You are not ‘asleep at the wheel’.
My dad took the somewhat dismissive view - in respect to Aboriginal Culture and culture - which says ‘Where are their cathedrals? Where is the written language? When we look at Aboriginal Art, Song and Dance, we see it as Aboriginal Culture instead of a physical representation of another reality which, in turn, overflows into this reality. It is that reality which is encompassed by the word ‘Dreamtime.’ Any attempt to understand Aboriginal Culture which doesn’t understand this is doomed to failure.
It must of come as an enormous and almost incomprehensible shock, and which is still rippling over the collective Aboriginal spirit, to gradually understand that Natural Cathedrals of a living spiritual world which they, as a race, have experienced are completely missing from the reality of this invading race and are, thus unseen and ignored and, at best, relegated to legend and myth.
White men are capable of Dreaming. So my brother told me, thirty years ago. He did not lie. He has lived here continuously for aeons. He wears his antiquity as a light and luminous garment that we don’t perceive. He has too much dignity to point it out. I’m not so constrained.
I don’t know if the Romans - who had little time or understanding for my ancestor Druids - understood or cared that the grooves of their chariot wheels would cut across the natural tracks of alternative ways through the landscapes of life and almost obliterate the signs.
‘Walk with care.’ says the first of the signs.
‘Welcome.’ says another.
'Not wide enough for two horses arses' says a third..... a statement which would have had no meaning for me yesterday but which gives me a cautious chuckle today.

“I want to be known as Loretta.” states a man in the group. “.. and I want to have the right to have babies.”
Disbelief followed by incredulity, as the Leader of the group digests the news and responds. “What’s the point! You can’t have babies! You don’t have a womb! Where’s the baby going to gestate?”.
Loretta looks distressed and then hopeful as another member of the group offers ... “ ...er ...what if we recognise that Loretta can’t actually have a child - being as he .. er ... she doesn’t have a womb - which is nobody’s fault - but, he .. er .. she does have the right to bear a child.”
'The Life of Brian' is a profound piece of theatre. The absurdities of life are funny. Life imitates and goes further than art when a trans-gender man gives birth because .... he has the right. What a selfish and self centred situation to create. What child could absorb such news about the circumstance of their birth with anything resembling a Buddha- like serenity. What adult would not be horrified if these were their own circumstance.
There’s nobility added to the most wretched life by virtue of not being selfish, by virtue of not manifesting the behaviours which the majority of mankind find repellent.
I’ve experienced hatred. Fortunately, it was fairly late in life. I got over it. To say it like that suggests something as simple as a passing cold. It’s not simple and it is horrible. In the course of experiencing its power, I really became aware of the beast within. Hatred polishes this beast and lavishes sharp attention on the thorns. We are only ‘nice’ because we choose to be so. Why mention this? Because of the child molester who got ‘driven out of town.’ yesterday.The community didn’t want him. Didn’t want him under any circumstances and stuff his ‘rights’.
I am a man. I can find any female over the age of puberty - if her shape tickles my fancy - attractive. Do I choose to follow these attractions if the age gap is too great - by this society’s standards? No....which is probably just as well, as the sexual experience would, generally, be the only motivating factor. I need to be in a ‘consenting adult’ relationship, clumsy though I am, to avoid doing harm.
The T.V. picture of the fleeing child molester, tongue licking lips, unfocussed eyes, unrepentant, defiant and a little bit pathetically elderly, remains vivid.
They weren’t a lynch mob. Perhaps they could have been but probably not. They were, no doubt, horrified that the issue of ‘rights’ had placed them in a position where they felt compelled to take a protest action which has them labelled as vigilantes.
People take desperate action when all else fails.
The perspective regarding suicide bombers which sees no difference in their actions to those taken by the military forces which oppose them and which also kill indiscriminately gave me quite a bit of pause. If the suicide bombing were done as a political rather than religious act, then this would be true. Doesn’t make either action ‘right’ and I cannot see that any of this is ‘God’s Will’.
Innocence is lost early for most of us in fairly normal ways. We learn that we are not the centre of the Universe in rude, baffling and often brutal ways and we get ‘educated’ along the way.
I’ve just finished a night shift at the Group Home. It’s not breaking confidentiality to state that the four men that I work with are all fine human beings. Why do I describe them so.... as a first and immediate thought.... because I see them as ‘normal’ human beings and because - although some behaviours are problematic - none of them are mean spirited and that’s just about all you need to be seen as a fine human being in my mind. These men are all intellectually behind the eight ball to varying degrees and rely heavily on staff to attend to their most personal needs.
There are moments which are transcendent and which can happen in the most mundane of situations. Meaning is where you find it.
I was washing a bottom - the most distasteful of my tasks - when it struck me that the human being standing in front of me - the village idiot in any other time or place in history - was bright enough, gracious enough, patient enough and dignified enough to allow me to perform this sometimes slow and mucky process. Life is messy. .. “life is a bucket of shit but - at least you get to keep the bucket!”
I should get out more.
If I were a tree, it would be a slow growing tree fern. Satisfyingly fat in proportion to height, they grow where they are suited but are hardy and don’t go walkabout very much. I would not be a particularly obviously ‘useful to human’ tree.
I’m not a tree. I’m me as I unfold. The only ‘right’ that cannot be taken away and that I always have, is to work on my own character. Same for all of us. I like the idea of nobility of spirit with no thought of reward. I work with women who inspire me and whose capacity to be both real and productive is profound.
What ties together the man/woman giving birth, the child molester leaving town, hatred, sexually acceptable behaviours, suicide bombers and military force, religion and politics and 'Who's the idiot?' All of this will still be here tomorrow and the least we can do is better than doing nothing.

