Saucepan Bach: News

The things that do drive us. There’s something about the Chinese idea of ten year cycles..... the idea that situations re-occur many times within a lifetime and that - if we could just grasp the essence of what we learned in our twenties and could manifested that extra dimension within the re-occurring situations we face within our thirties - that we would truly grow....decade by decade

Instead of reaching sixty by repeating the years twenty onwards - in one year steps without changing - without learning anything constructive, we, instead, spiral out with each decade displacing what was useless with what ... works.

The heart of this lies in attuning oneself with ‘The Way of Heaven.’ - and this, in turn, brings me back to paedophilia and the harm that that practice can bring.

To be in tune with ‘heaven’ implies ‘Do no harm’ as a guiding precept. Easier said than done.

Sexuality has to be the most potent of forces - the most mis-understood of desires from which - the lack of - does not make us die - but may as well for the scars it leaves.

There was a time when conditions within the ashram that I attended mirrored, faintly, my own circumstance.

The local head of the ashram was handsome, virile, charming and astute. He was also the recipient of masses of nubile female desire - much of it not ‘spiritual’ as most might understand the term.

He ‘fell from grace’ and died in jail. Disgraced in the eyes of many, I felt more than a twinge of understanding. How many of us are ever faced with being placed within a situation where temptation is everywhere and there is so much opportunity to abuse power. Particularly true if no coercion need be applied.

Why the problem with depraved priests, with networks of child pornography, with the Islamic - somewhat poorly thought out - notion of hiding the female form? The hideous practice of genital mutilation

Desire forms within us regardless of convention, and, perhaps, we cannot help what drives us. We do, however, have the choice on whether to act on those desires.

That’s the point.

How noble a life is possible by denying those desires which do obvious harm. No ‘reward’ .......which makes it even better.

If you’ve never been a junkie then you have no idea of what is involved in losing an addiction. You get no ‘divine credit’ for never having been a junkie. Why should you get credit for something for which you had no desire?

Spring comes softly bearing gifts of warmth and longer days. The Magnolia starts to flower its creamy, dreamy glory and bunches of daffodils flourish within the Tree fern beds

The Clarendon’s singer songwriter night went well with ‘Medicine Woman’, ‘So Happy Birthday’ and ‘Hick it up.’ being my offering. I really enjoy playing with ‘Wild Man Bru’ from ‘My Hearts Dezire’ and I’m very happy to have him agree to play with me at the Darling Harbour Songwriter day in November.

Meanwhile, I don’t give a stuff about playing my songs but am making progress with turning scales into blues...... a very much pale blue but there’s a glimmer of darkness approaching. Wonder if that's also a silver lining.

Yoo hoo and off to transplant a tree-fern.

At ten thousand hours of practice to become a master of anything, it’s ten hours a day for about three years. Put like that, it’s quite a big deal.

I’m as clumsy as hell but Griff Hamlin’s backing track to his ‘4 note blues’ works a treat with each of the blues patterns. What a joy to just play notes which are harmonic.

I did suggest to nine year old grandson, a year ago, that he and I are both at an age where - if our interest is engaged - that we can both devote large amounts of time to music. Somehow, for me, it’s a question of ‘What else am I doing that is of greater importance ?’ now that family responsibilities are not so immediate. That makes it sound like it’s been ‘sacrifice’ and ‘put on hold’ where the truth lies closer to having the space and time to do almost anything which requires no money.

I have no partner. I have limited interests. Grandson is - by age definition - engaged in countless activities.

The Magnolia buds are swelling as Spring approaches. Today was glorious. Still and warm. A world away from counties swamped with flood waters, swamped with war, debt or collapse. I practised my scales and found Irish jig sort of patterns.

Israel builds ‘settlements’ overlooking the concentration camps in which the Palestinians suffer and wonder why they - Israel - are seen worldwide as utterly untrustworthy.

America fights a nonsense war with real casualties in the twin names of both terror and democracy and we, in Australia, have been dragged into a lie from which we cannot extricate ourselves as our leaders are incapable of admitting mistake.

Meanwhile the Federal Reserve - a private concern - continues to print money and charge interest to the government which gave away the obvious right of any country to control the issue of its currency.
It’s a mind boggling world.

Off to do a night shift. Work is undergoing radical changes, none of which look promising however I’ve got ten weeks leave on the horizon.

I trust that I’ll play as much as possible and, thus, enter my sixties on a promising note.

Temperature hovers between zero and ten and if hell is hot, this must be heaven. Enough of complaint. I can take five days break and head north.

The cream and crimson Magnolia, living in the front garden, is heavy with bud but running three weeks late with flower. Spring is near but, as yet, no warmth in the wind.

I take guitars. My Godson - who has had a deeply troubled life - bounds into the farm an hour after my arrival - bottle of scotch in hand and prepared to share a drink.

I’m wary of drink. Hmm... wary of drinkers is closer to the truth. We share a drink and I’m struck by how much ‘lighter’ he appears. Great recent trauma has revealed that he was sexually abused as a child.

The unburdening has lifted a weight of such magnitude that the prism of intense inner conflict through which he has interacted with the rest of humanity is almost - dissipated.

I was sexually abused and too many of the few I know have suffered similar fate.

I’m sure that there are paedophiles out there who kid themselves that this behaviour is of little harm. It is a hideous lie to pretend that an adult child relationship - however dressed up with overtones of friendliness - can have a sexual content. It is the adult that has the ulterior motive. It is the adult who manipulates.

Godson and I don’t discuss fine detail. It’s enough to know - for the moment - that we both know. We play some music and the practice of blues scales that I’ve been working on pays dividends inasmuch as we don’t have to play songs - just music. Very liberating even amidst the stumbles. I get shown a walking blues which is a stretch for the fingers but very cool.

