My friend gordon
This bloke walks a different path to me. In fact, this bloke is unlike a lot of people I know. He's not caught up. That is, he really couldn't give a stuff what is on T.V, or in the newspaper, because he doesn't watch or read them. Not too bothered by computers and the Internet, even though he has one. He's obsessed all right, but it's an obsession of focus. So deep and laser like that it rips through all that is unnecessary and clears a path for what is really required. This concentration absolute is astounding to someone like me. I get unbelievably distracted by an excess of self-inflicted information overload, where synaptic burnout is a real possibility. The Internet, computers, fucking newspapers (why do I bother they are so boring these days) television, all stimulating you to fill your mind again and again, and it never ever stops. You spend your day in front of a computer, only to go home again at the end of the day to be in front of it again an hour or more later. The mind chatter is unbelievable ! But Gordon has got that all sorted. I am sure meditation may be the key, but for one, I know I can't be stuffed with all that ! You need to get up early everyday, it takes discipline, focus, ambition, forget it.
Window watching from Richmond to Brighton
Lets take a drive from Richmond to Brighton, we'll cross over the Yarra near Grange Road Toorak. It's 11pm. I'm sitting in the passenger seat, slightly pissed. I lay back in a reclined position looking out the side window. We are going up Grange Road now, it's quite dark as we float silently under a canopy of shadowy trees. Stopping now at the traffic lights just outside of Edward Beal's Hair Salon, waiting to turn right at Toorak Road. It's brighter as we pass by the Trak on the right, a few disheveled boilers with a couple of would be's in tow stagger to their car, fags hanging out the side of their mouths. Swinging left down Williams Road gazing at the many graceful olden style apartments of the 50's and earlier, amber and ocher glow behind pulled-to drapes and venetian blinds, past the Bush Inn, a good run of green lights and I'm passing the high brick wall of Windsor Cemetery. Mary Mother of God in all her ghostly white weathered masonry is pleading to me with outstretched arms.
"Why Michael, why".
Continuing now, the boxy brick veneer flats near Carlisle Street, No curtains drawn, single men sitting in chairs watching T.V, black chipboard wall units, circular fluro light, pictures of blue Tahitian women on the wall. William turns into Hotham. Past Yeshiva College, massive high metal fence, keeps them in and us out. Past my old block of 40's flats where I lived in the early 80's. Over the railway bridge, Ripponlea Mansion shrouded in darkness to my left. Finally hit the Nepean Highway. Gleaming Audi automobiles on display to those with a meaty wallet. Turn right into New Street around Psycho Killer Bend and Elwood Canal. It's very dark down this part of New. See the Irish Flags of Finbar's Pub.
I'm Home again.
Shit of a week
Wednesday I left the parking lights of my car on all day, when I came back to the metal chariot the battery had not an ounce. Meanwhile, Miss Maude has been suffering with a very painful affliction that was lanced the following day, making walking back in the rain from work a guilt ridden process. The following Thursday morning I was awake by 4:00 am then driving along an empty St KIlda Road an hour later with jumper leads in tow. Luckily there had been no car in front, making the dodgy method of restarting easier. Driving my car home again with no lights on conserving precious electrical power, with my eyes peeled for the constabulary. When I get back Miss Maude looks as if she's being crucified. In by train, to the city once again, twice in the last hour and a half. At Parliament Station, manic office workers, rush past me like lunatics, bounding up the escalator in the express lane. What for ???? Like pathetic cattle we mill out of the station into Spring Street, I feel like going for a coffee somewhere not really caring if I'm half an hour late, just wanting to stare at nothing for a while.
By 5:30, I'm at the Doctor, 6:15 pm at Cabrini Hospital. 7:00pm Miss Maude is fainting several times in pain after the lancing, as I half carry her shoving Panadeine Forte's down her throat with gulps of Mineral Water. There will be no Royal English Ballet tomorrow night for OUR MISS MAUDE.
Speaking of. I was lucky to get the V.I.P treatment with corporate box tickets provided by one of my work's main competitors. Being dog tired, though was lulled by the music, comfortable seating and big glass of Red Wine I greedily accepted. A gentle way to finish off the shitty working week.
Only four days to this week and I will start my long service leave for a fortnight.
Can't wait.
New Photographic website/gallery.