The wind has died. Blessedly still - rest in peace - and a few degrees above freezing. Eggshell- blue and cold- pink daubs of colour splashed across a sky which holds a later promise of rain or snow. The gigantic and watery eyes of winter.
I haven’t felt at all enthusiastic about Tuesdays nights at the Imperial Hotel for the last two weeks or so. The shortest day is followed by the longest night.
‘Make a list of a few tasks that you will fulfill regardless of mood.’ Seems simple enough and quite sensible advice to be given. I’ve applied this to my music this year with some positive results.
Last Tuesday was cold and windy. I had a clown in a tow truck tail-gate me until I threw my hands up amid lots of Mediterranean and Universal gestures. It’s the one driving habit I loathe. Bully boys and macho bullshit. The moment passes and emotion subsides as he realises the error of his ways and drops back.
The road winds along the ridges across the mountains from Katoomba to Mount Victoria. The village/towns are further apart. It’s a pleasant twenty minute drive to the pub which is warm and almost empty. It pretty much stayed that way.
I’ve been practising a scale. I’ve only ever played chords so this is new territory for me. It’s an unexpected delight to find that I can strum a chord and then pick a few notes before coming back to the rhythm. I use A minor and play it over and over. It has the added benefit of giving greater clarity to my strumming generally.
I had no real idea of a song list and - inspired or not - the songs came out surprisingly well. The second set felt horrible and about twenty percent too slow. Ah well.
Back home and back to A minor.
There’s something about a minor chord and the way in which it brushes the psyche. A fierce melancholy.
Convoys of trucks protest the rising cost of fuel along a stretch of the Pacific Highway mirroring the protests in Europe and elsewhere. Unless we find alternatives we’re back to village life. That’s perhaps fine if you live in a village. A trans-gender man - born a woman - gives birth today. There’s something here that’s not quite right.... “It was a caesarean delivery” says the news broadcaster which gives me an unexpected laugh though I’m still not quite sure why. Very Monty Python.
A child molester is ‘run out of town’ in Queensland. This is serious business. The rights we enjoy as citizens are forfeited if sexual predilections are given free reign. I met the Bogeyman. Many of those I know have felt the damage of the Bogeyman. Child molesters don’t get better. The best that they can hope for is to contain their desires and learn to live with a difficult burden.
My childhood bogeyman ran a sailing club and had changed his name and moved all around the British Isles. He didn’t think he did wrong because he wasn’t ‘cruel’. Predatory sexual desire towards a child is always cruel regardless of the pretended friendliness and affection. Why? Because the effect of a moment reverberate throughout a lifetime when innocence is taken in such a manner. How so? Innocence allows for spontaneous and appropriate action. At the very least - after abuse - a hesitation takes a position, like a wall, before the surviving childhood consciousness. A wordless .... can I trust? Can I trust to anything? ‘He who hesitates is lost.’ takes on an extra layer of meaning.
My ‘take’ on my abuse had solidified by my late teens. If ever I should feel such desire then I’d certainly not act upon it. I know the reverberations and could have done without them. If I could not contain such desire then I would seek help and, if all else fails, would kill myself and take my chances with a merciful God. I’ve been fortunate enough to be boringly straight with exceptional moments and only averagely successful as a lover or a partner.
With any form of abuse the truth is that we have the choice to be chained by repeating it or to transcend by breaking the pattern. Do we really have that choice? Perhaps we don’t have control over what our desires actually are but we do have the choice of whether or not we act upon them.
Individual rights are forfeit when society is directly threatened by child molesters in exactly the same way that we would quarantine plague carriers. They can’t be ‘cured’ in the same way that a thief can ‘have a change of heart.’ If it were treated as a mental disease for which there is no cure - exactly the same situation facing many people with physical or mental ‘disability’ - then special provision could be made. This isn’t sinister, it’s a question of separation for the common good. Place them in a situation closer to a monastery than an institution. Allow for meaningful activity and prevent access to children.
It’s still still.
I would love to go back to Bali. My next holiday perhaps. I would take my guitar and stay a month if I’m just having a happy dreaming.
I would go to Ubud and branch out as it unfolds. Bali embraced me, chuckled in my ear and sent me back refreshed to my work as a cleaner/gardener at a high school on the Northern Beaches of Sydney for a whole glorious month starting on my thirtieth birthday.
The garden that I have now, with close to thirty tree ferns, is an echo of the brilliant vibrant Garden of the Gods which I experienced in Bali. Here I have star jasmine, daphne, magnolia, rhododendron, the brilliant colours of Bali are here reduced in size - in our winter depths - to daffodil, polyanthus and snowdrop.
The sadness and shocking desecration by bombings of these beautiful islands is again in the news with a foiled plot in Sumatra. Why isn’t there a Fatwa , worldwide, against such abomination, being repeated on a weekly basis for those who are hard of hearing. Why isn’t this being cried out from the towers of the Islamic world? Perhaps it is.
Back to A minor and a string of notes.