I’m back home and been a few days back to work. It’s cold but daffodils bloom. Hyacinths smell gorgeous and I’m off to work out what to play tonight at the Clarendon’s singer/songwriter night.

I haven’t played much in the way of songs since my last performance....... echoes of my Roman Catholic childhood and confession.

So Hell’s hot - Heaven’s cool. Perhaps Purgatory is just pleasantly warm. Must be Paradise.

POSTSCIPT: The Clarendon is NEXT tuesday. sO....to the club, next door, for dinner and home to the Simpsons. Perfection in winter.

First few days of August and the yearly month of westerly winds sweeps in bringing black ice, pink and pearl grey skies and a bleak reminder that Spring is still a month away.

The daffodils don’t give a damn about such fripperies and they flower regardless. There’s something cheerfully counter intuitive about flowers blooming in winter. A reminder that growth continues underground when conditions are indifferent above.

Played at the Clarendon last Tuesday without anything in mind apart from ‘Nota Bene’. A very cool side benefit of playing and practising blues scales, for the last few months, is that my chords are now clearer - more precise. This makes huge difference to both my degree of comfort on stage and my ability to leave space for Bruno to drop in his sweet lead guitar. We followed it up with ‘Volcano burning’ and ‘Hick it up.’ Went down well.

The phone rings. It’s my friend whose son is on his way to court. Life can be a hell of a struggle when you’re ‘young, dumb and full of cum.’ From a distance, I can only offer ‘Remain as calm as you can.’
We’ll talk later.

If I allow my eyes to go soft focus across the garden beds then the groups of Tree Ferns - with the sugar cane mulch gone cream/grey over winter - become tiny tropical islands surrounded by sand. At the moment I can only dream of sweating through the humidity.

Back to blues scales and small groups of notes. It’s not that I’ve become a fluid musician but more that I’m taking delight in the process of becoming one. Of course it will take years - so what.

Huge thanks to Griff Hamlin of www.bluesguitarunleashed.com who inspired this interest with his video showing how to play blues with four notes - five if you include a bent note. The video is still there and is worth watching whether you’re a musician or not.

Looks like snow and my fingers are cold...... well ...... blow me down! A few flecks of snow drop on cue.

How many elephants can you fit into a room before they become noticeable? When do the Emperor’s new clothes reveal themselves a magician’s trick? If you don’t see the elephants you will be trampled...... the Emperor remains as invisible as his clothes.

Sick in body, sick in heart and madness beckons. How I feel is reflected within society and the world body itself.

The first of the daffodils have flowered through the recent frost and clusters of promise are pushing up through the soil. Amid the devastation wrought by frost - the burnt and damaged foliage - new growth. Thankfully there are forces not within the control of man.

I pick up the guitar again......an absence of months. Back to blues scales and ‘over and over’. If ten thousand hours of practice make a musician then I haven’t reached the first hundred so it’s just as well that it isn’t a race and there’s no competition.

‘Have faith.’ echoes in my mind. ‘Faith in what?’ echoes back.

A moment of fierce joy. Don't know why.... no reason required.

If you didn’t care about such niceties as ‘goodwill to all’ and you had the power and resources to treat the world and its inhabitants as your play-thing, you could write your script and rely on the greed, ignorance and self interest of much of humanity to carry out your wishes. No great fault levelled at humanity. If you don’t know that you’re ignorant then there’s not much fault involved.

Chinese ‘lore’ suggests that it’s perhaps ‘wise’ in matters of Empire to kill the leaders of a revolt but to spare the followers. The premise being that the leaders of a revolt aren’t ignorant and, either way, present an unacceptable danger precisely because they are leaders. The followers have been led astray and made ‘mistakes’. They will be very grateful to escape death and see it as an act of mercy rather than a weakness shown by ‘the powers that be.’

‘A hard rain’s gonna fall’ and ‘You don’t know what’s going on - do you - Mr Jones?’ rise from subterranean memory along with the memory of my own unease, all those years ago, as I felt too close a kinship with Bob Dylan’s ‘Mr Jones.’

Ignorance isn’t bliss for any length of time. Applied to personal life it invites disaster from both within and without because you cannot be prepared, mentally or otherwise, without some knowledge of prevailing conditions.

A hard rain is falling across the Gulf of Mexico and the failing purity of that water corrupts growth and withers the vegetation across the land. ‘Whose land? Which land?

Take your pick.

Donkey’s years ago, I vividly remember driving a cab across Sydney Harbour bridge with a passenger who, in the course of conversation remarked that he really didn’t give a fuck about the world and that he’d be long dead before the shit hit the fan. A ‘well-heeled professional gent.’ Perhaps he had no family, no future generations with whose fate he need be concerned. It caused the conversation to falter which, in retrospect, may have been his sole intention.

In what can you trust when words lose their meaning.

Can you really apply the word love to things? I love the World Cup Soccer Games. The transient unity which it inspires - inspires me. I’m not by nature cynical, not even sceptical in my approach to life. I am easily moved and, like most of us, am uplifted by witnessing excellence in action.

This isn’t the bread and circuses of ancient times though those who rule the Empire may see it thus. Blood isn’t shed and the players aren’t usually threatened with death at a World Cup match. It’s the perpetual war on ‘terror’ and ongoing natural and manmade disasters which are the real circuses of our time.

The idea that there is an agenda in place leading towards ‘One World Government’ isn’t the stuff of conspiracy. Globalization - ultimately, the process of relinquishing all sovereignty and national independence - and the idea that bankers and corporations are ideally suited to ruling the world is the nightmare future manifesting now. I suppose a one world government might well be asked for by the peoples of the world if prevailing conditions become unbearable. Hmm.....that’s right this moment for many.

