Divine Chance - A Short Story

Note: I wrote this piece late last week, and thought it appropriate to post here for the Christmas Season.

At a time shortly after WW1 in the city of Moscow a middle-aged man, appearing close to death, is in dire need of warm clothing, food and shelter. Because of the winter months in Moscow, the temperature can drop as far as 100 degrees below zero; it is not so much the temperature of the air but the scathing winds that blow through the streets that can turn an unprotected body into a brittle object of ice. Uri, walking aimlessly through the streets, found a small alleyway, curling against a brick wall to escape the wind.

Since deserting the Red Army a month ago, he wore only a thin sheepskin coat, a cotton shirt and worn leather boots that barely protected his feet from the small pebbles along the road, let alone the cold. As the wind continued to whip through the streets like a swipe of the hand from the devil, Uri prayed to God for a small respite for his misfortune.

Freezing to death is a long, painful experience; as time travels forward, as consciousness weakens, one’s awareness moves dangerously close to that irrevocable slumber; death was stalking the streets, seeking out Uri.

Uri peered upward and in a whisper, uttered a prayer:

'Lord, I know I do not deserve to live, but please spare me, and with all my soul, the rest of my life will be devoted to you!'

Uri believed the Revolution and the fall of the Czar would change Russia for the better. The two-year drought, however, seemed to never end. Many good families died from starvation. Then the unexpected Civil War broke-out between those loyal to the Czar, the “White Loyalists” and those revolutionaries’, intent on change for all “workers”, joined Lenin and Trotsky, calling themselves the Red Army. The Russian people were dying by the millions, and for Uri it was a confusing time, not only for him, but the entire Russian people.

Uri’s life changed forever, when Trotsky’s Death Squads raided his home one early morning. The memory was chaotic, flashes of moving disjointed images, only echoes of shouts, gunfire and pleas for mercy. He does remember his beautiful wife, Ivana and his son, Vadim ruthlessly shot in the back of their heads. Confused, the rest of the memory is only a haze. He could not recall his youngest, Svetlana, a mere four years of age, receiving a bullet before he was handcuffed and dragged away from his home.

Uri thought: ‘Can my darling daughter be alive? No, it is not possible. She would have been sleeping with her mother…. Svetlana must be with the Lord.’

Uri was taken to a camp, an area of tents and small fires that in their sheer numbers resembled the sparkle of the night sky. He then was fitted with an odd uniform, though very warm, and given an old, rusted rifle used in the 18th century. Along with the antiquated firearm, he was handed only three bullets.

“Make these bullets last and make them count! Because supplies are low, you must show the generals’ that you are a true patriot of the revolution. Otherwise, (he sniffed, spat in his hand and wiped the snot on his trousers)…you will be shot like a dog.”

2.

The Supply Officer appeared to Uri like an over-sized bulldog; a frosted beard, and his left ear stuck-out like an odd branch of a tree. He spoke in a gravely voice like a demon or a heavy drinker that smokes too many cigars.

Lost in the pangs of hunger and post-trauma-induced haze, Uri was brought back to reality to the shouts of the General in charge addressing a haggard, limp group of peasants with rusted rifles and only three bullets each, and were expected to perform like trained soldiers – a pseudo-battalion of misfits and starving men.

In an unusually loud voice with the accent of a Ukrainian, he began:

“Comrades, you are all very fortunate men. Now that the Evil Regime of the Czar and his family has been, well, eradicated, we now face new enemies. Listen carefully; these men are the manifestation of the devil himself! The workers’ of the world will unite because of the greatness of Comrades' Lenin and General Trotsky. Tomorrow you will fight our enemy’s with true vengeance and, will most likely die in the attempt. At the least comrades’, you will die for the Cause and be remembered with honour!”

“Dismissed!”

The General turned with his hands clasped behind his back; his face turned downward, his lips moving as if praying. He entered his tent, and all could hear his booming voice echo throughout the camp:

“VODKA!”


*


The dawn cracked revealing a thick fog, an eerie mist, that hovered over the battlefield like a rising damp from Hell.

General Demedov shouted orders out into the semi-darkness to his troops to fall into formation: those “loyal to the Cause”, formed a line in the back, their guns loaded and ready. Those men like Uri, farmers, peasants, poor shop owners, factory workers, who’d been forcefully conscripted, who could not be trusted, were ordered to form along the front line, facing the White Army, eye to eye…

Sitting on a magnificent white horse, General Demedov galloped back and forth at the head of the front lines, the mist from Hell clearing, stopping directly in line with Uri and the other starving misfits.

“Because the enemy is all around us, perhaps even the man beside you, could well be a traitor. General Trotsky’s orders are clear: if you hear anything, one word of treason against our Cause, you must kill them without hesitation.”

3.

The General then ordered something to his second in command. A man was dragged out in front of Uri in chains, his face unrecognisable from the beatings the night before. It was obvious to Uri that this man was an aristocrat, royalty because, despite his horrible wounds, his demeanour reflected a quietness, a man educated and privileged – a loyalist from a long line of family that ruled over Russia for over half a millennium.

The general yelled at the prisoner: “Who are you loyal to? The revolution and the people of Russia or the pigs that have treated the people with disregard and contempt?”

General Demedov then pulled out his pistol, pointed the gun to the man’s head, but did not pull the trigger. “I’ve changed my mind, bring me a sabre!”

In a few moments, Demedov was handed a sword and, after forcing the aristocrat to his knees, took aim and be-headed the loyalist; the mouth of the head began to move as if he was trying to speak, rolling to Uri’s feet.

“Our enemy’s are legion, and General Trotsky has ordered to kill all those that oppose us; kill them without a second thought. Do you understand?”

There was no response from the battalion, only a silence.

Demedov continued: “If you choose to run and not fight the enemy, our trusted one’s will be behind you, ready to shoot any coward in the back!”

Uri followed those who’d been ordered to the front lines. He felt nothing except the terrible thought, ‘We are merely human shield’s against the enemy.’

He crossed himself and said the Lord’s Prayer under his breath.

As the stench from Hell lifted, in the distance, Uri could see the out-line of thousand’s of troops, marching in unison, all singing a familiar song of loyalist patriotism to the Czar.

The battle would soon begin.


*


Minutes passed, the mist had disappeared, and the White Army stood in perfect formation no more than one hundreds yards away. The eerie tone of a thousand men singing their praises to the Czar only added to Uri’s empty terror…that feeling which most soldier’s feel before a battle is about to commence.

Across the short expanse, Uri saw a solider on a white horse raise his gleaming sword into the air; the solider dropped his sabre and screamed, “Attack!”

4.


The Cossacks, once the Czar’s personal body guards, galloped on their white horses at full pelt, their sabre’s drawn, screaming an old Russian war cry…

The Red Army’s captain, Demedov, rather than send his own Calvary, ordered the front line to meet the well-experienced Cossacks on foot – a suicide command, like lambs sent to slaughter.

