A beer, a Book, and Benevolence

'Twas upon the water the other day, Sincity harbour no less, on a voyage that could possibly be considered cliched yet immensely enjoyable. The vessel was the Collaroy, the destination considered Manly.

I do enjoy boating. When I was a kid, my Dad had a boat referred to as a "trailer sailer". Small and fibreglass, it could be hitched to the back of the car and taken down to anywhere a stretch of water existed. For 2 months a year it was hauled out for a handful of sailing days, with the remainder of the year being under a tarpaulin going nowhere. I can still remember sailing that craft. A small flag in front of the mast indicated the wind direction and you would point the nose just off an angle to it. A strong rope attached to the "boom" (look it up) through a pulley would be wrapped around my right hand ;) to pull the mainsail to the best angle and my left foot ;) would be upon the rudder to steer. You would then crash through the waves that would explode a spray of water over the boat. An immense feeling of being at one with nature and harnessing natural forces would sweep over you..... uhm, while you sat in a fibreglass boat ofcourse.

Now, the Collaroy is a bit bigger, has no mainsail, and I doubt the Captain was steering it with his left foot. But it was still nice to be out there. I love the roll and pitch of a boat, and have frequently wished to sleep on one to experience being rocked to sleep. One of my favourite things about being out on the water of Sincity harbour is the undeveloped green forested area's on the shoreline. I keep imagining the times of the earliest European explorers entering the harbour, and that they would be seeing the exact same thing.

Arriving in Manly, I trotted down the Corso towards the beach. I chose a blazingly hot day to do this but I am a fearless explorer me. The beach was crowded with what looked like a surf carnival. I'm not altogether a beachy kind of person, preferring the comforts of swimming pools, but the atmosphere was convivial, and when a troop of bagpipers began a performance I felt pleased to be there. Bagpipes have a rather grandeous aura about them, a fuck-off to authority attitude, loud and proud. I thought that a kilt would be a rather warm garment to don on such a day, and pondered the concept of how wooly daks would be considered both a mistake and a necessity at the same time.

Clearly with the heat of the day taking a toll, I retired to a local public house to slick a thirst. My first two choices of beer were in the process of having their barrels changed so I settled on a frosty ale from my old home town. In an example of how I occasionally withdraw from the excitement around me, I then proceeded to take my beverage to a comfy corner and read an engrossing book I was part way through. I did this partly to cool off, partly because I was enjoying the book, and partly because I dream of the day when quietly reading while drinking a beer in a pub becomes an activity that doesn't mark you out as anti-social, geeky, or just plain weird. I was fourscore pages in (not all while in the pub. A speed reader I am not), when an elderly couple sat upon a nearby couch with two tall glasses I mistook for pink gins. I felt their gaze:

"Hi there" piped up the fairer of the two in an American southern drawl, "watcha readin'?"
"Hi", I responded, "A collection of essays about an authors life".
"Don't read much myself" she admitted, "but surely the pubs for drinkin' and the library's for readin' ain't it?".
"Don't worry, I qualify", I said kindly, pointing at my glass of beer.

Her partner chuckled wisely and with slight relief. An engrossing conversation of 20 minutes then evolved, mostly involving the rights of people to carry guns and of me creatively adding the phrase "uh huh" in varied tone's. On consumption of their beverages, they took their leave.

Dan the VespaMan, a master of race relations.

Don't Mind Me, Just a Little Self Flagellation

It's just one word. One little word, a beautiful bastard of a word, but you can't say it can you?

No.

Never? Not ever? I know why you can't too. Oh yes, you walk tall and deal with things. Your mask is a very tight fit you know. Whenever someone gets their fingers under it you turn away. Why?

I don't know.

Yes you do you faker. You know very well. Your not so clever that you can fool yourself. Your scared, you weak fool, scared of what you might find behind that mask.

Maybe, but why am I so happy then?

Who said you weren't? You just don't trust yourself to take a little more.

Greed, too much of a good thing.

Tish and tosh, there you go. Everything in moderation you quip. Why don't you trust yourself? You feel it don't you?

Well, yes.