I don’t know that buying an extra bag of rice or putting in a rain water tank is going to help very much but unlike the passenger of long ago, it ALL matters to me and for those of us who feel human connection.

So where’s the light, bright spark? Where it’s always been. Here, there and everywhere.

‘This’ isn’t all there is.

And while I’m blithely ignorant of any specifics, it’s ‘Hooray’ for the existence of the rest of ‘it’!

The change of seasons has brought thick frosts which burn the tender plants notwithstanding the protection of mesh. They will survive but look sick. The Canna lilies - which are very robust - have shrunk and turned brown under the frost onslaught. They too will survive.

I’ve been sick with a long lasting cold which has hit most of my co-workers. We’ll probably all survive and meanwhile the Gulf of Mexico pours oil on troubled waters, dying food chains and the land itself. If the methane contained within the undersea chamber - all at a pressure of 100,000 pounds per square inch - were to explode through the existing well - designed to withstand all of 2000 pounds per square inch - we have a dreadful scenario which will impact the whole of the world. This information isn’t hard to find but doesn’t make our local news except with superficial comment.

Then to Greece, Spain, Italy and as their economies crumple and the effects ripple across Europe, now is not a good time to be a tourist.

While sick I watched a program about Krakatoa. Again a dreadful disaster building through the ‘Son of Krakatoa’ which started rising from the sea in 1930. This isn’t an ordinary volcano ( if there be such a thing ). The ring of fire which marks the boundary at which the north moving Australian tectonic plate dips under the tectonic plate on which Indonesia sits, has a kink - a v-shaped distortion which lies beneath ‘Son of Krakatoa’. This is becoming, again, a gigantic volcano fed by molten rock from two tectonic plates and already belching and rumbling for all to see.

Enough of disaster. I now have a rain water tank and a light drizzle sends a quiet trickle off the roof ...yippee. The Daffodils, Hyacinth and unknown bulbs are already showing new life notwithstanding the frosts. The slow growing tree-ferns are tough and appear unconcerned and unmarked. The fast growing variety are browned off but o.k. There’s something valuable about slow and steady growth.

Music has been far from my life for awhile but as we’re past the shortest day I expect my interest to pick up - just because the processes of growth which apply to nature apply to me in equal measure. There’s hope for all of us and it’s just as it ever was - no certainty.

Frost lies sparkling thick this early morning. Not long ‘til the shortest day - the longest night - and then the gradual return of the forces of warmth and light. Here in the mountains the weather itself often runs six weeks behind the returning warmth. The biting winds from the Southern Ocean are still a month away. Here, the seasons are more clearly defined than on the coastal plain. The newly planted Tibouchina are sheltered by shadecloth and pairs of unused flyscreens, gaffered taped together into small tent shapes.

Planting into environments which aren’t entirely suitable doesn’t indicate either disaster or stunted growth. A little help with micro climates isn’t difficult to achieve within a garden and my existing Tibouchina buds and blooms late but it flowers and showers its gorgeous purple regardless of whether or not it should.

No different fate for much of humanity. Uprooted and moved. Survival a matter of prevailing conditions, appropriate care and resilience - inner strength.

I love these parallels between the garden and the personal life. It’s not that I can so easily translate the lessons learnt into a wider life but that there’s consolation in the recognition that retreat and advance are both ‘suitable’ if that is what the prevailing conditions dictate. I am nature and can’t help but be as restrained or otherwise as the internal and external forces allow.

The frost has melted where the sun is bright. The shadows burn with white on green.

I dug up a few errant Canna lilies - bright yellow in colour and too lovely to lose - and replanted them into two large blue glazed pots. Even amongst the family of colours which Canna lilies display, there are colours which multiply faster than their brethren. Orange flowers atop bronze green leaves - I have a large clump of this type in the ‘wrong’ place. Only ‘wrong’ because everything competes for water and these Canna’s would drink more than their share. The great majority of my Canna’s sprawl across a circular bed with a concrete border which - thus far - has contained them in splendid isolation.

This errant clump of Orange Canna’s has to disappear as does an even larger clump of Agapanthus. Funny thing ... one man’s problem is another man’s solution ...... ‘Ooh - Agapanthus - can I have some?’ asks a co-worker last night.’I’ve got a place in which they’ll be on their own and up against a fence.’

‘If you’re sure.’ say I and am left wondering if a problem only becomes a problem when it’s noticed and named as such.

There’s something about the Zeitgeist of our times which is causing people to stop and re-assess that which they have held to be important. Either that or it’s just me and those closest to me. After all, it’s well understood what a pain in the arse a recent convert is to ANYTHING that they now believe in.

Consumerism isn’t dead but it is becoming a dead end for many. Onward and upward isn’t any more sustainable than the cod which no longer breed, the bees sent senseless by microwave pollution and the underlying unease which most of us feel. It has implications.

Don’t think I’ll holiday in Greece this year. It’s twenty two years or more since I took a holiday which really took me to physical ‘foreign lands’. It was pre- terrorism and now - even with a grudging acknowledgement that tourism is useful - life is harder, less innocent, less welcoming.

I went on holiday for a month - from working as a cleaner with barely enough money to buy a pair of shoes to playing chess in a Royal Courtyard room within a palace in Bali. What a wondrous transformation life can bring.

I have been putting my house in order in every respect and yet.... it hasn’t been enough. I’ve missed something of what has been important and that something has crashed into my life as the Iceberg did to the Titanic.

The depth of a relationship which one holds sacrosanct. You’d want to find that within the family. The mistakes that we saw so clearly within the way in which we were brought up and swore we’d never duplicate within the framework of our own family give us the choice....break the chains and forge new links or bow to unquestioned ‘tradition.’