I’ve realised that I write these ‘news’ items as a sort of debriefing for myself about the moments which impact on my consciousness.
Still feeling the reverberations of a trip to the Basement last Tuesday night.
This is a big outing for one who really relates to those who feel socially inadequate, to those who’ve held such a poverty consciousness, for so long, that a coffee in a café is a novel experience - especially so as a coffee at home costs less. ‘Bang’ -in that perception I’ve lost consciousness of the reality that a coffee in a café gives an experience of life among people who are doing the ‘normal’ things of life. It’s greater than the experience of slaking a physical thirst. Life’s circumstance can dictate perception. Circumstance have changed for me - in a modest fashion - and so must my perception. By nature I’m fairly content with a solitary life. Being a performer of any description is a stretch.
I’m not socially inadequate but I do have to make an effort and this involves ‘pushing the right buttons’ within myself.
Anyway ... just talking to you over a beer.
Mark Wilkinson, for whom I have such enormous respect as a singer/songwriter of integrity that my arm hairs stood up when first I heard his music, is off to Europe for awhile and this was his farewell Sydney show.
I try not to involve family or friends in these news items partly because I’m so rude at times that I’ve probably offended a lot of people and I’ve no wish for anyone to be harmed by association with me.
It was a great show in a great venue and family and friends had a hugely enjoyable night. Mark Wilkinson was ‘there’ and ‘in the moment’ as was Brigit a Becket who is a wonderful performer in her own right and backed Mark on the grand piano.
It’s a 220 kms round trip and I’m home by 1.a.m. and - Murphy’s Law - can’t unwind until 3.30 then can’t sleep because I’m due at an early team meeting for work and the alarm’s set for 7a.m. ... ah ... etc; ... and I’m not fit company early in the day...didn’t make the meeting but had done the work needed so no great drama.
It’s 8 a.m. The fountain - which is an abstract of two bodies entwined and has the water flowing up between their arms which, in turn, lie across each other’s shoulders - is now cleaned up and bubbling beautifully .
Much to my utter joy, a family group of satin bower birds - about six in all - fly in for a wash in the basin below. To my eyes, these are the most stunning birds to look at. Camouflage green but not at all drab - they have perfect proportions. The adult male is blue/black and beautiful. Shy and flighty, they frolic for a few seconds in the basin and then hop to the edge to shake their feathers. They go back and forth in turn. They do it as if it’s fun. The window through which I watch is a few body lengths from where the fountain plays. They see me and are unafraid. Two young Eastern Rossellas - wrong spelling - never mind - fly in and perch on the fronds of the tree ferns before swooping in to sit on the heads of the entwined bodies and drink from the water. Life is divine.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U6UsG1T-Zp0