That hesitation just makes it more relevant. You can feel it in your guts, that painful perfect slow burn. That scrape up your spine that ends with a tingle. Your daydreams of what may be if only you could say what you feel. Your emotionally retarded my friend, you confront it with a facade. You dip a toe occasionally and recoil even if the waters warm. When many around you are having their renaissance you seem to constantly fail to have yours, even when the inspiration is there.

But I want to. I just feel kind of silly saying it. I do WANT to say it.

But when, my boy, when are you going to. Say it once and then duck for cover? It may be cowardice, but at least it's a start. You will probably get laughed at and ridiculed. But no more than you laugh and ridicule yourself. One little word, that can open possibilities. Are you prepared to gamble on it? I don't think you are, you've never been a gambler. You and your stupid pig-headed patience. Your cynicism keeps you safe, but means life is living you, rather than you living life.

I think it's rather sad that I can't feel sad.

Feel? You flatlined the feel factor long ago. The troughs were deep, and your scared of them. You think they follow the peaks just as night follows day. How did someone get so stupid? Oh ofcourse, you feel you don't deserve the peaks? Right?

Uhm, not sure about that.

Get a grip. It's not about deserving. You've done nothing wrong. Your as worthy as anyone else, but you will have to say it. You simply will have to verbalise it. One word, to be uttered.

Soon, maybe.

Humpff!

Poetry Can't be Dead, Perhaps Just Slumbering Instead

When I started this blog I had a notion to include a poem with every post. It started well enough, but then I decided I didn't want to structure my posts in any formal way. I would like to think my posts have about as much organisation and tidyness as a bedroom floor strewn with the garments (and paraphernalia) of two lovers. Hmmm, yeah well maybe not.

Poetry to me has a versatility, it's melodic, like painting colourful swirls with words. Funny, insightful, dramatic, and soulful. Even bad poetry has something to offer. I liken it to cheese, the words providing the texture and substance, while the ryhme and pace provide the flavour which can be as complex or subtle as the authour wishes. Outside of music, there seems to be a dearth of poetry in day to day life and I blame this on the genre itself. Somewhere it lost its way, and couldn't keep up with the advent of new communications (email, sms etc). Many people dismiss it as being overly dramatic, soppy, and a long-winded way of saying something that can be summed up much more quickly and efficiently. Perhaps it's time that our modern communications discovered the joy of the poetic phrase, to whit some suggestions for your next SMS:

Standard - where r u?
Poetic - where r u? can i b there 2?

Standard - b there in 30mins.
Poetic - b there qik as a hare.

Standard - can we go on a date?
Poetic - Wud be gr8 if we cud go on a date?

My gripe is ofcourse a foolish generalisation, as there are many sublimely talented folk out there fertilising the minds of the poetry hungry with brilliant work. Kudo's to them, the custodians of the artform. May they live long, and breed future generations of poetrarians (if that is the word for it).

The mist of rhyme it seems,
Is ryhmey and misty and screams,
Tittle-tattle and fiddle-faddle foolish fumbling fiends.

I'm as much to blame,
Stupid all the same,
Sincereless and stupendous suppose the sunny Sincity's insane.

Why don't I do it then?
I can't I bleat again,
Weirdo and worrying when the wily weather will wane.

Be gone the curse of fear,
Looking upon me with a sneer,
Quite the quarter and quiet queue to quaff at me be queer.

The Virtuous Bad

Rogues, rascals and scallywags. Misunderstood trailblazers, or blight on society?

There seems to be a peculiar fascination with those who shirk what is considered "acceptable" conduct, the way a person "should" behave. Recently reading a book about the actor Jack Nicholson (one of my personal favourite "bad boys") I pondered why this is so. Do we live vicariously through them, a deep seeded desire to cast off the shackles that restrict our behaviours within boundaries we set ourselves?

For myself, I've never been a fully fledged member of the "bad boy" club. On the occasions I may have (in a fool exhibition of bravado and over-confidence) tried it, the result has been so transparent that all but the most naive of people saw through it. But, the funny thing is, getting along with these renegades has been something I've done very well. For example, when I first started working we had a client who was generally described by all as a "son of a bitch". A hard nosed businessman, he on several occasions conducted his activities in such a way that they bordered on the scam-like. If he could trick you into a difficult position for exploitation, he would do it. Perhaps it's because I have a somewhat suspicious and cynical mind, perhaps also it is because I realised at an early age that it is OK to say "No!" when I wasn't comfortable with something, we developed a respect for each other. Even at school, I never had problems with bullying, and even though I may not have been friends with them, I think I must have been seen as a non-threatening person, someone who will not provide any value in abusing.