Missing the moment and the relative importance of it has occupied my mind for a concentrated period of time - most of which has been spent carrying out creative and needed hard but wonderful work.

What conclusion? It’s the work which has to done according to the demands of the time which matters. Bruised feelings can be repaired. To a drowning man every moment matters but to most of us ‘missing the moment’.....hmm..... yes it matters but getting the point and rising to the occasion is the enduring legacy.

I’m nearly sixty ... and even writing that feels humourous as I wonder what I’ll be when I grow up.

The bruised feelings? If sincere rapport is to be re-established then that’s part of the creative work.

That’s what I’ve been working on recently and no guitar involved.

The last time I played was two weeks ago at the Clarendon songwriter night. I hadn’t intended to play and only put the guitar in the car because I’m a left handed guitarist and - if I’m needed - I can’t rely upon being able to borrow a guitar.

Pennie and Bruno, of ‘My Hearts Dezire’ have put in the blood sweat and tears to make these songwriter nights available to all who wish to play. It’s often an indifferent world and there are nights where it’s so quiet that we’ve all played twice. No problem with that so I rearranged my brain and went back to the guitar in the car when - having suggested to Pennie that I’d come to be a supportive audience rather than play - Pennie responded with “You’re on next.”

Bruno played his set as I tuned up and then stayed onstage for my three songs. Dunno ... performance isn’t necessarily related to ones frame of mind. You know you’re in the moment when your hair stands up and your skin goes electric.....hmm...either it WAS good or I need to stay away from dodgy electrical leads.

The rain has poured and all the critical autumn work has been done within the garden. The haircut which I gave to twenty or so Tree-ferns six weeks ago has encouraged the late summer growth to unfurl smoothly.

Even though we’ve had good summer rains the garden beds were bone dry to below a spade’s depth. It’s easy to forget that we’ve been in drought for years so I’m grateful for the rain - we need a great deal more.

Feeling more grey than blue. Undoubtably that will pass too.

Some youtube videos from Ironfest 2010 which have curiosity value if nothing else.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qtojK1Rl6E4
The rain pours down after fifteen days of dawn ‘til dusk labour. Hopefully it blesses the work I’ve done..... I feel like the old geezer from ‘The Life of Brian’ who chides the Roman soldiers with ‘My teeth are gnarled, my bones are grey, my hair is old and dim.’

Bah humbug....but....wot a luvely day

There’s a brief time of quiet exaltation as dusk gives way to dark. The trees lose their individuality and become a communion of silhouettes.

Venus appears low in the western sky. That brilliant point of light reflecting sun from the boiling clouds which make up the atmosphere of that wandering planet.

Months ago I realised that the far border of the garden needed serious work. Fifty years ago and the long borders reaching to the back of gardens were fenced with corrugated iron and it was then common practice to embed the sheets of iron perhaps a spade’s depth into the soil. This was done mainly to stop rabbits and native life from burrowing into the garden but also kept most invasive plants and weeds at bay. The back border doesn’t have that deep protection and ‘Ground Sorel’ - a very difficult weed to eradicate - has rampaged through the far beds.

Sixty bags of concrete mix later and the border is in place. The soil has been sieved, my hands are recovering and I’ve made perfect use of a week of late autumn weather. It’s cold to frost first thing in the morning and the weather wont hold for much longer. It’ll be biting and downright unpleasant for much more outdoor work.... shortly.

Although my shoulders hurt and I’ve discovered ‘tennis elbow’, the major gardening works into which I’ve put my energy over the last month will last and the ongoing transformation of the quarter acre block continues to delight.

I’m a lucky sod to be able to mix concrete even if it is at two bags a time however my body is aging and it lets me know.

So much time can go into a garden that the pure enjoyment of just sitting, just being in it is neglected in favour of needed activity.

A glass of wine at the twilight time has helped extend the exaltation of this particular week’s labour. I love it....not just the exaltation or the wine but the whole process of being - quite literally - in the garden.

I’ve been watching some of my filmed performance at Ironfest. It’s not dynamic. My voice and breathing show forty years of smoking. Anyway, when I get some clips which don’t take 1093 minutes to upload to youtube ( too much high definition I believe)..... I’ll upload the few unrecorded songs I played. Meanwhile.... I’d just as soon leave performing and stick to writing the odd song and ‘getting better’ with guitar.

I’ll play at the songwriter night at the Clarendon this week regardless.

It’s so still, this early morning, that the only visible movement comes from a camouflage green Satin Bower bird which hops about - in a jaunty manner - beneath the fronds of the Tree Ferns.

It’s cooler by five degrees than two days ago and a blanket of light grey cloud covers the sky. Yesterday, at Ironfest, was perfect. Warm sun, clear skies and no wind. Shorts and tee-shirts mingled with the rich robes of the medievally dressed women. The belly dancers shook their bodies and a couple of people dressed as giant kangaroos bounced about - as did my eyes.

Having happily played through a minor baptism of fire due to the ‘Battle of Lithgow’ coinciding with my set of songs the previous day, I felt fine and decided that standing up to play isn’t, as yet, the clearest and cleanest way that I play guitar. This isn’t a consideration of a songwriter but makes a bit of a difference in terms of performance and so I’ve pushed myself over the last year to ‘stand and deliver’. It’s a bit of a shame that the sit down performance wasn’t filmed. Notwithstanding changing the strings four days ago, the B string broke half way through the first song. This is not the type of problem that I’m good at solving in efficient manner.

Wild Man Bru suggests that I talk to the audience while he changes the string but, as I have little to say, I pick up a blues harp instead. I enjoy playing the harp but I’ve played what I can within minutes - a train rhythm and a lovely melody called ‘Blisters’ which might have originally been a ‘Sly and the Family Stone’ number.

