tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-82775616138266158642024-03-13T19:30:28.894-07:00spiritual bumThere ain't no answer. There ain't gonna be any answer. There never has been an answer. That's the answer.SPIRITUAL BUMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15125651214740735653noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277561613826615864.post-46999186369225669512012-05-28T17:00:00.002-07:002012-06-05T17:01:04.845-07:00<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: 'Trebuchet MS';">The letter. More often than not, it is not what we listen to that is
beautiful but the listening itself. I was on the line taking morning sessions on
the stopping all stations to Upfield. I was listening to two young
woman-talking shoes and spray tans. They slouched, legs akimbo, sharing an Ipod
and cigarette. Their voices were unusually melodious. It was mid morning and I
had an appointment at Batman at midday with a forty-something academic, having
a crisis. After forty-odd-years he discovered that his life was complete
nonsense. Frankly, I could have told him that this was a realization that hit
us all eventually, but he wouldn’t have believed me. If he did nothing,
concentrated on his garden, took up crosswords, his problems would soon vanish.
He had been singing socialist folk songs from the age of six. He furthered his
unhappiness by moving west to live with the ‘real people’. He subdued his monsters
with whisky, rock bands, saving the world through responsible architecture and
slaughtering his own livestock in his garage. I didn’t get the connection. He
was too cheap to hire a proper psychiatrist and that’s where I fit in. One of
his doctorial students recommended me; the outsourcing councilor. Four
fifteen-minutes sessions later we seemed to be getting nowhere. It was like we
were talking in different languages. Today, I would tell him there was no
expedient prescription for happiness, bar acceptance of one’s shifting destiny.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #444444; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>SPIRITUAL BUMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15125651214740735653noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277561613826615864.post-12075633051762446882012-05-28T16:45:00.003-07:002012-06-05T17:02:24.194-07:00<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The platform was super-crowded with people that
caught the same train every day. Jacana is at the beginning of Zone Two; an
inviting gateway to the filthy paradise that is Roxburgh Park and Craigieburn. These
suburbs are apparently the new fertile spots for the social critics, palm trees
slump in the heat from the hotness that comes with being a now suburb. In the
newspapers academics are championing the virtues of Jacanas’ pizza shops and
walkways over the railway tracks. The walls are camouflaged in brandalism,
which is what gets the refugees from East Brunswick all high, horny and woozy.
They ‘like’ the lethally complex geopolitical phenomenon that is Jacana. The
train ground to a halt. A neon message flashed across the overhead screen, <i>Trains running late are unlikely to make up
time</i>.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">What else? More people than you think sleep standing up on
peak hour trains. The whole episode is a little like ‘Alice in Wonderland’
after Alice had disappeared down the hole.</span></span><br />
<br />SPIRITUAL BUMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15125651214740735653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277561613826615864.post-43852479576387610652012-05-28T16:37:00.006-07:002012-06-05T16:53:06.650-07:00<br />
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<h2>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"> I got off at Epping because the train was so crowded. I see a haze of grey. It smells like a rubbish barge, rotting fish and porridge. I have a cup of coffee in my hand. I’ve managed to find a seat on the empty platform, which is brilliant. It is amazing, I can buy an espresso anywhere and they all taste shithouse. Like dishwater made drinkable by lashing of sugar. That’s sophistication. I re-arrange my effects; stick my money and drugs in a coat pocket. My watch says 10:30 am. I feel rather smug about myself. I ponder the idea that I could make a television series about my new career as an outsourcing councillor. I think not. I guess like that guy that recently was arrested taking photos of girls’ undies by sticking a miniature camera on the tip of his shoes. How does someone wind up at that position in life when this sounds like a good idea?<o:p></o:p>Like everybody else in this carriage my brain is a vacuum and my nose is streaming. The whistle sounds and the train pull out of the station. I sit back and enjoy the smells and unhappiness. Who farted?</span></h2>
<br />
<h2>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">I</span></h2>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 18pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>SPIRITUAL BUMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15125651214740735653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277561613826615864.post-13412360255531848352012-05-28T16:30:00.003-07:002012-06-05T16:50:57.164-07:00<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times;">The screech of the
electronic doors closing sounds and the train pulls out of the station. Like
everybody else in this carriage my brain is locked in a void and my nose is
streaming. I sat back and absorbed the smells and unhappiness. Charles Dickens
would have recognised this odour of the streets. I felt quite at home myself.</span><span style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: Times;"> <span lang="EN-US">As it happens, I
have been reading 'The Lost Books Of The Odyssey' a remarkable take on the
Greek saga. I also memorized every station between Flinders Street and
Frankston.</span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: Times;">Eva wasn’t
impressed by my recall. “When did you become such an arsehole?”</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: Times;">I gave a little laugh. Eva is
26 years old. She was eight years into an Arts degree at Melbourne</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626; font-family: Times;"> </span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: Times;">University and got knocked up. She is a
regular customer. Who could make sense of that?</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: Times;">I joked that I had Stockholm
syndrome; I had come to love my clients regardless of non-payment. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: Times;">I gave Eva details on why she’s an
angry person who has to accept this and be patient and let her feeling
of anger pass. To illustrate my counsel I tell her the story of Odysseus. How
Odysseus understood how weak human will-power actually was when he asked his
crew to bind him to the mast while navigating beside the sirens.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: Times;">Willpower was something you can
never have enough of? </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Eva sat scowling and jabbing her
arm repeatedly with a fountain pen till she drew blood. I grabbed the pen from
her. I draw the line at self-harm.</span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>SPIRITUAL BUMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15125651214740735653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277561613826615864.post-63471334778962463222012-05-28T16:26:00.003-07:002012-06-05T17:00:11.981-07:00<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;">S</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;">hrinks
speak softly. They are low-talkers but they give great empathy. On your final