Despite Demedov’s order to attack, not a single man moved, but fell to their knees, making the sign of the cross, their heads lowered to the ground.

As the Cossack’s approached, the man kneeling next to Uri fell forward on his face: half of his head gone from a Red Army bullet from behind.

The Red Army began shooting their own men rather than the Cossacks. This, of course, made the killing much more simple. Interestingly, however, the Cossack’s ignored the front line as if they did not exist, to then begin slaughtering those men on the back lines, those loyal to Trotsky.

Uri could see nothing but blood and carnage…so much blood! He observed a man screaming at the top of the hill, staggering through the dead bodies, his right arm missing, spurting a flow of blood from the large gape when, mercifully, a Cossack on horseback, walked his horse by the man and cut off his head in a single swoop, ending his misery.

Once the Cossacks were satisfied with their task, the entire Red Battalion dead or severely wounded, made one last round, putting those wounded to death.

Uri crawled next to a man who’d been shot from behind by Trotsky’s men though he was alive and groaning loudly. Uri covered his mouth, whispering, “Be quiet if you want to live!”

It felt like hours before the Cossack’s finally retreated. The sun sat on the horizon; Uri then dragged the wounded man into the dense forest next to the battlefield to safety.


*

The wounded man’s name was Vadim, the same name as Uri’s dead son. The bullet had entered his back only centimetres below his left shoulder blade, missing his left lung. Feeling through Vadim’s coat, he felt an exit wound and knew the only way to save his life was to some how stop the bleeding. Night began to descend along with the godless cold. If something wasn’t done soon to stop Vadim’s bleeding, he would be dead within the hour and Uri would be alone.

In an act of mindless desperation and mercy, Uri removed his uniform jacket, instantly feeling the bite of the cold. He wanted Vadim to live so much, from a place of strength within his
soul; he tore his jacket sleeves off, and the coat in long think strands, creating bandages for the wounded man. He wrapped the ‘bandages’ around Vadim using his own bootlaces to then prop Vadim’s body against a tree, applying pressure to the wound.

The devil’s wind began to blow through the trees, and without a coat, Uri would soon be dead from the low temperature.

When the moon was at its brightest, as the night had a cloudless sky, Vadim awoke and smiled at Uri, whispering, “Thank you. The angel’s of God will be with you.”

Vadim’s eye’s closed as he fell into an eternal slumber.

Soon the wind flew into a rage, determined to kill Uri or any living thing. Then he heard his name called out from the distance.

“Uri, wake up child and follow me.”

Uri opened his eyes and saw a man dressed as a Roman Centurion, holding a long spear, his helmet glistening from the light of the moon.

“Who are you stranger?”

“My mission is not to tell you my Name but to take you home.”

The Centurion lifted Uri to his feet and covered him with his thick crimson cape. At last Uri felt warm again, but an unusual warmth coming from within as well as all around him.

Together they walked through the White Army’s camp, yet strangely no one noticed them.

Soon the Centurion and Uri reached the city of Moscow…Uri’s home. When the Centurion removed his cloak from around Uri he could fell the freezing cold once again.

The Centurion spoke:

“Uri, as a spirit of God, you sacrificed your own life for a stranger. This is Love. Go forth into the city and you will find that Love you seek!”
The Centurion walked through the crowd of the city streets and soon disappeared.


*



5.


Uri’s eyes opened again as he remained against the brick wall of the alley. The snow had stopped falling, and the devil’s wind was now sleeping. He closed his eyes and felt death to be his only option, when two people grabbed him and carried the man away.

Uri opened his eyes to a warm fireplace, the flames rising high and the wood spitting and cracking – a familiar and beautiful sound. He looked to his right and their standing above him was Svetlana, his little girl.

“Papa, you wake!” She smothered her father with kisses.

“Is that you my little mouse?”

“Yes Papa, it’s Svetlana!”

“But my little mouse, I thought I’d lost you to those terrible men.”

Out from the back of the kitchen, a voice resounded:

“You are lucky my brother, Uri! We knew the Red Army had killed your family and we lost hope for you. By the grace of God we found Svetlana walking the streets…a true miracle!” He made the sign of the cross. “Then we find you! My brother you should be dead.” Tear's fell from his eyes.

“What happed to you?”

“I will tell everything my brother, but please let me hold my little mouse by the warmth of the fire. I cannot let her go…I love her too much!”

At that moment, there was a loud knock at the door. All in the room jumped to their feet expecting Trotsky’s men to raid their home and murder the women and children.

Mishka, Uri’s brother, reluctantly answered the door.

No one was there, except for a long spear leaning against the frame of the door. Mishka lifted the spear, feeling its heavy weight, and noticing the bright shimmering metal point.

Turning the spear on its side, written in the wood; etched in clear Latin, was the word:


LOVE.



Ends

Dishonesty - Is it Ever Justified?

My plan before making this entry was to expound on the subject of dishonesty and if lying in any situation or even life saving situations, is ever truly justified.

I've changed my mind.

After thinking about the subject, having to describe Kant's Categorical Imperative in order to argue one way or the other, has been done way too many times, however, in the last month or so, I've caught people lying, and in varing forms of grey to black, and their reponse was always surprising, when confronting them with their deception.

More often than not, those caught would continue lying so as to cover the discoverd lie...and so it goes...lie upon lie.

What did Hamlet say: "What a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive."

In other words, the more one lies, the easier it becomes, and farther into the hole one slides.

This week I attended a Renting Tribunal because I believe lies have been put forth in order to attain my money.

The magistrate directed us to the Bible, placing our respective right hands upon the holy text, and swear NOT to lie. This we did.

The first question from the magistrate was: "Has Mr. Middleton seen the photographs and paper work related to this case?"

The woman stammered, tried to lie, then caught herself vomiting nonsense. (She had just sworn Not to lie.)

He put his hand up, gestering to the stammering woman to stop talking.

He turned to me, "Mr. Middleton, have you seen the photgraphs and the landlords case?"

"No, sir."

"Mr. Middleton, I seeyo have written material in front of you. Do you wish to address this Tribunal?"

I read half a page but was stopped because "counter claims" were being made, thus the case will have to continue at a later date.

I have much lesser examples, lies about things in which lying was not necessary, but the individuals lied anyway. In certain circles this is called "Pathological Lying"

This week and last week, I've come across too many examples to mention here. My point, however, is society growing less intolerant to dishonesty?

Perhaps.

Are we becoming a society of cowards, where everyone lies from the highest levels of government down to an uneducated, twenty something Real Estate Agent bullying her way to make an extra buck?

Without truth there is no trust, and without trust there is no justice or love for that matter.