this is an interview which Scott recorded prior to the Ironfest Festival in May 2008

“ I’ve done nothing wrong.” says the politician.
“Somewhere in New South Wales, there’s a village short of an idiot.” replies another politician.
Australia is wonderful and still exotic. It’s five degrees cold in the mountains and the shortest day approaches. Grey skies lie like an crumpled eiderdown blanket above our heads and the polyanthus still flower in a counter intuitive manner. Signs of life in the snowdrops and the daffodils poking through the earth. The fountain has not frozen and, although it trickles hard and slow, the birds still bathe.
I’ve been working with an old and decrepit keyboard which I’ve kept for its one good drumbeat. Even here, it has personality and drops a beat every now and then. Recently it decided to only ‘work to rule.’ but it hasn’t indicated what rule - it just goes silent. I get ruthless. Outliving its usefulness - it’s gone, discarded and replaced. Just like a politician.
I’ve now got a Zoom drum machine/foot pedal. Very other worldly and it works well with me. It whispers ‘Bo Diddley’, ‘Jack and Jill went up that hill!’ and ‘Watcha goin t’do about it.’ When I work out how to turn it on, I expect more sweet somethings and for my rhythms to pick up. Very exciting.
In similar vein, I’ve been playing the songs at The Imperial Hotel which give me trouble precisely because they’re hard for me to play.
Ballads are relatively easy in terms of strumming.
Apart from being able to ‘look and absorb.’ in respect to duplicating but ‘much more better’, the rhythms that I’m trying to play on the songs for the next c.d., Bob Spencer is a natural teacher and realised that I’d never comprehended this useful bit of musical knowledge.

C tone D tone E semitone F tone G tone A tone B semitone C
Major, minor, minor, Major, Major, minor, minor, Major

transpose these linked elements elsewhere and perhaps you have...