String changed, guitar in tune and the set ran smoothly with more room given for Bru to place his notes. Ultimately I had more fun and was much more ‘in the moment’ so ‘sitting down to play’ is back....unless I feel otherwise.

Johnny Huckle played after me on both days. I bought one of his cds for my neighbour’s young children. He’s remarkable. A white Aborigine, about five foot high, who has a voice, a rhythm and a power about him. He also radiates a deep love for mankind and is doing with his life what his ancestors have revealed to him.......or that was my impression after hearing him talk and seeing him perform over two days.

Ironfest is a success but could use a few thousand more patrons. The showgrounds are large and there’s everything from wood chopping to art exhibits and from medieval jousting to colonial battles in which large crowds can disappear.

The songwriter night at the Clarendon is back tonight and then .... another week of holiday in which I’ll spend some time in the garden and get back to blues scales. It’s a delight to be able to place three or four notes between chords which is what I’m now starting to find.

Treasures are everywhere.

Anzac Day (Australian and New Zealand Army Corps) is held on 25th April each year. It’s a day of remembrance - a sombre and very moving occasion. It’s a day which remembers those who died and thus ‘never grow old’ and who did this so that we may enjoy the liberties that we normally take for granted. Although tears are shed, the day itself unfolds as a festive time which is perhaps why there is no conflict between dawn services, football matches and the odd festival. As Anzac day doesn’t glorify war it’s great to see both the very young and the extremely old at dawn services across the country. At the risk of derisive laughter, I think that the day does foster unity at a time in history in which not much else does.

This is the third year in which I’ve played at Ironfest which coincides with the Anzac Day weekend. Anzac Day also appears to herald the first blasts of winter and this year, while milder, is no exception.

Thirteen songs played within a yellow and white striped, small circus tent to an audience of ... three.... and later more. My performance coincided with ‘The Battle of Lithgow’ which is huge fun and involves soldiers with muskets and swathes of cannon blasting off every few seconds. The whole event takes place within cooee of the tent and added enormously to the rhythm. The whole thing was filmed so I’ll put it on youtube when it’s available .....assuming the performance was o.k.

Ironfest is primarily a celebration of pageantry. There’s something wonderful about pennants fluttering in the breeze........ it was a howling gale last year.

Jousting, medieval knights in armour, tents, stalls, belly dancing, colonial soldiers and comely maids, blacksmiths - the music is secondary to the events but plays its part in three different locations.

Wild Man Bru played lead guitar to the songs which he does ‘on the wing’ to great effect whenever we play. If there be an obvious area in which I can improve it’s in the ‘taking of the moment’ rather than being ‘driven by the moment’. I’m not so easy about performing that I don’t carry that nervous energy which can manifest as playing the first three songs of the set slightly faster than is usual. I’ll play again tomorrow and it’s all very good just in the doing of it - regardless.

I’ve spent considerable time and energy, over the last week, in making a twenty foot Cotoneaster tree disappear. I’m left with a waist high stump of six limbs for which I’ll find a ‘stump grinder’ bloke. He can also take out the remnants of an unknown shrub which is at least as old as the house and the corrugated iron fence which was cut to accommodate the ‘shrub’ fifty years ago. I’ve sieved the soil with my hands to remove most of the root system and intend to plant a Tibouchina
in that spot. The incredible radiant purple flower of the Tibouchina, against an easternly facing sheltered fence, will hit the eyes with gorgeous......

Katoomba is high enough to suffer frosts which many plants just can’t tolerate. I tried to grow a Jacaranda over a period of seven years and it never got higher than my knee before being king hit by a frost. Tibouchinas are much the same but I have managed to get two growing and flowering albeit much later than most.

Purple and buttercup yellow touch my eyes as I sit in the garden - where the Tibouchina will be - and enjoy the ‘lines of sight’. Emerald green Tree ferns guide the scene. Deep pink Camelia, delicate white and pale yellow Camelia, a mauve Rhododendron flower six months out of season, the reds and yellows of the man high Canna lilies. It’s an enduring joy to help create a landscape which changes with the seasons. The first green shoots of the coming of the daffodils are already appearing and the disappearance of the Cotoneaster helps everything which was being shaded into oblivion.

King parrots, green and crimson, Rosellas, red and blue, magpies and satin bower birds feed on the small amount of seed that I put out a few times weekly. It doesn’t take long before the local gang of white, sulphur crested cockatoos breeze in and slouch about ‘looking for trouble.’...... if you’re not familiar with the bird just imagine a group of muscled up, white bantam chickens with yellow mohican haircuts which move at will. They’ll sit on a branch and casually break off a piece and chew it just as humans do with blades of grass. They are the NoGoodBoyo’s of the bird world and have a severe attitude problem .....mainly with those who have wooden houses.

I went away for a week of northern warmth. Shirt off, on the veranda, under the shade of the Frangipani tree. Work, sweat, communication and music. It’s a good mixture. Now that I’m back I’ll continue the autumn cutting, pruning and shaping before the cold sets in.

‘Lest we forget.’

Two unusual events to brighten the day. Both required the stepping out of the comfort zone.

The first was a BBQ held in our street. Not unusual in other parts of the world but a bit scarce in my experience. I met the neighbours from the end of our cul de sac - a much more poetic way of saying ‘dead end street.’

Even though the BBQ was at short notice, we had a fair sprinkling of neighbours and it was a delight to be there. It also gave me an opportunity to play guitar in the street in the hours leading up to lunch. That - in itself - required a certain courage. It was short notice because the weather gets cooler by the day. We’ll have another event closer to Christmas which is generally quite hot here, in Australia.

The second event was yesterday - my last day of work for a month. My sister - a nun - invited me to drop in to the convent for lunch prior to my shift. My sister is an unusual nun. A yoga teacher and an all round, open minded woman who comes to see me play when time allows. She is both a joy and an inspiration.