Are there situations in life that one encounters that justifies lying?

Maybe, but that discussion is for another time.

Melbourne's Real Estate Renting Rort.

You must give some time to your fellow men. Even if it's a little thing, do something for others - something for which you get no pay but the privilege of doing it.Albert SchweitzerFrench philosopher & physician (1875 - 1965)

If memory serves, not more than five years ago, renting a place to live was a fundamentally elementary exercise. One would find a flat or house that filled their wants and needs, front up to the real estate agent, grab the key, (usually handing over a small deposit of not less that $20) and personally inspect the property, to return with a decision: “I like the place. When can I move in?” Processes would be followed, that is, application, references etc. If one's references proved worthy, approval usually would come back, at the latest, in a week. Deal done. Now, this has all changed for the worse.

Needless to say, the world economy has fallen into a recession.

As the United States, the centre of the world's financial global network, has taken a nose dive, due, I expect, to greedy corporations and the billions of dollars spent on the destruction and occupation of one of the oldest civilizations in recorded history: Iraq. It is the opinion of many, that the current U.S. President, G.W. Bush, has not only destroyed the land of the ancients, but also his own country, due to personal gain and his incestuous relationship with Arabia and Israel.

What has this war really accomplished? Absolutely nothing. (Accept for the elites).

As has been happening since people have been documenting history, war and exploitation, always, the rich simply get richer and the common man, woman and child fall head long into poverty. This reminds me of what my father used to say. “There's a white elephant standing in the middle of the room, yet no one will talk about it!”

Which brings me to the current rental real estate market.

There are three major stresses that an individual must withstand: divorce, death and shifting premises. What is currently happening in the Melbourne real estate market, is a mirror reflection of the world economy. What does this mean?

Five to ten years ago, the economy was apparently in a boom. People with desposable income began to invest in “rental properties”, with the goal of getting rich. All was going great for a few years but currently these “investments” have become a burden because of growing interest rates and the price of land dwindling. Now the word is: sell! sell! Sell!

Unfortunately, as a renter for the last two years, my landlord and her incompetent real estate agent gave me 60 days to vacate the premises because she needs to SELL!

What is diabolically ironic, is the real estate agents are creating a FALSE scarcity, that is to say, the only way you can see a property is by “open for inspection”, where, at times, 30 to 40 people show up to find a place to LIVE. We submit our applications, and may the best person win. This is rorting in the extreme. Despite it being damn against the law: a punter will bid above the advertised weekly price, and, of course, they will obtain the property.

Example: I was “promised a property” because of being asked to vacate. The estate agent said, “Don't worry about anything, if you want the apartment it's yours – fill out an application just so it's on file.” “Thanks, XXXX, we'll take it.”

I stopped looking for places to live stupidly assuming I had the apartment. No call from the agent. Just over four days later, thinking something must be “rotten in Demark”, called to be told the landlord gave it to another punter! No call, nothing. Back to square one.

These agents are playing a game; in some cases, there is no “open for inspection” times advertised, thus I ring them up and the response is usually, “Give us your number and we'll get back to you.” For example, I made 10 calls and got one call back!

My point is that there is NOT a scarcity of homes for rent. One only needs to drive the city streets to see “For Lease” signs every where or peruse the paper or the Net to find literally 100's of property's but the agents, in their greed or will to power, are making it almost impossible for your average Joe to have what all of us need most – a roof over one's head!

To be honest, this is downright appalling if not bordering on facism.

Out of pure luck or divine intervention, found a place in the hills from a PRIVATE OWNER!

If anyone with authority reads this, please investigate, and the “white elephant”, hopefully, will be revealed.

Death of a Friend and Musician Brings Forth Reflection for an Entire Town

"I am going to concentrate on what's important in life. I'm going to strive everyday to be a kind and generous and loving person. I'm going to keep death right here, so that anytime I even think about getting angry at you or anybody else, I'll see death and I'll remember."
Diane Frolov and Andrew Schneider, Northern Exposure, Do The Right Thing, 1992


Over the last 6 months, I've attended a “music night” at my local pub in the hills. This is an opportunity for musicians' without a gig or a platform to play their “stuff” for a live audience. These nights are good fun because it's a chance to meet musicians' of all types from metal, blues, folk, pop and moderate rock and roll. The experience can also be a bit intimidating because sometimes the talent moves far beyond “amature”, bordering on pure genius. What is so good about this night, despite ones skill or talent, no-one is judged and all receive the same pay – a free drink. It was on one such night that I met Heath...a guitarist of natural talent, his instrument a 'third arm', so to to speak, who also possessed the humility of a Trappist Monk.

Heath played for the House band, Fats Wa Wa, a blues/rock group with an incredible sound.

I remember one such “music night”, after I played a set of my own, that Heath put his hand gently on my shoulder and whispered, “That sounded good, mate.” To say the least this was a compliment of the highest order considering Heath's level of skill and talent.

It has been a month since attending “music night” in the Hills due to moving back down to the suburbs. I had lost touch with most of these people, so with guitar strapped to my back, headed up there to catch up and possibly belt out a few tunes.

When I walked into the pub, something had changed, that joy the pub is famous for wasn't there; it was then I was told that only two weeks prior, Heath, after playing and celebrating the opening of the pub's new restaurant cafe, while walking home was hit by a car and died at the age of 27. Heath is also the father of a six year old child.

The town went into shock and over a thousand people attended Heath's funeral.

I was not contacted, as most all were in shock, and calling me was the last thing on their minds.

When a whole town grieves it is almost palpable.

That night three bands played. No one mentioned a thing. The feeling was “life goes on” and let's play our best. Of course everyone was so glad to see my sister and I that, in retrospect, felt like a type of 'home coming'. We are part of the family and was welcomed back with open arms. (Don't remember so many hugs in one night.)

To say the least, I've been a bit lost, reflecting, looking back at Heath's talent and natural skill as a guitarist, but most of all his humility. He had nothing to prove because the music said it all.

To state the obvious, life and death are mysterious; and it is in the quote above that my and the town's reflections have concluded.

We will miss Heath greatly.

A Literary Document of Great Worth.

A Review and comment on "Jack Kerouac Selected Letters 1957 - 1969".

For any biographer or historian the original letters of the subject is a valuable and extremely important source of information in order to gain insight into the time period, and/or the person under study.

In part 2 of Kerouac's Selected Letters, the text truly gives the student or curious, a penetrating look into this enigmatic and ultimately tragic American author. For many, Jack Krerouac represents an important shift in American literature but also a significant historical (literary) mark of an entire generation. Ann Charters, (Kerouac's first biographer) editor of this volume, has done a pain-staking and beautiful job with this book - we come to know him as a man, the artist and his concerns; generosity, relationships; his struggle with the demon drink and, most importantly, the development of his unique prose style, leading to his now iconic status.