D tone E toneF#semitone G tone A tone B tone C# semitoneD
Major, minor, minor, Major, Major, minor, minor, Major

and if I understand - and I’m groping for the truth - a D followed by a F#m then a Bm, C#m and D should ‘work’....... just tested it and - wonder of wonders - it does. That has implications. Thanks Bob.
Now back to village idiot. What is ‘village idiot.’? I work with the intellectually disabled and none of them are idiots. Without exception they work to the outer limits of their capacities and - within this context - they manipulate intelligently the situation in order to achieve their desired outcome. These are not the behaviours of an idiot.
Zimbabwe has an idiot for a president. ‘In the run-off for an ‘free election’ Mugabe will never let the opposition ‘traitors’ win.’ A devastated nation with a leader whose behaviour is beyond comprehension. Perhaps that’s a definition of a village idiot. Someone whose behaviour defies comprehension. Ah well ... I fit that category too. Perhaps an idiot is ‘someone who should know better.’
Hooray ... the sun comes out and takes its turn. Off to work shortly. I love Australia and the fact that we can afford to have a set of values that we can and do apply.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cSl9L3DCEis

hmmm ... good idea to put the link up.
I now do my 'salutes to the sun' a bit slower... and I'm just as irresponsibly irregular about the practice as I've pretty much always been but I'm now also a bit older and a bit creakier... and I guess I'm more motivated when I groan....so I'm walking more as well.
I've enabled a Guestbook - at Scott's suggestion - it's true that some re-visit here and it's not necessarily for the music so , if you're a 'long time reader - first time writer.' ... please feel free to be rude or otherwise. Sensible or suggestive... or if you'd like the words to a song.... or you'd like to say hello in Latvian. .... I'm all ears except for the bit that got sliced off due to pirates ...no ... it was skin cancer really. Really and truely... a bronze sun in a light blue sky can have that side effect. Life's funny.

A kangaroo waits by the side of the road. I don’t see it until the last moment. I’m not driving fast and breathe easier when it decides not to jump in front of the car. It could go either way when it comes to kangaroos - no road sense. It’s partly why I don’t drive fast on country roads.
Eleven hundred kilometre round trip. Rain, sun and the last warmth of autumn sweep over the farm in the few days I’m there. A possum fell through the roof at about six in the morning after I arrived and died almost instantly. The dogs pounce quickly. Drastic things like that happen and another young possum still lives in the roof.
I worked a bit and played a bit more and I trust I made a difference. I rested and did strange stretches trying to work out the kinks in my neck, spine and hip. One of the few good things that I’ve done for myself is to spend some time with yoga and, although a reluctant student, could never deny the value of ‘Salute to the Sun’ in my daily life. If it weren’t for my sporadic attempts to make this a daily discipline and the physical work that I happily undertake, I could easily be a couch potato and near flatline in terms of energy. As it is, I’m old enough to know that I’m starting to creak. Ahhh ... the groans and moans of continued ‘bad’ habits.
By the time I left we’d covered a lot of ground and I’ve met the newest baby in the clan. All babies are good fun and wonderful and he is no exception. Eyes focussed and taking everything in. Life goes on.
I saw a double rainbow recently - which was odd in itself - and pulled off the road to really look at a truncated double rainbow of about twenty degrees in height. The two parts were diverging and the colour band was reversed. Remarkable.
I was thinking briefly on Archie Roach on the seven hour drive back to the mountains. I haven’t heard much of his music but I love his spirit and the songs I’ve heard. He is an aboriginal songwriter who cuts to every culture’s core. I’m going to see Mark Wilkinson at the Basement in mid June before he heads off to Europe but, apart from that, I’m back to playing at The Imperial Hotel on the Songwriter Tuesday night and whatever else bubbles up.
Petrol is nudging $1.65 a litre and I’ll make fewer trips to nourish and be nourished by my friend and her family on the farm. A musical family and quite awesome individually notwithstanding the fact that everything is held together by string, chewing gum and some real goodwill and demonstrated love..... and with a darker side.
It sort of sums up the human race.
We were talking about the five senses plus intuition and that makes six...... ‘Seventh sense is humour’ say I. ‘Ooh yea ..’ says friend .. ‘ er ...what about a sense of rhythm... that’s eight.’ ‘Hmmm......yea....’ say I ‘ ...‘and there’s commonsense’ say both of us. Hmmm ... let’s get back to the senses that we all have. Seven and a bit.
Back to work tomorrow ... hi ho ..