appointment they usually make a short speech; “Psychiatry taught me<b> </b>that you have to come up with your own
version of neurotic happiness. I'm never going to be a normal person. No one
changes, no one gets better – once you make friends with your neuroses you can
plan a life.” </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;">I might have to book into a therapist myself, a male psychiatrist
this time my previous shrinks have been female. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;">The start of winter and lack of
light has flattened me out. I feel like I’m walking in custard. Thing is, I’m
the best semi-retired counselor working in Melbourne.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">On
the up side my orange tree, which I have grown from, a foundling lying in the
yard of a wrecked house is really fruiting up. Homegrown oranges are great, not
so sweet, with a real tang. I’m reading many books, Russians & Eastern Europeans. </span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I have written a new album of songs, but decided I will wait till next year before doing
the rounds of the arts bureaucrats to hawk the idea of recording it. I am an
older person. I take medication, but still get a little edgy. However, I am at heart a
happy fellow.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"> The train
rumbles into Newport Station and an older man in blue cotton drill Yakka
workwear sat opposite me. He wanted to know what the time was. Next he wanted
to know what my nametag meant. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I
asked him if he wanted a session. I explained the first time it is free. He
could talk his head off till Seddon for free. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I ran my business like a heroin
dealer. He didn’t think much of my joke. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">He
looked at me like I was a lying sack of shit.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I
gave my spiel: “The idea of these sessions are that they are dynamic and we can
jump right into what your real issues are.”<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">He looked at me like I was a lying sack of shit</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">: </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">“Let’s
cut to the chase I’ve taken out a 12 week course at a gymnasium, to get fitter
and lose a few pounds. I would like to meet some ladies. I am at heart a
romantic.”</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I
interrupted,” Don’t give up at forty-nine hey.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">He
smiled, he seemed genuine. </span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I said: “I wouldn’t
take it too seriously. I mean are you divorced? How long? Kid? Still got ya own
teeth, frankly a young twenty-nine year old might be revolted by false teeth. I
mean why would you go out with someone who would go out with you?”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I believed I was laying out the facts in a non-judgmental shape.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">His face went white and all the colours seemed to drain from his face</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">. “That’s just my opinion I’ve got
almost ten years on you, my attitude might be different. I suppose you’ve tried
the on-line agencies and the like?”</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">handed him my </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">printed card and clipped out a number on the card and gave it to him. “Same time next week, every seventh visit is on me. I shall
put my mind to this.”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Seddon
Station popped into view.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Yakka
Man stepped between the automatic doors into reality. He stopped, turned round
and looked at me and waved. I snapped out of my trance. It was corny but
reassuring; I had a new customer on the books.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>SPIRITUAL BUMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15125651214740735653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277561613826615864.post-46034084004618955642012-05-28T16:19:00.001-07:002012-05-28T23:19:27.001-07:00<br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I have been
in analysis for a number of years and I am what’s called semi-retired. This
summer I’ve taken to musing about wide-ranging topics that I know nothing about
to strangers whilst on public transport. Knowing nothing has never stopped me
before. It could conceivably help my patients and myself. I believe emotional
recovery can be best served in a less officious surrounding and I think that
shorter but more intense sessions can be fruitful. As a musician I made a name
for myself by injecting a sense of moral ambiguity into pop music. But these
days, institutional corruption and moral ambiguity are a given across all the
arts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;">Well, duh.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;">I</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;">t’s
sort of thrilling to have a real job</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #161616;">-working freelance as
an outsourcing counselor</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;">.
My music career has been consigned to the bin for present. I did a six-week
course at a TAFE. It was pretty thorough. Clearly, further study would be
helpful, but I’m a rocker and shall learn on the job.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;">I
was running late. I arrived at the Caulfield line and immediately had to make a
decision, two hours or an all day card? I might go for a monthly, yearly, or
even </span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;">buy a smart card</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626;">.
I always ride in the carriage second from the front. I don’t know why.</span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 18pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>SPIRITUAL BUMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15125651214740735653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277561613826615864.post-74017629399341089492012-05-28T16:17:00.000-07:002012-05-28T23:20:34.959-07:00<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3vyzv89zBuQ/T8QHFl_YtrI/AAAAAAAAAEw/m5k7pcX8ts4/s1600/7201376544_7e76ff63d2_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="270" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3vyzv89zBuQ/T8QHFl_YtrI/AAAAAAAAAEw/m5k7pcX8ts4/s400/7201376544_7e76ff63d2_b.jpg" width="400" /></a><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 18pt;">My name is
Stephen and I am </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 18pt;">at the age of 59 I am taking stock of
my mistakes in life. For thirty years I was a musician a moderately successful
one. I lifted black boxes and guitars from one car to another car to another
room to another airport and city, world and well you get my drift. I made money
and I lost it to hire car, equipment and travel agencies. My hair is silver.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 18pt;">Since my disconnection
from social networks, and my loathing of peoples fascination for themselves and
other strangers I have reacquainted myself with the idea of conversation and
the talking therapy. Consequently, I work</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 18pt;"> as an outsourcing counselor! My life has moved
in a challenging new direction. Some division of some city mission project has
hired me. Every day I meet my patients on the various lines. I don’t make
appointments, you have to buy a ticket and get on board </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 18pt;">for
‘The Train Sessions’. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 18pt;">It was