The letters begin in the year (1957) when "On the Road" was published. At this stage of Kerouac's life, from the tone and content of his letters, he is excited, finishing incomplete manuscripts, organizing "get- togethers', writing his publisher and working on new projects. As the years progress, sadly, his drinking accelerates, he becomes more and more misanthropic and, in the end, paranoid. It is true - it was the booze that killed his body but it was fame as an author that murdered his soul. More than likely, it was both.

Ann Charters suggests that these letters were experiments in style and possible new ideas for future projects, his friends perhaps 'sounding boards' where the reader can see his development of what is famously known as "spontaneous prose".

Kerouac was also a prolific poet. Some call his "novel", Mexico City Blues, one long, epic poem. This particular book, for me, was difficult to read, until viewing the piece as poetry - it was then the penny dropped and the book became much easier to read.

An example of a little poem written for Stella Sampas to Gary Snyder from Japan:

"A poem to Stella Sampas?"

"After the shower,
Among the drenched roses,
The bird thrashing in the bath

After the shower,
my cat meowing
On the porch"

It has always been my opinion that Jack's poetry is underrated, but that's neither here nor there.

Kerouac wanted his letters to be published thus he kept copies in neat files by year.

Close to the end of Jack's life just prior to writing and eventually publishing "Vanity of Dulouz" (1968), he narrates that by day he would write like a demon possessed, and by night, almost akin to some strange ritual, burn his day's work, page by page, only to start again the next morning. One can interpret this action in many ways: the Art fot Art's sake sensibilty; a process of purification as an artist or perhaps an experiment with the creative process itself. Who knows? However, the images in my minds eye of this action, are strong with an unidentifiable meaning.

Anyone interested in American literature, pursuing a research project or wanting greater insight into the man, these letters are an invaluble historical document revealing the inner workings of the "Beat Generation" that continues to affect most modern writing to present time.

Icon of Modernism - Review of Marc Chagall (Bio) by Jonathan Wilson

The reader turns the first page of this little book to see the 1929 oil on canvas painting, "Lovers" by Marc Chagall. The painting depicts a man and woman seated and embracing; the woman's head turned inward on the man's breast, while the man, an expression of calm and contentment, peers upward, watching a winged angel flying overhead, across a deep purple sky. The painting has the deep and rich signature colour of all Chagall's work, though lacks the intense emotional suffering and ambivalence that makes up so much of his oeuvre, however this painting evokes a mystical love, a true love which, in my opinion, expresses the relationship between the artist and his beautiful wife, Bella.

As part of the Jewish Encounter project, Marc Chagall by Jonathan Wilson is one contribution devoted to the promotion of Jewish literature, culture, and ideas.

It can be observed that most of Chagall's work, according to the author, is an expression of his philosophy, his religious sensibility if you will, in the form of the "literalization of metaphors", deeply grounded in the mystical and symbolic Hasidic world and Yiddish folktales, which include in their writings the "repository of flying animals and miraculous events." (P. 13)

It is impossible to label Chagall's work as "Expressionism", but the representation of an acute imagination, coloured in fantasy, depicting highly charged religious symbols, including in several works, Christs Crucifixion in a variety of contexts. What I love about Chagall is the viewer is drawn into the work by its striking colour and busy subject matter and is compelled to study it, because the meaning of the painting must be discovered as it is not apparent on a superficial viewing.

Wilson does a wonderful job of narrating Chagall's life in terms of the major events that the artist experienced, spanning through the Russian revolution, two world wars, the Holocaust and the establishment of the State of Israel. Wilson suggests that in viewing Chagall's paintings against the backdrop of these major historical events will see the artist's work as a response to them, and his personal inner conflict between his "Jewishness" and his focus on Christ's Crucifixion, and also his attempt at secularism in many of his paintings.

My favourite paintings by the artist are his various representations of love that display an ethereal, mystical quality, a sublimeness that to me captures love in their most revealing forms, as Wilson comments, "Chagall's vision of love, so appealing to the human soul, frequently involves a merging of two faces, or bodies, into one. In this regard he is Platonic, as his figures pursue their other halves in an apparent longing to become whole again. Over and again he paints the myth that Aristophanes recounts in The Symposium." (P.174)

Chagall's life Wilson suggests was an attempt through his art at the reconciliation between two worlds, a genuine effort universalizing or merging opposites, he writes, "In his paintings, past and present, dream and reality, rabbi and clown, secular and observant, revolutionary and Jew, Jesus and Elijah...all commingle and merge in a world where history and geography but also the laws of physics and nature have been suspended." (P. 210)

Wilson's Marc Chagall is an erudite biography and insightful critical work. Although relatively short in length, manages to capture the artist who is considered along with Picasso and Matisse, one of the icons of Modernism.

Homage to Apollinaire. 1911-1912. Oil on canvas, 209x198 cm.

Originally published on Amazon, 2007

C. Middleton

Australian Live Rock Hits the Suburbs

If you are a young reader or a bit older, stories and eye witness accounts about simple pub bands getting their start to then move to the Big Time has almost reached the status of ' Australian Rock and Roll Urban Legend.'

To name only a few: Cold Chisel, AC DC, The Screaming Jets, Noise Works, INXX, Jet... and the list continues.

Then something occurred in the early nineties with the Liberal government introducing Pokie Machines; suddenly, live music disappeared (almost) or it took a lot of effort to find a venue to catch a good rock band.

Pubs and the government made heaps of money, good for the city, but Melbourne's music scene almost died.

A few venues dug their heels in and remained true to Melbourne's traditional live band scene seeking out new talent – The Esplanade and The Palace, etc.

Those of us in the outer suburbs had to put up with Top Forty cover bands and it seemed true talent had no where else to go – until recently.

One such venue outside the city centre that provides a platform for new talent is the Casablanca Tavern in the Eastern suburb of Ringwood.

Del Fischer, proprietor and owner, wanted a place where new bands and mucical acts would have the opportunity to perform their music live to audiences.

Open just over two and a half years, Fischer, (coming from a family of entertainers and a musician himself) had the idea to expose new talent and began doing so since Casablanca's opening.

Standing behind the bar in the late afternoon, immersed in a chess game with a customer, Del becomes reticent when my barrage of questions over a lite beer interrupt his game:

What is your view on exposing new music?

“The government almost destroyed live music with the pokies, but my love of music pushed me in this direction, and the Casablanca was born.”

Quite a few venues in the city are offering “Open Mic Nights” giving amature singers and musicians a chance – do you have this type of thing?

“Read the sign outside, mate. Every Wednesday night anybody can stand on that stage a play their stuff. Some acts are a little average but once in a while a great talent appears. And as you know, this business is about word of mouth and followings – popularity can happen almost over night.”