The most delicate dance which I perform is that which attempts to deal with the closer relationships which impact upon my life. Within three days, my friend whose husband is dying within the year. The friend whose relationship of twenty five years is crumbling. The friend whose wife does not understand why the relationship which appeared fine - or at least salvageable - is now dead or has that appearance. What can I offer - a warm concerned voice on the telephone which does little more than be there. I can’t change the underlying factors which have led to the decay now apparent. Is this sufficient? Obviously not. I pruned the tree ferns today and filled the bin because I needed to move more than not needing to move. Is this what happens after decades in a relationship? A mid life crisis with profound effect.
What gives hope. Dunno. We continue to live. Some situations are so profoundly debilitating as to defy description. I play because I can and because I know ‘this will not last forever.’ Which ‘knowing’ depends upon when you find me.
I raise my glass - which genetics and rude, good, undeserved health allow me - and go to eat ... for tomorrow and today.
Three days pass and I’ll be away for a few days and will miss The Imperial Tuesday night. I’ll get to play on the farm with an amplifier and microphone and do some work and reconnect.
I’ve been reading Cathy Buckle’s ‘letter from Zimbabwe.’ which appears on rense.com and which never cease to move me. A wonderful voice to ‘read’.
My next door neighbour is a film maker and recorded my performance at Ironfest. Hopefully, it will appear - if nowhere else - on youtube.
I love ‘Whose line is it anyway.’ I cannot help but laugh wholeheartedly and marvel at the wit displayed.’ It’s playing in the background. Thanks.

‘The government of President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad has introduced legislation before the Iranian Majlis that would mandate the death penalty for apostates from Islam...’
It’s this hideous approach to matters of faith which repulses. Just because Islam, Christianity and the Jewish faiths acknowledge one God does not mean any greater similarity.
You cannot bring anyone to God by threats. Not really. It’s why the first commandment is a bit of a puzzle. It appears incompatible with free choice to command that you love God. In the larger picture, perhaps it points the way to the possibility of a real relationship with the Divine which is based on love and the ‘here and the now’ and is not based on a fear of hell nor the rewards of a heaven.. Love doesn’t come on demand or command - not in my experience anyway. As to why we must love with heart, mind and soul? We absolutely need to. We are subject to tribulation. This is part of life. The earthquake in China, the tornado in Myanmar are external catastrophes. The situation in Zimbabwe - a man made catastrophe. The Palestinian tragedy? I doubt that a God of Love wills it so. We cannot expect the hand of heaven to literally part the clouds, on a daily basis, and point the way. Free choice - as we understand it - would disappear in an instant. This is where words fall down and I leave the subject for the back burner.
What am I scared of now? I’ve almost become comfortable with playing at the Imperial Hotel. I’m fine with a small audience. There are other local venues where I could play. They scare me because they’re unknown. It’s an irrational fear but as it’s well known that public speaking scares more people than death - well I think that’s so - then you’ll catch why I feel that way. I’ll have to overcome that over the next month or so but, in the meantime, it’s still early in the morning and I must stretch and, later, practice songs, music and focus.... and find a laugh. ‘Spinal Tap’ sounds good and inspirational.

