Music I like

So I started this blog to post some of my really short writing. I am writing a novel right now but there is a lot of (very rough) stuff that I write which is independent of this. It is that sort of thing I will try and post. But whilst writing is my favourite way of expressing myself, it is music that inspires me. So without further ado this is what I have been digesting lately. and something that my mum used to always play and I don't think I can remember a song as gorgeous.

On selfish

To be selfish should be worn as a badge. Everyone is selfish - in various degrees - and any apparent absence of it is by design, not nature. We are conditioned from a young age and variously throughout our years to spurn our selfish motives - those that do are held high by the community; those that do not are relegated as second class citizens.

It is the paragon of the weak and pathetic that selfishness should be stamped out. As to why, perhaps the obvious - that empathetic (or more correctly, those lacking apparent selfishness) people are more likely to look out for others, to help the weak at their own detriment. Thus the weak condition all to relinquish their god given selfishness to better their own selves - the true act of selfishness.

BUT one who spurns all empathy, who disowns all emotion in others - his ultimate act is suicide. For the act of killing oneself is to disavow all emotional tethers and relinquish dues to those who care. It is to put oneself unequivocally above all others, to decree on no uncertain terms that

“my short term suffering is so great that it is of more import that it stops than those around me who have investment in my life have happiness.”

"What doth it profit a man, if he gains the whole world but loses his soul" Matthew chapter 8

The Gardener

The wrong side of 60; only just. White-grey hair, beard flecked. But fit for his age, methodical, active.

There is a charisma that follows him about, a good natured humour that makes the sight of him bring a smile to most. His lope is long but precise, sure footed. With every step his height is evident by the movement of his shoulders, swinging in small parabolic arcs.

The Gardener spends most of the morning on his knees, trowel in hand. Seed planting today, pruning tomorrow, weeding the next. By then the lawn will need a mow.

The cyclical nature of his garden is what he finds most attractive. It is easy to become lost in the nature surrounding; the mild weather. Memories of a life well lived permeate.

And it is the small things in life that serve as his memories. Not worth mentioning here - suffice to say they are common to all at peace with the world. Suffice to say they lend a quiet dignity.

The sun reaches its peak, the morning is lost to history. Another moment for the memory banks. Throughout the nation sleeves are rolled up in unison; the Gardener duly submits. A small rumble of the stomach reminds him of the time - lunch calls, not loud but persistent.

A simple snack will sate him; today, plums with cereal. Spoon on bowl results in a steady ring. The cricket on the TV serves a casual distraction. Feet up for a quarter hour, worked bones recuperate.

By the time his break is done, two visitors have taken residence in his garden. His daughter, sunning herself near the clothesline. Reading a novel of some description; her body language suggests that it is a sufficient distraction from the days monotony. And his cat - formerly owned by a sister in law. Investigating certain interests the way a cat is prone to do.

Both visitors will remain compatriots in the garden until the sun wanes; pending the weather.

Back to work. The garden itself is not large, by any measure, nor is it small. It is that odd size where one from the city would view it as exorbitant, but persons rural would think the opposite. No matter, it was perfect for him. The gardener had worked this patch of earth for the better part of 30 years and it had served him well. He knew every nuance of it and had reached the rare union between man and nature that only time can build. Despite the changes of his life, despite the complete unknown that lay ahead, an absolute certainty that his garden would be his companion into tomorrow was calming. The plants he works have grown old with him at their side, caring for them through sickness, staving off weeds and pestilence.

The utter timelessness of such work is what he found attractive. There was no need for change to method.

About an hour after his break was done, the gardeners wife rose. She had been working in the north western corner of the house, working on something I am not privy to. Still in nighty she attacked the kitchen with banging of plates, briefly entering the garden with an offer of zucchini soup. No takers today. After a brief flurry and a microwaved something, she disappeared.

The brief deluge of noise and colour passed, and calm returned to the garden. The cat had retired from its investigations; laconic movement replaced by no movement at all save the odd roll in the sun.

Apparently soup had been requested by the daughter after all. Mother and Daughter took seat in the gardeners domain on the outdoor setting, slurping soup enthusiastically. The gardener, anticipating his wife’s request, put a bucket hat on. The cat rose, pining a titbit which sadly was not available. Pacing restlessly, tail as straight as a flagpole, refusing to accept such outcome.

The gardener joined his Wife and their Daughter at the outdoor table. Snatches of conversation floated through the air, accompanied by the odd cough from the Wife, and the even rarer mew from the cat. Another gorgeous memory in the works. Such simple pleasure so rare in today's age, so foreign to many. Such beauty is inevitably tinged with melancholy; imparted from knowledge that such moments are fleeting.

As anticipated, the moment dissipated without warning. The conversation switched from lazy happen-stance to the family business; the loss of peace noticed by all but fought by none. Time stops for no one, least of all the small business owner. Just as imperceptibly, the conversation changed again. Past relatives were discussed; their death a measure for time. How quickly it flew. The melancholy present afore returned; albeit more morose.

The soup consumed, coffee and tea was prepared by the daughter. Enjoyed by all, along with the conversation. An excellent accompaniment.

The Gardener yawned, the days age weighed on his mind. His daughter held the cat, eyes following a lizard in the garden, paws flexing claws. Mention of its almost forgotten primal hunting nature flicked between the amused family.