As Del Fischer finishes his answer, he 'check mates' his opponent, who groans, smiles, shakes Del's hand and orders another beer.

As he pours a beer for his lost opponent, I ask, What talent have you helped to promote since opening your doors?

He comes around the bar an leads me to various promotional posters that just about cover every wall of the club.

“Tatto Rose, Riff Raff, Hard Copy, Motion19, Mark Phillips, Alice Platt and Sharon Hawker.”

(This is merely a quarter or less of the bands and performers displayed on the walls.)

There's a hint of pride on Del's face as we walk back to the bar but soon disappears as he silently calculates the night's business and entertainment.

There's more questions I need to ask him though his staff begin to arrive and the hard work begins, expecting a good crowd because a band with a 'big' following is due to arrive by 7:00 to set up and play by 8:30.

A night of blazing, original Rock & Roll in the eastern suburbs.

I decide to stay, notebook in my back pocket as I can already feel the tension mounting, because instinctively, I feel a great night of music to come.

Stunning Portrait of Beauty & Colour.

Fortunately, fell upon this stunning portrait while unproductively browsing, stopping me in my tracks like the proverbial brick wall.

What an impressive use of colour, ethereal, translucent and ultimately beautiful.

Unfortunately, however, searched for the artist and title of the portrait in vain...it remains a mystery.

The model is obviously posing on the artist's instructions; peering down, dangling "something" on her fingers. Flowers surround her as the afternoon sun enters through her thin dress, the door- window, leading to the back garden, revealing a extraordinarily beautiful young woman. The entire scene projects a calmness, quietness and a moment in time never to be repeated.

Over the last year I have come to love this "style" of work: a balanced rendering of Realism and Impressionism.

In the end, though, its the artist's use of colour that makes this style so entrancing.

Lovely.

Strange Night at “The Scab”

The local 'muso' hang-out in town we call 'The Scab' but its real name is The Scarab Bar, named after a holy Egyption icon, that resembles something between a lobster and a beetle. Strangly the name suits the place as there is nothing like it in the entire city: the bar is small and the owner, Les, a Croation with the energy of an Olympic marathon runner and is the spitting image of Robert Deniro (only Les is bald as the day he was born.)

What makes this bar iconic is no one is permitted to be unhappy, argue or cause the slightest bit of trouble...otherwise they're out on their ear faster than three blinks of an eye. One feels safe in this place for poets, musicians, writers and people who just want to have a good time without worrying about a drunken lout in a baseball cap, deluded into thinking he is an American black rapper, starting fights or giving the lady customers' a hard time. Therefore, to my way of thinking, The Scarab is a 'holy' place like the ancient Egyption icon: a refuge from the common dangers of a Saturday night.

Shaun O'Conner is a pre-maturly bald 24 year old guitarist and singer whose passion for music exceeds the passion of two young lover's – his love is the music. We met on a sunny afternoon in front of a grocery store while he sang his heart out, attempting to make a little money. We had a small chat and sang an old "Who" song, “Behind Blue Eyes” together while a small crowd gathered, and payed for the song with a few coins that they'd toss in his guitar case. He told me he played at the “Scab” every other Thursday and invited me to come along. Since then we've been friends for months.

It then became a ritual for me to go to the 'Scab' every other Thursday night and support the old boy with whistles and applause.

Then it was only a matter of time that I too, played and sang on 'jam' night every Wednesday and began to meet other musicians who simply played for the love of it: our pay for playing was a free drink on the house.

Working on a story for many hours one Thursday, getting my weeks mixed up, I decided to travel down to the 'Scab' a see Shaun – wrong night; a young man was playing who had the voice of an angel. Disappointed that my Thursday's had been crossed, I sat down anyway and listened to this young man and became increasingly impressed with his adeptness on the guitar and the few original songs he played.

After the first set ended, I sauntered outside for the obligatory cigarette.

Soon later, the guitar player followed with a friend – they appeared vaguely familiar.

The air was cool, a cold night, as you could see your breath.

Out of the cold and smoke, the guitar player asked, “Aren't you Mr. Middleton?”

As a semi-old brain does, it takes a little longer to connect the dots; then the memories return. These two 'boys', (now men) were once my students back in 2003. I remembered that both were not meant for the classroom and played-up, but great kid's anyway. We had a reminiscing discussion about the “old” days for a while and “S” returned to the stage. Feeling like playing I asked to do a song with him. I played the steel string acoustic and “S” grabbed the electric and we managed to play a tune that the crowd enjoyed.

Later they told me they were about to embark on a country adventure, essentially singing for their supper: real travelling troubadours, performing, playing music and seeing the country.

I felt there was something Real yet something Romantic about this goal; a medieval quest these boy's were meant to do.

We bid our farewells and I wished them luck as the night ended.

It is a bit strange meeting old students, not meant for the classroom, feeling loss (at the time) that they might have not learned much. But seeing them again after five years, while lying in bed that night, I felt secure that they were on the right road: good, kind, respectful, artistic and certainly headed for a few interesting adventures.

Needless to say, sleep came easy that night.

Spiritual Friend

When meeting someone for the very first time, the mind will automatically move into "judgement mode."

'She's this or that, good-looking, attractive, but a little too small; she more than likely hates men; she's mad as..." These so-called 'first impressions' sometimes turn out to be partly true, other times not.

The other night, playing guitar and singing on the stage, my set finished, and deftly moving in and out through the crowd, outside to have a smoke -the brisk air compared to the lights and noise of the pub was like two different planets. A full moon, alone, I looked upwards and noticed the moon, bright, clear and emanating an energy. (The moon has always intrigued me since a a small child.)

That first drag of my cigarette felt like a reward well earned.

Suddenly a tap on the shoulder: A new musician friend, "How did you go, mate."

"Not bad, at least they applauded to "Blue on Black".

"Cool. By the way this is C. C, this is Craig."

She wore a cute little wollen hat, gloves with the ends cut off - not exactly pretty, but I found myself startled. She seemed only 5 foot tall, nothing superfically outstanding, but there was 'something', the first word that came to mind: she's a very Spiritual Being - a quality of uniqness, someone special.

Not saying a word, I listened while her and my new friend talked about Bach.

For me there felt to be a strong feeling that I knew this being once, a long time ago.

"Nice to meet you, Craig."

The little creature then walked off alone into the darkness of the night.

J and I re-entered the pub and I asked him who she was. She had known J for 6 years and are very close.

"J? She is a deeply spiritual person, someone you're lucky to know."

"What do you mean "spiritual"?

An individual whose material, physical needs fall far below to their kindness, care for other people, sensitive, awareness of her surroundings and curiousity about the world. A different kind of love for the world than your average human."

Knowing they were close, asked, "Would you mind if I asked her to have coffee?"

J laughed and said, "You know she is of the other persuasion."

Interestingly, this did not bother me in the least.