One of the things that perhaps we all need to understand is that people are tricky creatures. They don't always share an attitude of common decency towards others that we perhaps believe they should. The answer is to study these interesting people, and accept them as one more shade of colour on the tapestry of experience that rolls out before us.

Failing that, call them an arsehole and suggest they sling their hook!

Your Mission, If You Choose to Accept It.

When it rains, it pours. Indeed there would be a few of my fellow New South Welshmen (and Welsh women) who would agree. However, I'm not speaking of matters of precipitation.

Yesterday turned out to be my busiest day of the year. Yes, allright, the year is only nine days old but it was still all go. Alighting from my slumber at 4AM with tonsils feeling fighting fit, I had a plane to catch. In an act of foolish bravado to company ideals I was embarking on a day trip to the land of the long white cloud. I say day trip because I would be getting there, doing what needs to be done, and returning on the same day. Luckily, on arrival at the airport I had the joy of discovering I would be flying in business class which meant a good breakfast onboard. Airline food gets an awful bad rap these days, and there have been occasions I have lended my voice to the chorus, but not on this flight. Eggs, bacon, sausage, fried tommys and mushys, and scrummy warm pastries and toasts made me a happy traveller. I arrived in Awkwardland and strolled down to the office.

Without going into the details of what I did over there (for it's a little dull), can I just take this moment to throw a general motion of appeciation out there for our trans Tasman neighbours. I've always found the NZedders to be a friendly and enjoyable bunch of folk to be around. Much like my fellow Sincity comrades, they enjoy a good time and a giggle. However, they have a slightly more relaxed attitude to life where things are not so rushed and frantic. Some rudely say that NZed is a few decades behind the rest of the world, but this creates a charm. My heart was once broken by a stunning NZ lass many years ago but frankly it was worth it for the three weeks of pleasure that preceeded it. They make a good impression on me they do.

The working day done, I was again to find myself on a plane that evening and winging it back to Sincity. This time economy class beckoned, but I was happily content so no matter. Why content? A good days work and an invitation to a glittering social event beckoned on my return. Due to an arrival of around 1945hrs, I was going to be fashionably late which is about as close as I get to being fashionable at all. A quick shower and leaping into jeans and a shirt, I was soon aboard the Vespa chariot and transiting like a bat out of hell. The event? A celebration of birth and official farewell of codename "M" of the Sincity Secret Service.

Only a recent addition to the ranks of folks I know, "M" has taken on great responsibilities including bringing in secret agents from the cold, issuance of licences to kill/thrill/and fulfill, and maintaining the integrity of quink and soon to be country. I remember a mission "M" sent me on by secure email requiring me to penetrate a forbidden sector in order to gain intelligence for future missions and possibly make contact with agent P-008. I reported failure, but was advised sagely that it would require several attempts anyway.

The celebration was held in a semi-private room and I was pleasantly surprised to find that essentially all the cool and sophisticated of Sincity were in attendance. There were several fellow secret agents I had met on previous missions in attendance who all bedazzled me with tales of their ops. I will refer to them as 001 to 006 as loose lips sink ships and all that. Several operatives I hadn't met were there, obviously from other intelligence departments, including a stunning creature I conversed with for around 30mins about the Indian bollywood industry and travel. She had a friend perched upon a knee, possibly providing security so she was obviously holding important secrets. I was told her codename but have a short-term memory like a sieve that lets only the important things through. Amazingly, I was even able to speak in an understandable structure as I tend to get apprehensive in such situations.

The evening concluded with the entourage heading off for iced treats while I made my excuses as the long day was starting to take a toll and I knew these beautiful people would soon be powerless to stop me falling into unconsciousness. I mounted my Vespa steed (which is still waiting for Q branch to install the gizmo's and gadgets it so desperately needs) and zoomed through the dark and quiet streets of Sincity at foolhardy speeds back to the Rockdalian base of operations.

....and then, slept the sleep of soothing slumber.