Montaigne, French nobleman that invented the journal. Supposedly, he was the
first memoroirist, a recorder of times, good and bad. His diaries weren’t used to
glorify his deeds and he contradicts himself over time. I can identify with
this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 18pt;">I</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 18pt;">
no longer smoke but still worry about losing my balance in the shower and have
made a conscious decision to cross roads at the lights and to use the rails
when walking down stairways. I keep bathing and shaving to a necessary minimum.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 18pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>SPIRITUAL BUMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15125651214740735653noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277561613826615864.post-60761822256218232022012-01-22T01:17:00.000-08:002012-06-05T17:28:30.576-07:00the train sessions’<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">She took me in her arms and kissed me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I woke up and immediately looked up my phone dictionary. To "sass” means to be unnecessarily cheeky or rude. I’d learnt a new word. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Yesterday in the heat I was working at my other job as an outsourcing councillor on the Melbourne train system. I had a session on the Epping line later. My clients on this line are so sardonic. It was between Rushall and Croxton Park that two hipsters sat opposite me. They were not companionable. They kept to themselves. Hipsters who are so hip they abhor other hipsters. I sat and listened. It’s my job, its what I do. These two weren’t my clients. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Eve, the female hipster sported a grown out pixie-cut, evidently she had been to the Apple shop near Flinders Street and had an appalling shopping encounter. She was incensed: ”The first half of the 2000s will be remembered as the era of being duped by designers. All style no substance. I will never buy a Macintosh product ever again." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Eve adjusted the strap on her appliqué Apple computer handbag.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I made an unasked contribution to the conversation. “It will be remembered as the age of forgetting; we seem incapable as a species of making sense from mass murder in Africa, and the Middle East. The first half of the 2000s will instead be regarded as a time of wasted opportunities. Nobody will give a fig about fonts or designers. You most likely didn’t even read the appropriate manual.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">There was a metaphoric stew brewing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Eve, the female hipster flew into a rage: “Woah. Zing. You don't even know what my problem was, or how I behaved or whether or not reading the manual would have helped. Everyone has a job; I spend all day dealing with customers (at my job, in hospitality...) and don't turn into an a-hole like you.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Adam” Oh boy sassed!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">They stood up smiling at their quick wit. There was no time for a retort. I turned away, reduced to a public pest. The children of the age of light and IKEA descended to the Northcote platform. As if to say, we haven’t finished with you yet.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>SPIRITUAL BUMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15125651214740735653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277561613826615864.post-77748299409132108132011-10-03T18:02:00.000-07:002012-05-28T23:24:09.861-07:00the french love their pharmacists, train blog<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NcJ-mhguI0s/Topbi5E4--I/AAAAAAAAAEY/GSHzpj9AWMU/s1600/297594_109088335866871_100002971162468_68343_2080997810_n.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5659436536739462114" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NcJ-mhguI0s/Topbi5E4--I/AAAAAAAAAEY/GSHzpj9AWMU/s320/297594_109088335866871_100002971162468_68343_2080997810_n.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I am watching my client as he walks towards me. I can hear footsteps. People brush past us as we attempt to board the Mentone train, stopping all stations to the city. I would never sign up for train-wreck-style reality show. No way! I became an outsourcing counsellor on the Melbourne Metropolitan rail lines when my life as a musician hit a bad patch. The client scoffs happily, gimlet eyes a-twinkle. The customer is an actor on TV. Naturally, he’s also a writer, a composer of music, musicals and has his own theatre group. He is not unattractive, wearing a baseball cap, dark glasses and neutral leisurewear as a disguise. He might as well be carrying a neon sign. He loves Mentone, the village, the postcode, 3194, the ordinariness of it, the bowling alley, Warragul Road and the broad beach with cliffs that the early 20th century painters so adored. He loves neighbouring suburbs Parkdale and Mordialloc, but not Beaumaris, its pretentious, especially the yacht club off Beach Road. He informs me that my face is drained of life and colour. I press my hands to my face. “What makes you say that?” I told myself, if he doesn’t speak soon I’m going to fall asleep. Momentarily flustered by my indifference my client underwent a transformation, a silent storm that set the carriage alight. His ego crudely penetrated the space. He was possessed, fell to the floor and screamed that he was cursed by gypsies, that his past was strewn with heartlessly rejected lovers of both sexes - for he had such a pride in his ability as an actor and his attractiveness. His voice held no sign of gaiety. He was drenched in sweat. I tried to crawl to another carriaqge. No luck . . . to be continued</span>SPIRITUAL BUMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15125651214740735653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277561613826615864.post-45684991928794204072011-09-18T17:11:00.000-07:002012-05-28T23:24:42.715-07:00<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fJNJAnfFA0E/TnaI_Q4h-WI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/OnwuxEPm56o/s1600/letter-opener-from-kenya.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5653857002655447394" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fJNJAnfFA0E/TnaI_Q4h-WI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/OnwuxEPm56o/s320/letter-opener-from-kenya.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 238px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: #262626; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The letter. More often than not, it is not what we listen to that is beautiful but listening itself. I was on the line taking morning sessions on the stopping all stations to Upfield. I was listening to two young woman-talking shoes and spray tans. They slouched, legs akimbo, sharing an Ipod and cigarette. Their voices were unusually melodious. It was mid morning and I had an appointment at Batman at midday with a forty-something academic, having a crisis. After forty-odd-years he discovered that his life was complete nonsense. Frankly, I could have told him that this was a realization that hit us all eventually, but he wouldn’t have believed me. If he did nothing, concentrated on his garden, took up crosswords, his problems would soon vanish. He had been singing socialist folk songs from the age of six. He furthered his unhappiness by moving west to live with the ‘real people’. He subdued his monsters with whisky, rock bands, saving the world through responsible architecture and slaughtering his own livestock in his garage. I didn’t get the connection. He was too cheap to hire a proper psychiatrist and that’s where I fit in. One of his doctorial students recommended me; the outsourcing councilor. Four fifteen-minutes sessions later we seemed to be getting nowhere. It was like we were talking in different languages. Today, I would tell him there was no expedient prescription for happiness, bar acceptance of one’s shifting destiny.