There are novices from ‘the South Seas’ at the convent and I had it in my mind to play my south sea island song for them if the conditions allowed. I’m still not a natural performer nor can I hide behind great guitar technique so to play would, again, require moving out of my comfort zone.

I left the guitar in the car and entered a hall in which a score of nuns were just starting an Easter lunch. A bright and cheerful atmosphere, an excellent meal and lots of introductions. Towards the end of the meal the conversation moved to music and, with the encouragement of the group at my table, I went and retrieved the guitar. I no longer get terrified at the thought of performing by using the simple aid of not thinking about it and then moving from moment to moment which, of course, requires putting one foot forward and then the other.
It’s the best ‘gig’ that I’ve played. Three songs later and I head off to work feeling energised and encouraged.

I usually take my guitar to work although I’ve been so ‘snowed under’ recently that I often don’t have the time nor the energy to play. Two of the ‘clients’ - what a horrible word that is - quite like my stuff and were keen on a few songs. The bloke for whom I’m a key worker and who is classified as non verbal gave me a chuckle when I asked him what he’d like to hear........ “You gotta move”, “ Knocking on heavens door”, “Waltzing Matilda” “Happy Birthday” and “Pain and Sorrow,” came tumbling from his lips.

Played them all except ‘Pain and Sorrow’ which is one of my songs for which I’d forgotten both the chords and the words.

I’m now officially on holiday and will head north tomorrow.

There are a few isolated pubs in the general area in which I’ll be travelling. I hope to play there - not for money - just adventure.

that could be my epitaph but it's to do with the blog page that I've only just realised exists here.

please feel free

..... http://english.aljazeera.net/programmes/empire/2009/12/2009122284925717630.html

What are ‘voices in the head’? What is the difference, if any, between the voices that schizophrenics might hear and the voices of internal dialogue? Just exploring.

I have a friend who died awhile back. A sane and fairly rational woman whose self esteem was so low that when she assured me that she hears voices - invariably harsh in tone - condemning just about everything that she did, I had no trouble believing her.

Were they external? She didn’t think so. Were they real? Of course. Were they the product of her own mind? Probably.

I have another friend who is a nurse working with mental illness. The idea that the voices heard by patients is from an external source is not embraced but it’s also not completely dismissed.

Other realms, other dimensions. Most of us have no problem accepting that possibility.

Another friend puts his voices down to the devil or demons. While I can understand that point of view, it places us in a position where “The Devil made me do it.” can become both a reason and an excuse for not taking responsibility for our own actions.

Then there is the ego. An unavoidable bit of baggage which is acquired early but, hopefully, disposed of before life’s end.

In the same way in which self awareness develops gradually perhaps the iron grip of the ego, which is very capable of speaking internally, can be diminished.

Driven by ego. Egocentric, self absorbed and discontent. We know people who fit that description just as we know a few who have avoided that trap and have profound effect on others.

“Why did I say that?” was a question that I often asked myself as a teenager when I’d embarrassed myself.

Years later and I used the same question but as a tool - as an aid to self awareness. This helps when being a witness to our own activities.

As a teenager the question was invariably asked with much emotion whereas, in the later situation, there is no criticism, no great emotion but there is a questioning of motive.

All of us have some incident, some moment within our lives which challenges our sense of “Is that all there is?” or, rather, “This is all there is.”

One of my incidents - which I feel free to share - was the moment in which I realised that there is ‘a witness’ within the mind, body, awareness, personality and ego which makes up the creature called myself.

It’s a profound moment to experience. The witness is there - perhaps it is the soul by another name - and it never moves from witnessing.
It makes no judgement, doesn’t operate from desire and does nothing to intervene. It witnesses and the only reason that I know of its existence was due to an extraordinary situation which caused it to stir.
It has never happened since.

So the witness that I’ve mentioned is not the same as witnessing ones own behaviour.

My friend, the nurse, dropped in for a cuppa while I was gathering these thoughts and tells me that, by using probes within the brain, the area which acts as a filter to screen out unwanted ‘noise’ can be diminished or depressed to a point where a psychosis, in which voices in the head are heard, is produced. An implication drawn from this fact is that perhaps these voices are indeed external and from some other dimension of reality and that the filter is spiritual in function and keeps one dimension from impacting upon the next.

Mathematics has at least ten dimensions while we - generally speaking - potter about in three..... four if we add ‘time’.

I’ve no idea where this exploration ends. It’s a Pandora’s box but so is life itself and I don’t have anything so important to do that I can’t follow my thoughts....even if they do stop here for awhile.

The last few days of work before I take a break and head north for awhile. The godson and I will play music with some joy and I trust that we’ll be able to have some constructive communication about ‘life’. It’s not that I know what works but I do know what hasn’t worked and that, in itself, may be a useful signpost.

Played at the Family Hotel last night for the first time in weeks. Enjoyed it even though I worked up a dripping sweat trying to play the odd rhythm which goes with ‘The Festival.’

Wish I felt as glorious as the day itself but I don’t. Glanced up just in time to witness a bird fly past within a few feet of the window. It’s the small, wondrous moments which have the capacity to lift my spirits.

The day is young and full of promise. I’ll carry that thought.

“Profits aren’t everything.” says the police spokeswoman while putting the case for curtailing the open slather which has gradually crept into this society in respect to alcohol availability. The issue is alcohol fueled violence and - as is now perhaps the case within your society - it's ambulance officers, doctors and nurses as well as the police who are attacked.

I’m just approaching a resolution with a national company with whom I had real cause for complaint. First they ignored the complaint and then took offence, by phone, with the tone of my letter of complaint. Duh......they then promised some action but did nothing in the hope that I’d go away.