Later the next week, we had coffee, and my intuition of her spirituality was duly confirmed.

A new friend.

Beauty, Treachery & Eternal Punishment.

"The Danaides" by J.W. Waterhouse, circa 1903.

Since the first viewing of this painting, "something" disturbed me. The painting depicts beautiful young women pouring water into a caldren with the face of a demon.

These young maidens are certainly committed to their task, but they know not what they are really performing...innocence in the midst of evil?

The Danaides is an ancient Greek myth.

Danus, the king of a territory in Egypt does not want his twin brother to take away his kingdom. Thus he makes a deal : because you are so infatuated with my lovely daughters'. fifty in all, you and your princes may marry them, but you must leave my kingdom and never come back. Danus' brother, enamoured with these beautiful young women agrees to the deal. However, Danus orders his fifty daughter's to kill their husbands on their wedding night. Loyal to their father, the weddings' are done with fanfare and joy. When returning to their respective chambers to consumate the marriage, all the men, including Danus' twin brother, are murdered in their sleep.

Suddenly consumed with guilt, fear and remorse, Danus gathers his fifty daughters and sets sail for other lands.

The punishments in their physical lives and the Hereafter are said to be the most terrible any mere human could imagine.

To read the entire story, Google, The Danaides, and the details you might find interesting.

It is the intense colours and attention to detail including clues as to the scene depicted is pure Waterhouse and striking in every sense.

A beautiful painting.

The Kindness of Strangers.

As a friend once told me: 'this is a pain planet'. After the last two weeks, this proposition seems like a good contention...a good argument.

Met a woman last weekend who had been slammed into by a tram (straight-on) and lived...when all observed, 'they' said the woman would never walk again; she's out there every day, in pain, getting that damn leg to work again.

And its only been a month!

The power of the Will over the Body IS astounding! (It is the following individual who has made it possible).

On the same weekend, met a man, whose taken upon himself to ensure those around him survive, do well despite the pain in their particular lives...

He's gathered a small group who are loyal and know he would do everything in his power to help them.

How can I describe this individual?

A man who has decided to live life minute by minute and ensure those around him LOVE life...like he does.

Liven on a prayer.

Loving everything but there is a difference, he's been there...living in one's car for six months, playing guitar, singing...to eat, will and does change one's view of the world.

Giving and receiving when one's life really depends on it.

This great dude is now living his dream...creating a place where people can love and be merry.

I guess this is a 'pain planet', but there are those around that make us see the minute by minute happiness of this existence; the simple pleasures of life itself...is ten times worth the pain.

'The Kindness of Strangers."

PASSION, "IT"

To Feel Life and see the World as it is in all its abundance and Strangness, can be for some, a one time experience.

To see a person excited about something, and doing that 'thing', is extremely inspiring.

As a school teacher of gifted, confused and at times, hyper teenager's, this 'passion' is part of their evolution; part of growing up.

As a teacher, this is what keeps me going.

Then most grow up and the passions' fade: love, work and their world.... the world of cyberspace. mobile phones, later, office gossip, affairs - a desperate reach for something that feels REAL, something that goes beyond the routine; without a true Passion, this energy turns negative, inverts, and life turns to hell.

It has become a cliche' over the last too many years, that our appearance is what's important: false beauty, losing weight, looking 'young', being part of the action.

To be sure, one should feel good about themselves, but the difference between the body focus or one's "looks", more often than not, leads no where because Death or old age is a fore gone conclusion. There's nothing worse than seeing people spend money on Botox, breast implants, hair replacement, in order to feel alive because it never lasts. (A quick fix.)

Meeting someone with a true Passion like music, cooking, painting, teaching, philosophy, theology, the mysteries of God; writing, helping the unfortunate; the care for the environment, science...yes, and even Love; one's looks makes no difference because there's a light in their eyes, a presence of being....that X quality that makes their presence light up a room.

To be passionate is to be alive despite life's vagaries because Passion can and will eventually over come the vagaries and obstacles that our live's on this planet seems to be designed to do... a system of barriers to push through, over or what ever it takes to do so.

Sigmund Freud, a pioneer of human behaviour and the mind, wrote that ultimate happiness is impossible, but to experience Love and Work, in their many forms, will and can move one closer to a semblance of happiness.

Pesonally, I have found this to be true.

Meeting people with a particular passion is a joy and very contagious.

To have Passion for literature, carpentry, music, et al, is one of the keys to a life with meaning.


Ultimately, however, it is the passion of love and a little joy in one's work that moves us closer to this vague and ambiguous feeling so-named 'hapiness'.

If you are not Passionate about something, life will pass by with bordom and regret in the blink of an eye...because, without focus and interest, Passion, life is like a haze, a cloud, a sorrow...a waste.

If you do not have it, find it!

But Now it's Gone.

You are the poet in my heart.

Now it's gone, it doesn't matter anymore.

Wait a minute, love?

Did we not drown in a sea of love?

We felt it would last forever.

But now it's gone.

To feel so deeply and go anywhere with you meant more...a sea of love,

"where everyone wants to drown."

It doesn't matter anymore, you don't call me, feeling like a wing has been broken.

My heart feels sadness and memories of utter love and beauty.

But now it's gone.

It doesn't matter anymore.

Call me because you are the poet in my heart.

But now it's gone.

A beautiful and a deep sadness.

Oh no, here I go again, remembering our love slipping through our hands like so many grains of sand.

A beautiful sadness covers me like a cloud where all I see is you.

But will that last grain of sand hold fast?

All I want to hear is that you love me.

But now it's gone.

And Im falling, falling into a sadness, a strange and beautiful one...and so it goes.

But now it's gone.

Writing.

A scrupulous writer, in every sentence that he writes, will ask himself at least four questions, thus: 1. What am I trying to say? 2. What words will express it? 3. What image or idiom will make it clearer? 4. Is this image fresh enough to have an effect?

George Orwell

Orwell did not write his two master pieces (Animal Farm, 1984) until close to the end of his short life; leaving the planet at 47 from a severe lung disease. But he often said that to be a writer that does not write at least 50,000 words a day should give the task away.

What was he saying?

To be a good writer or perhaps a great writer, like all the arts, practice and hard work are the sure fire paths to success. (The term "success" is another topic altogether.)

Orwell did not decide to be a writer until he was in his late 20's. But once the decision was made, he tackled the task like a man possessed. He wrote thousands of letters and articles, commentaries, novels, treatises and, for the most part, was politically minded. (Anti-fascist, Anti-communist) Many, many political pieces...

Apart from his novels and political articles, his favourite subject was the Art of Writing itself.

If one scans his books and articles will all too often come across a few words of advice about his method, his system, his philosophy on what makes good writing.

Paraphrased: have a clear topic and contention in mind; know exactly your audience; avoid unnecessary "big" words when a more familure one will do.