Rememberance of a Friend

Perhaps it is due to this current blue funk I find myself in as a result of a battle between good and evil being played out on/in my tonsils, but my mind turns today to the anniversary of a friends passing shortly before I left A-Town for Sin City those few years ago. I'm not a sentimental sort, and I have not the characteristics to dwell on these things annually. However, it does amuse me to recount the interesting folk who I have stumbled across in the past.

Christened with the name Phillip, Phil as he preferred to be known was introduced to me at a party being thrown by a friend of the brother of the uncle of the workmate of the plumber of my then on-off girlfriends hairdresser (but I can't be sure that I've got that completely right, it may have been her pedicurist). Phil was by his own confession "Bent as a $3 note" and proved the point by attending the party with his partner Frank, a humourless and dour Frenchman that Phil explained he found in a seedy bar outside Toulouse and swapped a pocketful of magic beans for.

To really describe Phil is an impossibility. Eccentric is one way. Mad is another. Probably one of the smartest and cleverest people I've ever met should also be thrown into the mix. He worked in the industry of finance, a surprising area of endeavour considering his character. To say he was financially wealthy was an understatement, but not obviously so. He and Frank lived in a small neat house, he drove a small neat car and usually could be found wearing old jeans and cheap t-shirts. Visiting his abode, it was inexpensively furnished. But there were tell-tale signs:

- He always wore an expensive suit to work. In fact, "expensive" doesn't quite explain it. As was revealed to me by Frank, the suits were handmade in Milan with the finest materials by a chap who only made suits for those he invited to the priviledge. It was suggested that for the price of each of these suits you could purchase a good car and he always seemed to have a healthy rotation of them.
- He was a regular traveller and I mean ridiculously regular, with adventures to far flung places occurring every few weeks. Snippets of information concerning what he accomplished on these journeys will hopefully someday be published.

Phil had peculiar habits. Every meal I attended at his house included his favourite side dish, a type of caramelised garlic turnip creation. I never really knew exactly what it was and wasn't terribly keen on it. He frequently proclaimed that no meal was complete without it. He also swore a lot. Now some may say this is a sign of a limited vocabulary, but his control upon diction was extraordinary. The result was a masterful use of vulgar language, intelligent and bitingly witty. The conclusion of these meals always ended with him drawing a tot of sherry from an amazing wooden cask perched upon a shelf in the kitchen. The cask was carved with intricate scene's of Greek mythology, beautiful workmanship. Attached to one side was a black metal sillhouette of a lady in what could only be described as a compromising position. The cask had been discovered on one of his trips to Germany and was apparently made by a man who is currently in an asylum.

Phil spoke French (for the purpose of insulting Frank mainly) and Latin (for the purpose of insulting humanity generally), but it was his grasp of the English language that enthralled me. He mercilessly tormented me on my feeble endeavours in romantic pursuits, clearly pointing out where I was going wrong and techniques to rescue particular situations, all designed to be useless and create hilarity. He in turn liked nothing better than to have people attempt to playfully insult him resulting in a comic banter that frequently would have me in stitches.

His ability to attract women was the stuff of legend. He told me he only once slept with a lady, and found the experience "simply not the cut of his jib". I always felt it was a little deceptive the way he flirted with women, and I'm sure many a heart was broken when they discovered the truth about his orientation. However, I hope also they enjoyed spending time with someone who ensured they were treated to princess-like standards when in his company.

There was a dark side however to my friend. Albeit privately, he was a drug user and I was constantly amazed at his ability to keep the negative affects of his addiction from interferring with his more impressive activities. I must admit, I've never been too fond of the drug culture and would generally choose not to spend much time with people who indulge heavily in the pastime. Phil perhaps represented the one exception.

I fell out of touch with him a few years before transiting across the border, and it was an email from Frank that had me seeing again my friend. The situation was a rather unhappy one, as Phil was in hospital. When I walked into his ward and found him, there lay a feeble and gaunt shadow of his former self. He was heavily drugged up but when I sat down he looked across and said, "Where the fuck have you been?" with a broad grin. It was difficult to have a discussion, as the drugs were making him rather incomprehensible. I asked him what the cause of his condition was and he answered, "Just a dose of death, Dan, nothing serious". Five days later the dose completed the task.