We have an Office of Fair Trading which took up the cause and finally the company is offering a cheque. No apology - just a bland offer of reimbursement in exchange for no further claim.

What connects these two issues is a complete absence of ethical consideration. All care and no responsibility. Lip service.

As I write this a Chinese court finds the representative of a major Australian company, Rio Tinto, guilty of bribes and .... deceit. Shock, horror and the Australian company washes its hands of responsibility, cuts adrift its representative, and cries out loudly that they are an ethical company.

My grandson watches television and sees little distinction between the commercials and the programs. Perhaps there are a few lessons there but the critical one is about the power of advertising itself and the inevitable way in which manipulation of the public into buying ‘the product’ corrupts the copywriters, the executives, the agency and the product company itself.

Kentucky Fried Chicken and Pert shampoo. Shame on you both for spreading your corrupt values into society as a whole.

Pert shampoo .... picture this ..... luscious young female teenager in the shower, all wet and glistening, and in the process of emptying the given shampoo down the drain.
“Mum ....we’re out of shampoo...... can you get Pert next time.”

Was I the only person who instantly saw that this commercial condones dishonesty and waste and encourages manipulative behaviour?

Fuck you - Pert shampoo. Fuck your managing director who compromised his values by passing this crap off as responsible advertising.

Kentucky Fried?..... that’s a beauty. Elderly woman in some distress wandering through a park looking for her dog. She comes across a family group eating their takeaway at a table within the park. Mum, dad, the kids and their own dog below the table.

“Can you help?” she asks.

“We’re allergic to dogs” replies dad while the family munches on and their dog gets nudged further under the table.

The lesson our children take from this is that manipulation, dishonesty and complete lack of empathy are quite acceptable perhaps even clever and admirable if the alternative is to delay their meal.

This isn’t grumpy old man stuff. This is about my holy war. This isn’t about freedom of speech or the lack of it. Those commercials get beamed at our society constantly and there’s no escaping their negative influence on the values which a society needs in order to endure and prosper.

Prosper, prosperity and profit. They sound vaguely the same but ‘profit’ is now only related to money whereas ‘prosper’ is still related to a variety of growth processes.

You can lay your money down that the liquor industry will fight tooth and nail to keep the flood of booze coming notwithstanding the pleas of our police force who are fed up with being attacked at four or five in the morning.

Our Western way of life is seen as corrupted and that isn’t just by extremist religious bigots. The corruption isn’t sought nor is it welcome and it comes in the form of complacency, apathy and a tendency to cocoon ourselves.

Ultimately it comes down to a refusal to accept responsibility for our words and deeds and the real impact that they have on the world around us.

If it isn’t that then it’s as simple as “I don’t care.”

None of us is powerless. When I worked as a cleaner in a High school my power got used to improve the physical environment ....... over and over and over again. Whether it made a difference greater than the act of cleaning is a separate issue. We don’t control the outcome. That’s not the point.

So I’ll sign the indemnifying statement for AGL but wouldn’t recommend them to you...... heh..heh....

Hooray for a day off and time, energy and inclination to practice and play my blues scales.

Horrific Holy Wars.

The Crusades are in the dim and distant past for most of us who were born and raised in the ‘West’.

Not the case in ‘Middle East’ where the Crusades continue in a different form but with the same result. George Bush - moron that he was - actually used the word Crusade in one of his pitiful speeches.

“Violence was an essential part of the Christian faith.” .....the final sentence of an episode in a wonderful series about the Crusades and their lingering effects.

We understand collective guilt in the West. It’s why the Germans and the Japanese who were reviled in my youth - even though most were not alive during the Second World War - are only recently living down the collective guilt of the actions of their respective governments.

This is recent history for me - a hundred years or so.

The mayor of Jerusalem was being interviewed on radio and came across as a reasonable man until it came to the issue of sovereignty over the city revered by all three Abrahamic faiths. Three thousand years of history and The Old Testament writings were all he needed to verify his claim.

The interviewer tried to make the point that if the rest of the world tried the same approach that it would lead to an absurd chaos. It didn’t make a dent partly because the interviewer didn’t give an example.

I’m originally Welsh and thus have deep connection - or so I claim and who are you to say otherwise - with the Druidic spiritual aspects of the ancient Britons so .... all you Romans, Anglo Saxons and various invaders can just bugger off. Thank you very much - I’ll have Buckingham Palace.

The Crusades are recent history to the world which is not the ‘West’. The Pope who instigated the Crusades, hundreds of years ago, gave those knights who set off to ‘liberate’ Jerusalem the licence to carry out, as penance, the very way of life - slaughter and plunder - which had put them in need of penance in the first place. It might just as well be yesterday to the descendants of those who were - in the main - slaughtered horribly.

None of the Abrahamic religions have managed to keep even a few of the Ten Commandments that they all claim to adhere to. It’s a woeful state of affairs and if there really be a holy war - a jihad - it is the struggle that each of us undertakes to lessen the conflict between rage and ‘the way of heaven’ within ourselves.

The Way of Heaven is not extreme, is not fanatical, does not lead to chaos and does not kill. I know as I write this that the idea that ‘Thou shall not kill.’ is going to resonate as naive when reality itself suggests that if the barbarians are at the gate that perhaps I turn the other cheek. It’s not something which is easily reconciled.

So we’re all on shaky ground.

My brother-in-law and myself had a shared birthday function over the weekend. He has a lovely sense of humour.

“Life isn’t a bowl of cherries and I can’t think of anything worse than finding out that there’s some eternal extension of this life after we die. Meeting up, in heaven, with all those people that we weren’t fond of in life - ghastly - that’s my vision of hell.”

Didn’t find any argument with me.

Words are a trap. Nuance and emotional tone are easy to lose but, more to the point, words seldom express with utter clarity what it is which needs be shared and understood.