Had my first good sleep in two weeks last night. I flew back from Melbourne yesterday, having spent the previous days recording the vocals for the next ten songs. What a wonderful experience. A great deal of food for reflection.
I got tested for explosives on my way through Sydney which is fine as I don’t carry them. Perhaps my ‘beanie with a pig tail’ drew attention to myself at the airport. Thankyou. darling Margaret, for knitting this for me. It’s kept my head both warm and cool.
A curious combination of circumstance placed me in the aisle seat and in the middle of the plane, on the flight back to Sydney. Two previous flights had been cancelled which meant that our plane was full. Sitting next to me were two middle aged men. Apart from me with my wooly hat, the only other person with a head covered was an orthodox Jew sitting across the aisle from me. If you’re familiar with the lines of thought which make up my ‘news’, you’ll know my concerns which tend to revert to - primarily - the haunting situation within and without Israel. I’ve found myself needing to gain a greater appreciation of what the Jewish and Islamic faiths actually teach. I know the Christian faith and am in awe of Christ. ‘Love your enemies’ is the greatest challenge. Anyway ... I find information on the Internet which clarifies Mohammed’s ‘rules of war’. Not only do they prohibit the random murder of non- combatants thus suicide bombings are forbidden, he goes so far as to require that the crops and vegetation be protected. O.K. ...it’s paraphrasing but when I read these edicts I couldn’t help but feel that Mohammed was not a blood thirsty man. It is true that each religion has grown a shadowy, twisted and perverted branch of itself. Christianity has its share of dubious factions. What of the Jewish faith?
I glance across the aisle. Is this the perfect opportunity to turn and ask if he mind me engaging him in serious conversation.
He is also middle aged. Dressed in the familiar black skullcap, the white shirt and black waistcoat, sensible shoes, beard and prayer book. He is busy with his own business and I am tired. I resolve to question our local erudite bookshop owner, Brian, about the Talmud and I doze off.
The cabin staff bring a drink and sandwich after twenty minutes or so. Five minutes after that and my neighbour’s neighbour needs use the toilet so we all stand up at the same time and move to the aisle. Me being first out, I look back down the plane to see almost everybody look up, at the same time and with real concern in their eyes. It was only a brief moment of intelligent risk assessment by all concerned but with my wooly hat and grey beard and my other neighbour with his skullcap.... who knows what’s what in these times.
The recording process went very smoothly. Bob feels that the public performances have done wonders. He is simpatico with the songs. First step is to play the song. Then we set the tempo. It’s amazing that the ear can pick 101 beats per minute as opposed to 102 beats. Makes a big difference so we get it right. Next step, record guitar and vocal through separate microphones. This is basically to set the structure of the song. My guitar playing is not ... ummm ... well, it’s not good enough to be worth recording so Bob establishes what it is that I’m attempting to play and refines it with clarity.
The next step is the best. Put away the guitar. Stand up and sing. Use my hands and body to move and deliver the song itself. Generally we took three or four takes. It felt really good and as I’ve played and practiced with some focus this year, I didn’t do much ‘Sorry ... forgot the words’. My guitar playing improves.
It’s taken a couple of days to get this written and last night I went back to the Imperial where I had a good night as did we all. Played a baker’s dozen of songs and enjoyed other original music. Back next week.

I get my news by searching out information on the issues which affect us all. For events in my own back yard, I look to local T.V. They could be different worlds. It’s cold and I’m trying to shake a depressed state.
I’ve just spent a useful five hours at a training seminar on ‘meaningful activity’ as this pertains to working with people with a disability - more directed towards intellectual disability but not restricted.
Most of our staff understand that, while we could do most of the tasks in the Group Home far more quickly and efficiently by not involving our clients, this approach misses the point. To paraphrase ... give a client a cup of tea and perhaps you slake his thirst. Enable him to take part in the process and the thirst for self worth, independence, interaction, constructive movement, meaningful activity is also nourished. Be patient and perhaps the client can make you a cuppa. There are many small steps along the way. Meaningful activity ... now there’s a ‘call to arms’.
I don’t give a stuff about the Rothschilds and their kin. I loath a system which makes a virtue of playing monopoly with the wealth of nations. I recoil from ...ahhh ..take a break, draw a breath, walk about, cup of coffee.....................................................................................................
I was directed to a page on the Internet - Maslow’s principles of Self Actualisation - I hope there’s no problem in ‘copy and paste’ - it’s just to give the idea.
quote:
Maslow studied healthy people who had the "full use and exploitation of talents, capacities, potentialities, etc.."