The funeral was a simple affair but well attended. I saw no sign of family, only friends. A distraught Frank explained his intentions to return to France and I've not seen nor heard of him since. Although there was much wailing and emotion, I find funerals a rather peaceful and solemn affair. I was certainly sad that I wouldn't get the chance to see Phil again and have him laugh at the details of my love life, but I was glad I had the opportunity to know him at all.

Phil passed away at the age of 43.

We Will Fight Them on the Couch

Oh dear, it's not often that I'm awake and/or of clear thought at 1:30AM on a Tuesday morning. Something must be wrong, and indeed it is.

I was wondering why in the last few days I've been feeling a bit down, off my feed, a bit of a grumpy bum. And then yesterday (Monday) I felt a strange and uncomfortable sensation in the back of my throat that no amount of ahem's seemed to shift. A curious soul as always, a torch and the bathroom mirror has revealed what I suspected, the telltale signs that the dreaded tonsilitis plague has come to town. It seems to visit very infrequently (probably 10 years since the last) but it's like a child-hood friend that you don't really like but seems to always visit at the wrong moment.

So, being a man of action, first thing is to call in my apologies to work tommorrow morning as sick leave is for just such occasions, present myself across the road to my local GP for a professional opinion on cause/remedy, and then purchase a small pot of red paint for the purpose of putting a large red cross on my front door.

I have been described during periods of illness, as being a rotten sod. I can accept that, in fact I would agree to it. I feel it's a persons right to be unjolly during these trying circumstances. Unsociable too, indeed very unsociable.

Very well, you vile microorganisms, you've picked the wrong chap to mess with. Oh yes, you may number in the millions perhaps billions and I number but one, but prepare for the first big battle of the second decade of the 21st century. At the risk of sounding crude, your arses (if they have arses?) are mine.

Now That the Fireworks Are Over

...and a happy new year 2010. Yes indeed a happy new decade too for that matter. There's something about round numbers that appeals to me, a slight appreciation of some sort of order, a conservative bent that appreciates things being tidy. It doesn't take long though, and the joy of messing things up, kicking the house of cards down if you will returns. I fluctuate it seems, thank goodness.

The question of new years resolutions raises its foolish head around about this time. Like many, I don't participate in this peculiar tradition, because I think if you want to commit to some sort of plan for your life you should do it whenever you damn well please, rather than time it with the calendar. I mean, say you have a good idea for yourself in August, why wait till January?

But perhaps, surprisingly, I have taken an interesting step towards a deeper appreciation for my fellow humans. Yesterday, I was in the city as I find the scene of busy shoppers and poor weather beguiling. There are usually many folk on the sidewalks requesting a donation from the passing foot traffic to help finance their desire to escape a life of financial strife, usually detailed in scrawled text on a piece of hurriedly ripped cardboard. Now I don't generally participate in the donation process for these people, my cynical mind suggesting that they probably won't spend it on the operation for their daughter they articulated on the grubby cardboard sign. In the usual style of the white collar bourgeoisie I seem to have found myself a part of, I presume the coin I toss into the poor souls hat will be liquidised that night and consumed, heaping further sorrow upon the sorrow. Instead my crumpled fiver tends to go to the big issue vendor for the following reasons:

- It's actually a pretty good read.
- It took some effort for the vendor to take action to improve their financial situation this way.
- The vendors are quite happy to chat, and are rather interesting people.

Whether it is making a difference to their lives, I'm unsure, but I do hope so.

However, yesterday something peculiar occurred. I gave an embarrassingly small amount of money to a chap who was not a BI vendor. Like many of the others, he too was sitting on the sidewalk leaning against a wall with a grubby hat in front of him soliciting donations. He didn't have a piece of woe enscribed cardboard in front of him, but instead was reading a book about engineering in Victorian era Britain. It was no picture book either, it was quite tome-like. I hoped the tinkling of the coins into his hat would not break his concentration.

I quite liked the idea that by giving the chap some loose change he may decide to continue to read. It's a good idea that charity can broaden the minds of recipients and those who fork over the readies at the same time. I'm not sure if I'll donate again, but perhaps I will if I see other street people ensconsed in the joy of the written word.

All the best.