I rang the godson and got him at a good time - calm. Didn’t talk for too long but I did establish that he’d been in my mind for a week or more and that it would be good to spend a few hours of godfather ‘time’ with him. To use the time for him to lift every rock within his mind and expose and explore what lies beneath.........we’ll also play music. Whether any change in approach to life occurs is another matter but, either way, we’ve both laid the groundwork for a later meeting.

“Coming up to kick my arse are you?” says godson with good humour.

On the path. What path? Not only the path through life that each of us follows throughout our lives but the surrounding country and the force we use as we tread our steps.

Grandson - at the tender age of ten - thinks he’s old enough to make his own decisions - not unusual. Of more serious consequence is a tendency to lie.

The I Ching is a wonderful tome. Not only does it suggest that dishonesty is ‘wrong’ but shows why it’s not in alignment with ‘The Way of Heaven ’ and, thus, inevitably lays the groundwork for disaster.

All real interaction has trust as the underlying condition. When trust is gone then interaction is fruitless and ultimately barren. We know that from the experiences of our own lives. Lies destroy trust.

Without sincerity there can be no trust.

Honesty, sincerity and trust and why they matter is the issue for grandson next time we meet.

The weather continues perfect and I feel strangely content that I can soon take both stress leave and holidays from work.

Ironfest beckons and I’m enjoying playing.

The Magnolia and Rhododendron are both throwing the odd flower as we move into Autumn. It’s a stunning beautiful season in the garden. The slow growing Tree-ferns have risen by two fronds. The Palm has shot up to twice the height of a man. Everything has benefited by the recent long rain. The reds and yellows of six foot high Canna lilies jostle each other in bursts of colour and the breeze is a whisper. All in all, it’s a good time to be stressed and to be able to take leave from work.

The Clarendon was sparsely attended last night but Bruno from ‘My Heart’s Dezire’ was able to ‘wing it’ to a generic South Sea Island song of mine plus play to the odd rhythm I employ for ‘The Festival.’
Chris brought his snare drum to the night and that was good. Don’t know how long this spot will last without food being available but it’s a beautiful room in which to play.

Although Ironfest - over the Anzac long weekend in late April - is primarily a medieval and historical pageant, it has a fair amount of music going on - not all of it medieval - and I’m looking forward to at least one, hour long, set over the three days.

A civilised society places value and emphasis upon the education of its citizens. It takes responsibility for good governance and provides a health service which is available to all.... to do otherwise is counter productive to the society as a whole. Why this should be a matter of debate is beyond me.

What’s bubbling away under the surface is the unease and impotence I feel when it comes to setting my godson back ‘on the path.’ He probably started falling off the path in early childhood with an ADHD condition. Now, he is an angry young man with a propensity for putting his fist through the wall when he loses the plot over some trivial matter.

Unfortunately, he hasn’t understood that he not only has a problem but that he is the problem. Nothing pleases him. He finds fault with everyone and everything and nothing is ever his fault. He hasn’t understood that there is a problem nor understood that a true man blames no-one but himself and his faulty understanding for being in a difficult situation.

Choices every moment. Choices made by making choice and choices made by not making choices. In Australia - a paradise compared to most societies - if we’re being ruthlessly honest - which a true man needs be - then our situation in life is not completely subject to the random blows of an unjust fate. We have a reasonable legal system. More governmental agencies set up to help those in need than you can poke a stick at and yet......so many people slip through the cracks and depression stalks . Why would it not be so?

That’s my problem. How to get across to this angry young man that help is available but that it needs to be acknowledged that help is needed.

Funny thing - life. Strange processes at work.

Here’s the words to my generic south sea island song ... all played with a da dee da dee da sort of feel with chords G,C,G,D,G,C.G,D,G,

It’s a very cheerful tune.

ONCE UPON A TIME


Once upon a time far across the sea

You came to play and have a holiday

And you smiled at us as we smiled at you

You had a wonderful time and then you went away


Our island home could slip away

This is the truth we face today

It’s not the distant future it’s not the far off grave

Where will our children grow and play


Will you stand with us on this perfect day

If our island home just slips away

Do you have the room do you have the heart

Are you prepared to share or do we just part


Our island home could slip away

This is the truth we face today

It’s not the distant future it’s not the far off grave

Where will our children grow and play



Once upon a time far across the sea

You came to play and have a holiday

And you smiled at us as we smiled at you

You had a wonderful time and then you went away


cheers

The simple things aren’t always simple.

A guitar.

“Which is the top string?” asks the grandson. “ the one nearest me or the highest in tone?” We got around that problem by calling the two E strings “fat E” and “thin E.”

It got me thinking about the time I worked out how to play the major and minor chords on a piano keyboard and how dismally the news was received by a music teacher.

If you can count to eight then my method is simple but has nothing to do with music theory.

Wherever you put your first finger on the keyboard is “ONE”. Then counting the black and white notes, take yourself to “FIVE” and that’s where another finger rests. Then count further to “EIGHT” and that’s where the final finger rests.

Thus you end up with a fingering pattern which gives you the major chord for whatever note you first started on.

‘One, four and eight’ will give the minor chords.

You’ll find that there aren’t many patterns that you need to learn and - hey presto - you can play chords.

O.K. this doesn’t make you a concert pianist but does allow you to roughly play your average song which usually has no more than three or four chords. This is very useful if you sing and just need the accompanying chords.

Next time you pass a piano, try 1,5 & 8 and 1, 4, & 8 - major and minor chords spring into existence.

Still plugging away at my blues scales and making some progress. It was a delight to find that I could play along to the last version of the theme song of “The Wire.” .... what a great series.

No politics, no religion - just a beautiful Autumn day in the Blue Mountains.