“Maslow's Basic Principles:
The normal personality is characterized by unity, integration, consistency, and coherence. Organization is the natural state, and disorganization is pathological.
The organism can be analyzed by differentiating its parts, but no part can be studied in isolation. The whole functions according to laws that cannot be found in the parts.
The organism has one sovereign drive, that of self-actualization. People strive continuously to realize their inherent potential by whatever avenues are open to them.
The influence of the external environment on normal development is minimal. The organism's potential, if allowed to unfold by an appropriate environment, will produce a healthy, integrated personality.
The comprehensive study of one person is more useful than the extensive investigation, in many people, of an isolated psychological function.
The salvation of the human being is not to be found in either behaviorism or in psychoanalysis, (which deals with only the darker, meaner half of the individual). We must deal with the questions of value, individuality, consciousness, purpose, ethics and the higher reaches of human nature.
Man is basically good not evil.
Psychopathology generally results from the denial, frustration or twisting of our essential nature.
Therapy of any sort, is a means of restoring a person to the path of self-actualization and development along the lines dictated by their inner nature.
When the four basic needs have been satisfied, the growth need or self-actualization need arises: A new discontent and restlessness will develop unless the individual is doing what he individually is fitted for. A musician must make music, an artist must paint, a poet must write--in short, what people can be they must be.
end quote.


I’m trying to follow the common thread through this line of thought. My work - by which I pay my way - is with the disabled. After awhile you see the common humanity and work with what you have. It’s almost a truism that staff generally have more behavioural problems than clients and, in that respect, we are all disabled to some degree.
The following is, perhaps, the key.
“The organism has one sovereign drive, that of self-actualization. People strive continuously to realize their inherent potential by whatever avenues are open to them.”
This is what I see in the behaviour of my clients. This is what I see in my own behaviour. This is what I see in everybody notwithstanding the ‘garden of limitation’ in which all of us live. The difference is in the options which are open to us. That’s part of the depressed state I feel. What ‘meaningful activity’ is open to much of mankind in these dislocated times. Hmm ... I may be feeling better now.
I’ll practice songs after this and I start recording next week.

The weather was kind - relative to two weeks of rain - cool but dry. I didn’t get to see Ironfest itself. The main festival was away from the Plaza in Lithgow which was where a small roofed stage had been erected. It’s a pretty spot in which to play.
Pennie and Bruno from ‘My Hearts Dezire’ organised the music in the Plaza. Three days of 10am ‘til 4pm with the first day starting at midday in deference to the Anzac Day activities. The musicians were drawn from the mountains and beyond.
For me this is a ‘flutters in the stomach just thinking about it’ experience which is, fortunately, tempered by a ‘just another step along the way’ underlay. I’ve prepared my songs and played at the Imperial Hotel songwriter nights for weeks. I’ve moved from sitting down to standing up. I can almost hold a plectrum gently. I’m still a novice guitar player but I’ve realised that this need not hold me back and that ‘truth in expression’ is more important. Anyway and either way, performance has to improve and the moment does require a certain courage.
The first two days I played a half hour set - the third day was an hour. On the last day, the cold front moved through as I was playing ‘Fall to Grace’ and started to blow the roof of the stage. Drummer and guitarist stop playing to rescue the thing while I continue, almost oblivious, but with grim determination to continue playing the bar chords which give me trouble - I wasn’t going to start again!
This is a highly personalised report which hasn’t painted the scene of pennants fluttering, medieval costume, Lords and Ladies, jousting and merriment. I’d love to have seen all that. I did see musicians rise to the occasion. We did have some ‘flags a flying’, some market stalls and some great performances. We also had the Tanya Hineman Bellydancers who ranged from childhood up and who had me in awe over their capacity to endure cold and perform well.
I had some lovely feedback on the second day which really meant something as I tried to understand why I’d got verses back to front in songs that I know back to front.
The sense of camaraderie and real connection which this experience engendered in me has got something to do with being in the moment. That’s got to be a good thing.