The afternoon tasks were discussed; the wife, plans of writing the Christmas letter. The gardener - his afternoon was apparent. And the Daughter, after cleaning the kitchen, would return to her book

The cat was released from the Daughters grip, just as the Gardener was released from the conversation. Back to work, to the plants, to the peace. The Daughter and the Wife were not for such respite; the day not one for them to find such. Wife on the phone with her Mother, discussions of dinner. Daughter in the kitchen, clean-up ensued. The gardener acquiesced to his name.

The Middle

We are born inquisitive creatures, borne of inquisitive creatures. Yet by the time we reach a semblance of adulthood, say 16 or 17, much of our nature has been eradicated. It is easy to be complicit. One must merely adhere to life’s expectation - get good grades, become a professional, raise a family - and another life has been lived, free of shame, of upset, of inquisition. Another life has been devoted to someone else’s pocket, or some other outcome you will see little of.

This desperation to conform to expectation stems from the middle class. The lower - whilst resenting their position - sees no harm in allowing complicity to enter their lives. They see it as largely out of their hands, and sadly - without radical action - this seems to be the case. The upper, without the pressure to achieve off their own brow, can become enamoured with the pleasures that a hedonistic life provides. The exceptional uppers; those that do not regress to the mean, seem to pursue increasingly esoteric validation amongst their gifted peers. They have a tendency to create fields of pursuit when all others are dry, creating a whirlpool of research that inevitably descends into pointless rhetoric.

It is only the middle, the inevitably, beautifully average middle, that may escape the curse of a pointless life.

On Politics

What defines an expansive mind? The propensity to expand? Or perhaps the ability to comprehend different beliefs and adjunct your own personality with this input.

There is an odd idolation of those who ‘stick to their guns’ - that is those who do not adapt to new information. It is obvious that such individuals are not adept at processing and assimilating new feedback, or perhaps lack the ability to do so. Yet in our relatively modern society, we refute the ability to be influenced by new information. The politician who changes his view is labelled a ‘turncoat’, ‘liar’, or something of that ilk. Perhaps they do lie, that is not the point. The point is that we as a society should celebrate the man who can admit he was wrong - or more precisely admit that his previous views were held due to ignorance. But we do not, rather we celebrate this as weakness. But it is the judgemental masses that are weak, for they are the true effectors of change. Unfortunate that the only change they can effect is between one egotistical dickhead or another. And we call it democracy.

The Date

It started well. Ben left home a little late, somewhat apathetic about the date. A girl had handed her number over at the small bar on the river and he didn't really know how to approach this. He acted grateful but resented the idea of having to make contact. Ben was a shy person who had just escaped a relationship and did not want to be ensnared again. But women had that effect on Ben; they appeared amazing and engaging to the point he found the prospect of a relationship inevitable. But the change comes, facades fall away, only brutal truth remains. Boring truth to be honest.

It was this inevitable decline that Ben feared. He would much rather find a loose women, have a good night, and leave. But whilst this seems to occur much in film  it was not in Ben's experience.  Ben resented the clingyness that accompanied sex. He resented the assumption that more was coming.

Indeed, Ben's only recollection of string free sex occurred with a girl he was completely smitten with, and who, despite his numerous advances, never again acquiesced. Such is the nature of the female.

And so Ben found himself on a date with a girl he knew nothing about. She was nice, not especially pretty. A judgmental soul would call her appearance plain. This did not phase Ben. He had not had sex for a while and it was nice to just sit and talk to a female, with the prospect of sex on the table.

But alas it was soon revealed she lived with her parents. Ben's house was a pigsty so taking her home was out of the question. He really needed to clean his house. Tomorrow perhaps.

And so the date was a failure: promises of ‘doing this again’ were made but never carried out. Such is life.

Drunken Ramble

And so today I did nothing. Nothing was achieved but nothing could be, for I was not in the mood. I'm feeling sad today, not knowing a root cause. General listlessness. There is a certain optimism I have found though. Optimism generally is found where hope remains. I have plenty of hope; hope for the future. The trouble is I find that as the future approaches my hope shrinks, my optimism shrinks, and then I am in the present. Sad. So always hopeful, always optimistic, always sad. It is an odd dichotomy. And it leaves me in a quandary: am I deluded in my hope and optimism, or deluded in my sadness? I'm not sure which is worse; at least the sadness is tangible.

But forgive my morbidity, perhaps I am under the influence of one too many glasses of wine. It has the ability to level me. How tragic that the only time I feel normal is when I am addled.

I suppose the sad realization that I will never have a proper career has led me here. It is sad to know that I will never complete a degree, and have such conviction in that. Nothing could ever compel me to return to a university. They are the death of creativity. University breeds generics, people who would not learn what they know unless it is spoon fed to them. That is the death of learning.

For learning used to be about drive, self education et cetera. You researched something because you were interested, and surely this is pure learning. Such unique individual driven learning is natural, and breeds unique individuals. But the tertiary system kills this, instead opting to instil via a washed up has been (or never could) preaching his rote sermon to a room of faceless drones. And then, after doing so for 10 weeks, grouping them into A B C D E F UG 's. Fuck that, and fuck the hollow promise of contentment that a degree and respectable job offers. It is a lie.