</span><span style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>SPIRITUAL BUMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15125651214740735653noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277561613826615864.post-38895215317139987362011-06-07T23:08:00.001-07:002012-05-28T23:25:56.581-07:00<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4ZLsct6r5z8/Te8SKlFcmAI/AAAAAAAAADw/bXrUFp5xF6k/s1600/duchamp-apprenti.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="200" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5615727233317246978" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4ZLsct6r5z8/Te8SKlFcmAI/AAAAAAAAADw/bXrUFp5xF6k/s200/duchamp-apprenti.jpg" style="float: left; height: 320px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-top: 0px; width: 246px;" width="153" /></a><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The stationmaster loves his job. He sorted out a squabble between two nasty bastards. It was over a copy of yesterday’s free afternoon newspaper. Talk about idiotic. I am listening to rock and roll on my iPhone as the 2:30 pm Palace On Wheels that runs express from Pakenham to Caulfield, except it doesn’t. At Westall, two handsome Sierra Leone kids enter the carriage and sit two rows behind me smoking some righteous weed. These kid’s parents had managed to escape a bloody war by sea or plane to Australia. They had escaped curfews, glazed expressions and machine guns. The world is full of nomadic sad souls. The Australia government won’t accept their fair share to this free and peaceful country. Talk about pathetic. No one applauds my virtuous thoughts. The sweet smell brings back memories of my youth, sitting on the beach at Black Rock eating magic mushrooms in honey while my girlfriend knocked her chillum against a bluestone breakwater and stuffed black hashish into the opening and lit up. I am dressed in a light black raincoat, a coat that John Cassaveties might wear in a detective film, or possibly where he plays an expert on women or a whacked philosopher. I have my folder in my lap. I am wearing my nametag, which says, <i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1d1d1d;">outsourcing counselor</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1d1d1d;"> in red italics. It looks official but doesn’t scare the kids or elderly away. My </span>iPhone</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1d1d1d;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"> went mad; someone needed me. A customer was having an existential emergency. I answered the call; my customer was waiting at Murrumbeena railway station. I explained that I was on an express, customer said, no problem as a wrinkly had collapsed at the railway crossing and the express would have to stop. He explained that the area where Zones One and Two meets are like a Devil’s Triangle for the elderly, they disappear in mysterious circumstances. Extraterrestrials or fare evaders are suspected to be responsible. Another explanation pins the blame on suspected leftover equipment from the lost city of Atlantis. Rail authorities will not confirm or deny this.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>SPIRITUAL BUMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15125651214740735653noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277561613826615864.post-74608402892913341252011-06-04T16:36:00.000-07:002012-06-05T17:04:36.025-07:00<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vESmxg63HOo/TerBu_BHDhI/AAAAAAAAADo/J3kYw_pxbgw/s1600/Tea-by-David-Tindle-007.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5614512898404978194" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-vESmxg63HOo/TerBu_BHDhI/AAAAAAAAADo/J3kYw_pxbgw/s400/Tea-by-David-Tindle-007.jpg" style="float: left; height: 192px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-top: 0px; width: 320px;" width="400" /></a><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Jacana is at the beginning of Zone Two. The gateway to the paradise that is Roxburgh Park and Craigieburn. These suburbs are apparently the new fertile spots for the social critics, palm trees slump in the heat from the hotness that comes with being a now suburb. Academics and social critics are championing the virtues of the pizza shops and walkways over the railway tracks. The walls are camouflaged in brandalism, which is what gets the refugees from East Brunswick all high, horny and woozy. They ‘like’ the lethally complex geopolitical phenomenon that is Jacana.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">What do you mean your mother made you wear underpants from the old covers from bankbooks? Start again and go through it slowly, because this is the most amazing story I have ever heard.</span><o:p></o:p></div>SPIRITUAL BUMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15125651214740735653noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277561613826615864.post-89706080418971587002011-06-01T20:16:00.001-07:002012-05-28T23:34:30.872-07:00<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2X9XhbJycvo/TecAvMkgm-I/AAAAAAAAAC8/1Dp5hWZdlow/s1600/Photo%2Bon%2B2011-06-02%2Bat%2B10.27%2B%25236.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613456271368821730" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2X9XhbJycvo/TecAvMkgm-I/AAAAAAAAAC8/1Dp5hWZdlow/s320/Photo%2Bon%2B2011-06-02%2Bat%2B10.27%2B%25236.jpg" style="float: left; height: 240px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-top: 0px; width: 320px;" width="320" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span> <br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I am listening to rock and roll on my iPhone on the 2:30 pm Palace On Wheels that runs express from Pakenham to Caulfield, except it doesn’t. At Westall, two handsome Sierra Leone kids enter the carriage and are sitting two rows behind me smoking some righteous weed. These kid’s parents had managed to escape a bloody war by sea or plane to Australia. They had escaped curfews, glazed expressions and machine guns. The world is full of sad souls. For unknown reasons the Australia government doesn’t want to take their fair share of refugees. No one applauds my virtuous thoughts. The sweet smell brings back memories of my youth, sitting on the beach at Black Rock eating magic mushrooms while my girlfriend Tina knocked her chillum against a chunk of bluestone breakwater and stuffed some black hashish into the opening and lit up. I am dressed in a light black raincoat, a coat that you might expect John Cassaveties to wear in a detective film. I have my folder in my lap. I am wearing my nametag, which says, <i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: Arial;">outsourcing counselor</span></i><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: Arial;"> in Times New Roman red italics. It looks official but doesn’t scare the kids away. My </span>iPhone</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1d1d1d; font-family: Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> went off, someone needed me. A client was having an emergency. I answered the iPhone; my client was waiting at Murrumbeena railway station. I explained that I was on an express, he said, no problem as an old lady had collapsed at the railway crossing and the express would have to stop. The areas where zones 1 and 2 meet are like a Bermuda triangle for pensioners dying, like lemmings they are drawn to train tracks for that final journey.