As another great writer said (Dostoyevski), write from your heart, believe, write with passion, and the reader will connect...if only for a moment.

Writing is like all the arts, practice improves, but like all creative endevours, discipline is the key.

The other night at a night club, or more a late night bar, I played the guitar for the customers, one song, and after the performance, had a few pats on the back. Then, later, a young university student asked my age, and appeared to be impressed with my so-called "experienced" life, and asked, "What is your PASSION?"

He expected me to say music, then I said, writing, to write a good piece is my passion, no matter a BLOG, letter, essay or novel. I've been DRAWN to write for the last twenty-five years; mostly crap, but it's my crap...and I simply continue to do it.

In the end, really, I desire my work to be read, but it is the act itself that gives me the most pleasure.

Orwell lived a short life though his body of work is still being sorted through by academics and historians, because writing was his passion, and he wrote every day...and the pages go on and on.

Writing is my passion.

I believe to have a passion in one's life is important; somehow passion gives us Meaning to our lives in this huge universe.

Ode to Love...and Love's Tragedy

Shakespeare's Sonnets come from the Bard's deepest thoughts, his passions, suffering and the expression of the ultimate Joy of Beauty, Poetry and Love.

Here are the words of a suffering soul, in love with "someone" much younger than himself, thus his references to age being no barrier to true Love in many of the verses.

All or most scholars agree, the Sonnets were written about and to a single person. The argument, of course, is who this person was...Oscar Wilde speculated the object of the Master's heart was a young male actor, due to the law, had to play all the female parts as acting in the 16th century was purly a man's job.

Shakespeare himself has become a mystery as to his true identity for many years. Interestingly, Sigmund Freud's "free time", was devoted to revealing the Bard's true identity

For me, when reading the Sonnets, Who wrote them or Who they were written For makes no difference. Because the Sonnets are the most beautiful Ode to Poetry, the Muse and Real Love and its Tragedy, that all too often, is true Love's end result.

Over the last three nights, reading or more acurately 're-reading' these wonderful verses, my admiration for the English language, its beauty and cadence, its ability for subtle irony and truth is astounding.

One of my favourites: LXXV.

"So are you to my thoughts, as food for life, Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground: And for the peace of you I hold such strife As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found: Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon Doubting the flinching age will steal his treasure; Now counting best to be with you alone, Then better'd that the world see my pleasure: Sometime all full with feasting on your sight, And by-and-by clean starved for a look; Possessing or pursuing no delight, Save what is had or must from you be took. Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day; Or gluttoning on all, or all the away."

"Feasting on your sight", just to see (her) brings on so much joy.

"Thus do I pine"... but saving her image in his mind like a glutton, a wanting, a Love deep and experienced from afar...

Merely to remind yourself of the beauty of the English language read the Bard's Sonnets and Poems.

A gift.

Craig Middleton

Written originally for Amazon.com

All Rights Reserved.

Unrequited Love.

After too many drinks, usually a sign of reminiscing and sentimetality, he becomes "philosophical" and ponders:

What is unrequited love?

A love for another that is not returned, and some cases scorned, scoffed at and... most of the time, and this is the hardest, you are ignored as if you never existed...as if those memories in time never happend, except in his imagination; but he knows this not to be true.

You become a non-person, another body, a non-entity.

To truly Love someone, one would give up everything to touch them, give up one's riches, ones dreams, to simply be with them...

The rain slams, carried by a gust of wind, against the window like thunder...again.

He truly believed that to love someone with all one's soul, and the Love is from the heart, no matter what happens, no matter the time or place, True Love will always prevail, because REAL LOVE, is something rare and worth fighting for.

After some years, he thinks, was my love true?

Yes, he believes...more real than life itself.

How can this be?

Her love was never true or he believed she thought it was true but it was not Love because she let the world in...

He was never priority, this was not REAL LOVE, but perhaps a type of infatuation.

He now sits in his old chair watching the Weather Channel on his little TV, as the rain beats againt the kitchen window, reminding him of a beautiful time with her...that beautiful day in the forest, a picnic, wine, song and kisses...

His old cat jumps on his lap, reminding the old boy that it is time to go to bed. He carries his worn body to his bedroom, sits on its edge and puts his wet face in his hands.

He fights back the tears but they are unrelenting and continue to flow.

"Why, after so many years, do I feel such pain?!"

Real Love goes both ways, in this life time, what he would not face, accept or believe was the love of his life, could not return such Love and left him alone, and moved on, perhaps disappointed, perhaps not.

Unrequited Love.

He does not want to forget her but the rain continues beating on the kitchen window - in furious waves.

The pain fades as he falls asleep, alone, with only the image of his beloved in his mind, even after so many years.

The rain stops, the images fall into nothingness, as he falls into a deep, forgetful sleep.



TRUE lOVE:

SONNET CXVI.

Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O no! it is an ever-fixed mark That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come: Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved."

William Shakespeare

Kindness

The ideals which have lighted my way, and time after time have given me new courage to face life cheerfully, have been Kindness, Beauty, and Truth. The trite subjects of human efforts, possessions, outward success, luxury have always seemed to me contemptible.

Albert Einstein


Personally, the last month has been hard work, full of anxiety, an exercise in extreme change, moments when losing one's temper would have been appropriate, though, knowing that keeping one's harsh words to one self will do more good than harm, has proved to be the correct course of action - in more ways than one.

It is with out doubt that out of my 250,000 word BLOG, I've spoken of one of my favourite philosophers, William James. He had a word of advice that has always rang true, sounding simple but harder to put into action. He wrote:

"Just for today, I will do something I do not want to do, and do someone a kind turn and not be found out!"

Random acts of kindness has been bandied about for a very long time. But seriously, how often do we put into practice this seemingly effortless action?

Philosophy is about the pursuit of wisdom; as a subject of study, it encompasses many subjects: ethics, metaphysics, the nature of language - though it was the Greeks who asked the million dollar question that underpinnes all philosophy:

"How are we to Live?"

As a young philosophy student, some years ago, I really tried to put James' dictum into practice, but as youth is about creating identity and proving oneself, these acts of kindness had to be "huge", "world changing": saving a life, saving a damsel in distress, finding the "key" to world peace...what a fool.

Over the years, I've come to understand that so-called little acts of kindness can and sometimes does, has the greatest affect.

For example: taking one's neighbours garbage bins back from the street because you know how busy they have been. Visiting an old relative in a shelter that you know is dieing and lonely. Washing the staff room dishes when you are not rostered because you know they've had a hard week, etc. You get the idea. In all honesty, it took me a long time to realize this simple truth.

The first part of James' advice is a no brainer: "Do one thing you do not want to do." - we have chores, decisions, a "put off" phone call": cleaning toilets or even raking those leaves.