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>SPIRITUAL BUMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15125651214740735653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277561613826615864.post-86525293778959638772011-05-31T22:20:00.000-07:002011-05-31T22:21:39.220-07:00new novel: the Mission stories.<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eA1fG37bkRU/TeXMXMbXPfI/AAAAAAAAACs/D6rvJ-K2TnQ/s1600/488px-Bartolomeo_Veneto_001.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 261px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-eA1fG37bkRU/TeXMXMbXPfI/AAAAAAAAACs/D6rvJ-K2TnQ/s320/488px-Bartolomeo_Veneto_001.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613117209432243698" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:18.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-Times New Roman";mso-ansi-language:EN-USfont-family:";font-size:16.0pt;color:#262626;">Shrinks listen to everything and speak softly. On your final appointment they usually make a short speech; “<span style="mso-bidi-font-weight:bold">Psychiatry taught me<b> </b></span>that you have to come up with your own version of neurotic happiness. I'm never going to be a normal person. No one changes, no one gets better – once you make friends with your neuroses you can plan a life.” I might have to book into a therapist myself, a male psychiatrist this time my previous shrinks have been female. The start of winter and lack of light has flattened me out. I feel like I’m walking in custard. Thing is, I’m the best counselor working in Melbourne.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0cm;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:18.0pt;mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-Times New Roman";mso-ansi-language:EN-USfont-family:";font-size:16.0pt;color:#262626;">On the up side my orange tree, which I have grown from, a foundling lying in the yard of a wrecked house is really fruiting up. Homegrown oranges are great, not so sweet, with a real tang. I’m reading many books, Russians & eastern Europeans. I have written a new album, but decided I will wait till next year before doing the rounds of the arts bureaucrats to hawk the idea of recording it. Listening to audio book of 'Brave New World' its rather good. The book foretold the future reasonably well. I lay in bed I listened to the new Keith Richard memoir, read by Johnny Depp. It was draining. Each note of a rich drug addicts self-satisfied spiel. Does it get worse than that? When Keith sticks to music its enjoyable. Australian literature is of zero interest to me. I quit Facebook; it was harder than stopping smoking.</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size:18.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-mso-ansi-language:EN-USfont-family:Arial;font-size:14.0pt;color:#262626;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->SPIRITUAL BUMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15125651214740735653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277561613826615864.post-86250918422849096532011-05-31T17:52:00.000-07:002012-05-28T23:35:32.675-07:00“Our time is up Dog,”<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vBBvMGfdAL8/TeWNyN41V7I/AAAAAAAAACk/wy2EVvpPI3I/s1600/Un.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="400" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613048404448204722" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vBBvMGfdAL8/TeWNyN41V7I/AAAAAAAAACk/wy2EVvpPI3I/s400/Un.png" style="float: left; height: 320px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-top: 0px; width: 266px;" width="332" /></a><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“Our time is up Dog,” I said to my customer disguised as a Cambodian shrapnel bomb of ill-angled words and sputtering electronic bleeps named Boo. He reckons he uses me as his confessional or tour guide. Boo’s first single "Dicksweat" comes out in March.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Boo exclaimed, "Hey Mister C, guard your grill and take a chill pill.”</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Boo bumped knuckles and I stepped on to the platform. It was like entering through a portal into nothingness. It was called Huntingdale.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Next thing I knew I was eating at sub-continental cafe with a nun. “So how can I be of help Sister?”</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">“No in fact, quite the opposite sinner. How can I help you? Your face looks like hell and I can tell you’re a crotchety old man whose carnal appetites have shrunk to zero.”</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Looks like nothing romantic this afternoon. Bummer. I needed time to think. I played games with the soy bottle on the laminex table to gain some leverage. A yellow banner with a slogan like ALL YOU CAN EAT; No Sharing Plates. Was plastered behind the counter.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I lightly stroked her cheek: “Why don’t we talk about this next week?”</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The sister adjusted her habit and whistled a Latin alternative version of the Beatles ‘Eight Days A Week’.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I bought a newspaper and sat down at the table: “Listen Sister, last I heard you were dead and hiding out in New Zealand and working as a turntabalist in a bar where you made top-shelf Brazilian pastries and empanadas’.”</span>SPIRITUAL BUMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15125651214740735653noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277561613826615864.post-52987842348525214132011-05-29T06:20:00.000-07:002011-05-29T06:46:30.207-07:00Every moment is a golden one<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HaOQ4CTXfWk/TeJOKN2EW2I/AAAAAAAAACc/BBXhR_eFZoE/s1600/thinky.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 178px; height: 220px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-HaOQ4CTXfWk/TeJOKN2EW2I/AAAAAAAAACc/BBXhR_eFZoE/s320/thinky.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612134023079156578" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top:.1pt;margin-right:0cm;margin-bottom:.1pt; margin-left:0cm;mso-para-margin-top:.01gd;mso-para-margin-right:0cm;mso-para-margin-bottom: .01gd;mso-para-margin-left:0cm"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">“Psychiatry taught me </span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">that you have to come up with your own version of neurotic happiness. I'm never going to be a normal person. No one changes, no one gets better – once you make friends with your neuroses you can plan a life.” John waters. The Guardian.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top:.1pt;margin-right:0cm;margin-bottom:.1pt; margin-left:0cm;mso-para-margin-top:.01gd;mso-para-margin-right:0cm;mso-para-margin-bottom: .01gd;mso-para-margin-left:0cm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> That’s how I’m feeling tonight, but I might have to book into a therapist. A male one this time, my two previous shrinks have been female. I never thought I’d have to do it again, but the start of winter and lack of light has flattened me out. I feel like I’m walking in custard.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top:.1pt;margin-right:0cm;margin-bottom:.1pt; margin-left:0cm;mso-para-margin-top:.01gd;mso-para-margin-right:0cm;mso-para-margin-bottom: .01gd;mso-para-margin-left:0cm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">On the up side my orange tree, which I have grown from, a foundling lying in the yard of a a wrecked house is really fruiting up. Homegrown oranges are great, not so sweet, but a real tang. That’s enough for a first blog back. I’m reading many books, russians & eastern europeans. I have written a new album, but decided I will wait till next year before recording it. listening to audio book of 'Brave New World' its rather good. Also listened to keith richard bio, read by johnny depp. very draining, rich drug addicts bragging. does it get worse than that? When he sticks to music. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Every moment is a golden one for him who has the vision to recognize it as such. Australian literature is of zero interest to me. 'Cloudlands' or anything by Tim Flanagan or whoever all deadly, and not in the indiginous australian use of that phrase. i quit facebook for good; harder than stopping smoking.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top:.1pt;margin-right:0cm;margin-bottom:.1pt; margin-left:0cm;mso-para-margin-top:.01gd;mso-para-margin-right:0cm;mso-para-margin-bottom: .01gd;mso-para-margin-left:0cm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">love you, love me,</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-top:.1pt;margin-right:0cm;margin-bottom:.1pt; margin-left:0cm;mso-para-margin-top:.01gd;mso-para-margin-right:0cm;mso-para-margin-bottom: .01gd;mso-para-margin-left:0cm"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">stephen</span></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span>SPIRITUAL BUMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15125651214740735653noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277561613826615864.post-37456146776176223872011-01-07T16:26:00.000-08:002011-01-07T16:28:11.700-08:00My afternoons in Huntingdale: The train Sessions<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_3CwR6r23azk/TSevdTC9TMI/AAAAAAAAACQ/AAQaHy_CcQ0/s1600/what_is_mans_mind_freud.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_3CwR6r23azk/TSevdTC9TMI/AAAAAAAAACQ/AAQaHy_CcQ0/s320/what_is_mans_mind_freud.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559605182875913410" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">My afternoons in Huntingdale<o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">“Our time is up Dog,” I said to my </span><span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">customer</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> disguised as a Cambodian shrapnel bomb of ill-angled words and sputtering electronic bloops named Boo. He reckons he uses me as his confessional or tour guide. Boo’s first single "Dicksweat" comes out in March.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Boo exclaimed, "Hey Mister C, guard your grill and take a chill pill.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Boo bumped knuckles and I stepped on to the platform. It was like entering through a portal into nothingness. It was called Huntingdale. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Next thing i knew I was eating at sub-continental cafe with a nun.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">“So how can I be of help Sister?”</span><o:p></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->SPIRITUAL BUMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15125651214740735653noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277561613826615864.post-56332507624482901642011-01-05T14:45:00.000-08:002011-01-05T19:38:06.005-08:00The Train Sessions’<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3CwR6r23azk/TST0372tA8I/AAAAAAAAAB8/UNuUiUiGZys/s1600/what_is_mans_mind_freud.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_3CwR6r23azk/TST0372tA8I/AAAAAAAAAB8/UNuUiUiGZys/s320/what_is_mans_mind_freud.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558837081879151554" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I</span><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">made a name for myself by injecting a sense of moral ambiguity into pop music. But these days, institutional corruption and moral ambiguity are a given across all the arts. Well, duh. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">A<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">nyway, its sort of thrilling to have a real job</span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color:#1D1D1D;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> working freelance as an </span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">outsourcing counselor</span></span></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">I was running a little late. When I arrived at the Caulfield line I was caught in a dilema; two hours or an all day card. If this </span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color:#1D1D1D;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">counselor</span></span></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> business takes off</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">I might go for a monthly, quartly, or even </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 20px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">the Myki smart card</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">. I always ride in the carriage second from the front. My memories a bit vague on why I actually do this.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Anyway, I change trains at South Yarra for the Sandringham Line. I swept out of one carriaqge on to another train. I’m thinking beach side, shady green belt, middle class customers to start the day. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">I wear a name tag that Officeworks ran up for me. Nothing too large. </span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color:#1D1D1D;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Outsourcing Counselor</span></span></b></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color:#1D1D1D;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> it says, $50 for 15 minutes; not as good as working at a massage parlour, but I more often than not keep my clothes on.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="color:#1D1D1D;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="color:#1D1D1D;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">A young lady with piercing in her eyebrow and cheek sat down across from me and began talking. She wore a shapeless black dress. There were bundles of newspaper at her feet. She was wearing red Converse runners and white sox. I thought she was too old to pull off that look. On anyone older than fifteen, it was ridiculous. I knew what I had to do, but instead exploded in cold chills and a rash. It comes with the job. This youngish female was having problems; she had cancer and hadn’t told any of her friends. She was pregnant and confused, she needed to talk, she wanted to have fun, but she needed to control herself and her emotions. I needed to deal with this problem as quickly as possible. Bummer. Not a perfect start to a shift. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="color:#1D1D1D;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="color:#1D1D1D;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">As I said, she started talking at Ripponlea and by Sandringham I was checking my watch and looking at the timetable for the next express back to the city. The depressing piano music in my head started playing and as we alighted on to the platform the woman rushed forward as though to throw herself under the train. I felt sure her number was up, fortunately a staff pyscho crashed into her and she collapsed in a heap on the platform. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="color:#1D1D1D;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="color:#1D1D1D;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Before you could ask the question, “</span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color:#262626;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">How do the SSRI's compare to the MAOIs?</span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color:#1D1D1D;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> I</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">had grabbed my fee from her purse, handed over my stamped discount customer card and made an appointment for next week for her. Next I stuck the chick in a taxi and sent her off to the Hospital. I couldn’t think of where else to put her. She was now the Indian drivers problem. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US" style="color:#1D1D1D;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'times new roman';">Till tomorrow, Stephen</span></span></span><span style="font-size:20.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count:2"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:27px;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:20.0pt;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->SPIRITUAL BUMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15125651214740735653noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277561613826615864.post-71866506442606760892011-01-04T12:42:00.000-08:002012-05-28T23:32:14.366-07:00<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_3CwR6r23azk/TSOG3qFOUPI/AAAAAAAAABs/QQfl5r-e6KY/s1600/French-Philosopher-Roland-007.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558434655852450034" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_3CwR6r23azk/TSOG3qFOUPI/AAAAAAAAABs/QQfl5r-e6KY/s320/French-Philosopher-Roland-007.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 192px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Odysseus understood how weak willpower actually is when he asked his crew to bind him to the mast while sailing by the seductive Sirens. Mmmmm willpower something you can never have enough of? I have been reading 'The Lost Books Of The Odyssey' an interesting take on the Greek tale.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>SPIRITUAL BUMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15125651214740735653noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277561613826615864.post-59028457929070166502011-01-04T02:40:00.000-08:002012-05-28T23:31:37.557-07:00working part-time as an outsourcing counselor!<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_3CwR6r23azk/TSL5p8eI1JI/AAAAAAAAABk/QfgqoNyl0aY/s1600/Photo%2Bon%2B2011-01-03%2Bat%2B17.52.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558279389131101330" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_3CwR6r23azk/TSL5p8eI1JI/AAAAAAAAABk/QfgqoNyl0aY/s400/Photo%2Bon%2B2011-01-03%2Bat%2B17.52.jpg" style="float: left; height: 240px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-top: 0px; width: 320px;" width="400" /></a><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 24px;"> </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 24px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Unconcerned with cash as I am, I have been thinking of working part-time as an outsourcing counselor! Why? Why not!I have been in analysis for a number of years and at my age I need a hobby. This summer I’ve taken to musing about wide-ranging topics that I know nothing about to strangers whilst on public transport. Knowing nothing has never stopped me before. It could conceivably help my patients and myself. I think its a spiffy idea. I’m trying to bring that word back. My fruit trees are running late; be at least another month before I’m eating apples, pears, nectarines, oranges and lemons. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 24px;"> <div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Whatever the case, I managed to pull in some good money travelling between broadmeadows and Cranbourne the other day.I have given up drinking—again.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
</span></span>SPIRITUAL BUMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15125651214740735653noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277561613826615864.post-34592455949356996452010-09-28T01:11:00.001-07:002012-05-28T23:28:48.264-07:00Third world entertainment tax<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_3CwR6r23azk/TKGjce-FmSI/AAAAAAAAABA/6GtsLqAuNj4/s1600/22jun05_0064.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="400" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521874327878080802" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_3CwR6r23azk/TKGjce-FmSI/AAAAAAAAABA/6GtsLqAuNj4/s400/22jun05_0064.jpg" style="float: left; height: 320px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-top: 0px; width: 264px;" width="330" /></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">T<span lang="EN-US">hird world entertainment tax <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Who came first? First exactly and do they do and do they do and so on and on and what does history teach? History teaches. I have been listening to a bit of Gertrude Stein on a 90-minute poetry record. I have a virus and feel like shit. Headaches cutting through my thoughts like a knife. I feel as old as the alphabet. As long as you’re happy. I can’t be happy feeling like crap. Wife & younger son went to the last day of the show. I made vegetable soup and slept lots. A few gigs coming up, been practicing so much I have sore wrists. All I do is complain. I am a touchy little son of a gun. So much to learn, to earn and to yearn too. Goodnight and thanks. Can’t get excited by grand final. Moment has gone. A tie is a result isn’t it?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Stephen</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 20pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>SPIRITUAL BUMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15125651214740735653noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8277561613826615864.post-26970062391769270102010-03-26T14:19:00.000-07:002010-03-26T14:21:17.977-07:00Trains & Tunnels. metropolitan train discursive.<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:24.0pt;font-family:Helvetica">The Train Diaries<br />If a reporter with a camera hidden in a rolled up newspaper were to film me you would see that I was leaning against a ticket machine at a railway station. Swarms of Monash University students flooded by me. With that goal in mind, I straightened up and grabbed my monthly ticket and walked up the steep ramp to the platform.<br />An announcement came over the tannoy speakers; an express to Flinders Street was arriving in one minute.<br />After three decades I needed a break from music; I no longer had the endurance to deal with the doughnuts. I have ignored the geographic side of Melbourne for too long I will experience the city as though I were an out-of-towner. I will travel to Jacana, Alamein, Ivanhoe and beyond.<br />I live by a railway line. Concrete sleepers and rail maintenance apparatus are stacked between the tracks and the walkway. First thing in the morning and again at sunset I see the trains as I walk the dog. They came roaring beside me covered in tags and graffiti. Unexpectedly, one stopped due to power malfunctions. At least I'm guessing it was that. <br />The passengers looked warily out the windows, exhausted and vacant, crammed together willy-nilly after eight hours of drudgework. I wanted to experience some of their indolence. Which was why I had forked out the money for the ticket and rushed between groups of students and 40-something workers, to platform three for the stopping-all-stations train to Altona, switching lines at Southern Cross Station.<br />As I understand it, the CONNEX legacy, the cancellations, and disruptions, break failures, overcrowding has the public in an uproar. More train services, greater reliability and punctuality … a better transport system for our state was the battle cry. Since METRO took over Melbourne's suburban rail system, the trains were still running late. It has been a short but troubled existence thus far.<br /><br />I noticed there were no seats available and no one was inclined to stand for me, a silver-haired old rocker. The commuter’s philosophy is simple: the strongest wins out<i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">.</i> Where did it all go wrong? A vapid train conversation took place at a loud volume between the passenger and their cell phone. Everyone had their nose buried in a newspaper or book or stared vacantly, tiny white headphones trembling all the way to their hidden MP3 players.<br />I settled into a nook between a frame and a door. I hung on to a hand strap. I couldn’t move if I’d wanted to. School kids with bags shoved themselves aboard. I closed my eyes. It was full all the way and took 20 minutes.<br /><br />I switched trains at Southern Cross Station, arguably Melbourne’s only emblematic structure. Alternatively, it’s a portal to ugliness and the central connection to Melbourne’s never-ending suburbs. It’s all hard angles, escalators and closed circuit surveillance cameras.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:24.0pt;font-family:Helvetica">Footscray, Seddon, Yarraville Spotswood, Newport, Seaholme and Altona are some of the stations we passed through. Once were seedy, but are now upper working, lower middle class with more closed circuit surveillance cameras. This area had been a tryout zone for immigration for years and minority groups have come and made money and moved on to the outer eastern and southern suburbs.<br />Solid weatherboards with refurbished kitchens with island benches the alternatives salivate over. This is what happens when the sharp but cash poor buy houses in dilapidated suburbs. The municipality is a swathe of Indian supermarkets, organic fruit shops, Western Bulldogs signage, African restaurants and a new respectability.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:24.0pt;font-family:Helvetica"><br />To be honest, I was confused what to do once I’d arrived at Altona. For me, this was all pleasantly bizarre, but for other passengers its their daily life’ they catch the same trains every day. I will buy some notebooks, make some connections and find out what-hell-is-happening across Melbourne.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:24.0pt;font-family:Helvetica"><br />I chose the back carriage for my return journey because it was handy to the exit. Such were the crowds you couldn’t move your arms. Yet no one panicked. For unknown reasons the train stopped for 10 minutes at Richmond. My head was a vacuum. Nothing much else happened. Station attendants or were they security inspectors huddled together at a stationmaster’s office. The train arrived at Caulfield and there was a mad scramble for the door. Aspirational people doing higher education by night, rushed for tutorials and God knows what else besides.<br />I’m a morning person; tomorrow I shall travel to Camberwell and take photos with the mobile phone I’ve had for years and never used. Everyday commuters will have noticed I have much to learn. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:Helvetica;mso-fareast-font-family: Cambria;mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-ansi-language:EN-AU; mso-fareast-language:EN-US"><br /> </span> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica">The Train Diaries<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica">Time runs at different speeds at the Camberwell railway station. The other morning, the platform was crowded. Citizens were dressed to the nines, keeping up appearances. There was a genuine pernicious strangeness. I felt like an extra in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Brideshead Revisited</i>. Everyone was a statesman; women included. </span><span lang="EN-US" style="mso-bidi-font-size:13.0pt;font-family:Helvetica;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia;mso-ansi-language:EN-US">It was like being in a giant warm, leafy autumn wonderland.</span><span style="font-family:Helvetica"> The suburbs saviour, accomplished actor Geoffrey Rush was omnipresent. There was an orchestra playing next to the ticket office. Elderly executives accepted tea from maids who mysteriously vanished. An ambulance siren screamed down Burke Road. What else? Hordes of schoolkids, shared headphones giving me <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">what the hell is going on here</i> expressions. Most had laptops that were splashed with stickers for<i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"> 3RRR</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica">METRO has had a short but troubled life. They promised high-speed trains zipping around town. All we got was a disastrous timetable, a skeletal service and break failure. Travellers with Myki cards posses a gallows sense of humour. A simple question: Why do Europe and India have terrific trains and Melbournians can’t take a trick? <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica">I tried talking to people standing nearby about the future of the passenger rail system and did they approve of the way Premier Brumby had hit out at the suburban train operator, but the commuters exhibited a look of paralysing helplessness. As though we were nothing but passive receptacles. Which made me think that at some deep level we got the train system we deserved.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica">The city bound train was late. We were filled with a rage, not against the dying of the light, but because we were impatient and unhappily resigned to the idea that we were doomed and redundant. Possibly that was just me.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica">While I was observing others I had stopped looking for answers to my own existential neurosis. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica">Meanwhile, a train arrived from the opposite direction, we scrambled aboard. As the train exited the great railway termini, the band upstairs played on and an elderly station attendant waved us goodbye while playing ukulele. I think it was Geoffrey Rush, imaging he was in a French farce at the MTC.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica">The next stop was Auburn. Interestingly enough, I lived in old soot blackened terrace house here, briefly looking after a goat while attending art school. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica">Two girls talked, one put the other straight in no time flat, “Hey, you don’t get brownie points for getting to work early.” The other waif nodded and fingered her long hair back into place.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica">Young male media professionals, grouped together, looking tall and angular with a clean-cut style like characters from the television series <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Madmen</i>. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica">The train departed Glenferrie and ran express to Richmond and continued to Parliament and the city loop where the lights faded to black between stations. The train quickly emptied as the workers disappeared into health food juice bars that doubled as purveyors of energy drinks sushi and coffee.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica">When I was a little boy the only time we went to the city was after my big sister had dragged me to a dentist in Camberwell as it happens and I would leave the surgery with a mouthful of blood and she’d drag me to Myers in Little Burke Street to their downstairs cafeteria where I would eat jelly and spit out more blood into my hanky.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica">Uh huh, voices from the past, I was reminiscing. It was time for me to go home. Ten minutes to the Sandringham line, time for me to go through the rubbish bin in a search for yesterday’s newspapers. Now the others were at work, I was free to relax.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Helvetica"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->SPIRITUAL BUMhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15125651214740735653noreply@blogger.com0