Just do it and you will feel better.

William James was considered by his contemporaries as a Pragmatist. In essence, this means, if a philosophical theory cannot be applied or is relavent to the real world, it is useless.

William James denied the label (Pragmatist), but certainly practiced it.

To feel the Kindness from another is a great feeling.

To be Kind for the sake of Kindness, is even better.

One last thing, what gives an act of Kindness more worth, is to do the act, anonymously.

Because there is no credit given if you shout your kind acts to the roof tops for the world to hear - only the ACT itself has worth.

This may sound easy, but it is much harder in the day to day life we have come to know so well; though James' words have great worth.


Something to strive for...

Feeling Home, but Feeling so Far Away...

He lies in the middle of his bed in the early morning, alone, somewhere around 3:00, except for his cat purring at his feet, the darkness all consuming.

The birds and wild animals sleep because it is so quiet; a peaceful silence...a calmness.

Then, out of nothing, an overwhelming feeling of happiness and love fills the room and his body is filled with grace...a tremendous Light.

It is nothing he has ever felt before or remembers.

I've arrived, he thinks. I have found my way Home, yet knowing deep inside, Home is so far away.

There is no rationality to his feelings.

He knows he floats, at times, aimlessly, in this vast ocean, an innocent, a child, like so many before him, merely passing through, and never knowing the reason, he feels EXILED and must find that distant shore...Home.

He knows this in his soul.

A voice enters his mind and says: "There will be signs, wonders and miracles along your journey and always keep your eyes on the morning star."

He feels: "I'll find a way ..."

The feeling of Home slowly falls away and the coldness fills his heart like ice from a terrible winter he once experienced as a child.

He knows Home is a far distant shore, but these fears and obstacles, he feels, like the torrents and waves of the Atlantic ocean, can be overcome.

"Why have I been exiled?" he wonders.

"What have I done?"

He closes his eyes as the sun rises, hearing the birds sing, as he falls into a deep sleep, those memories, those ancient memories, come back to him, strong, so clear, so beautiful, he yearns to sail towards the shore, hoping he will see those he has lost over so many lifetimes and will always love....and the Light.

He knows he cannot sail, cross over...too much time remaining...fixed in exile.


Feeling Home, but Feeling so Far Away.

Romantic Love

"To love and be loved is to feel the sun from both sides."

To experience the love from another and feel the same intensity of love for them, is nothing less than a miracle.

Romantic Love, one could say, is an illusion or as Oscar Wilde once said , "...a kind of madness."

But if you've ever experienced romantic love, particularly later in your life, it's a dream, a drama, so intense, and all so beautiful.

One wakes up of a morning and they're the first thought of the day: When will I see her, how was her evening, and, of course the thought of making love; kissing or simply holding hands on a brisk morning stroll.

To feel "butter flies" in one's stomach just before picking her up for a dinner date, even though you've been together for a year, and offering flowers at the door for no other reason other than the fact that it makes her happy, is a pure joy.

The cynical will say that romantic love is fleeting and only lasts so long, then the relationship becomes a routine.

This is not entirely true for some because that spark or burning passion never goes away.

Romance, if true, can last a life time.

Every kiss is like the first kiss, every meeting is a new beginning; and making love is different and more wonderful and passionate every time.

I've known couples who have been married for 30 years and continue to hold hands, and the occasional kiss on the cheek while watching the TV or at the movies.

Simply being in each other's space is pure joy and a kind of happiness that only Love can create.

Romance, love and devotion still exists...and it is a miracle.

Giving

Generosity is giving more than you can, and pride is taking less than you need.

Kahlil Gibran


I've always understood the act of generosity as an act of selfless giving.

The true 'Giver' will offer all they have without a hint of a grude or with the thought or words of "Now you owe me!"

What is it to give with grace?

I believe it is to offer what you have to somebody with courtesy and decency with "no strings attached".

Some years ago while at university, there was a particular character who wrote for the university newspaper, pulled weight in the student Union, righting wrongs for his fellow students and so intelligent, however at the time he was on heroine but managed to keep it all together. Another friend who also worked for the University paper came from money and, of course, always had plenty in his pocket. We'll call our intelligent heroine addict Simon and our rich friend, Jack.

Living on only student payouts from the government, Simon could barely eat, let alone support a heroine habit. But when ever he needed a little cash, (usually $50), he'd ask Jack, and without hesitation, give Simon his much needed $50 for food or whatever else he required because in Jack's eye's, once you "lend" someone money, never expect to get it back. In my eyes, good old Jack gave with decency and grace. In the end, so many years later, Jack is a philosophy lecturer and Simon is a big wig in one of the top publishing firms in the country and, incidently, off the stuff.

I believe if it wasn't for Jack's generosity and giving with utter grace, Simon would not be where he is today - more than likely this highly intelligent man would be dead.

I really think that to give begrudgingly has no ethical value, the act means absolutely nothing.

Another example: when asked, a "friend" does you a much needed favour and while doing it complains, makes personal judgements and expects a return in one form or another; they shouldn't even make the effort, because more than likely, the act will do more harm than good - for the giver and the one receiving.

The spirit in which a thing is given determines that in which the debt is acknowledged; it's the intention, not the face-value of the gift, that's weighed.

Seneca

Yes, it the intention of one's giving, its selfless aura, which makes the act that much more valuable.

To Give with Grace has great significance for all concerned.

Books

When I am attacked by gloomy thoughts, nothing helps me so much as running to my books. They quickly absorb me and banish the clouds from my mind.
Michel de Montaigne
French essayist (1533 - 1592)

As a German philosopher once said, paraphrased, "If there was no music in the world, life would not be worth living." I would add books to that statement without reservation.

Though attributed with a deep imagination, it is impossible for me to imagine a life without books.

Books can transport you to places never envisaged; introduce you to people you would most certainly like to meet but never will; take you into the minds of the great or the most evil; just the act of reading a good book, as de Montaigne states above, "...can banish the clouds from my mind."

After teaching English in middle and secondary school for some years now, students would rather stick molten nails into their ignorant eyes than read a book. Well it should go without saying, there's too much to see and do: TV, movies, video games, friends, sport, cars and interest in the opposite sex to have a spare 15 minutes to read a book - books are for "geeks".

Have books become an acquired taste?

To answer that question, I would have to say, no.

The appreciation for books start at home, not at school.

My mother and less so, my father, books were something almost sacred, relics of knowledge and experience, objects to be revered and respected. Read to as a child every night, I remember I couldn't wait to have the ability to read myself. My mother was always reading and father would mainly at night before bed. Books were always in the house.

When I hear a student say, "I hate reading, too hard...boring." Even after years of teaching my stomach ties in knots and I have to remind myself that an appreciation for books had never been cultivated in the home.

Is it my job to get some of these children interested at such a late stage in their lives? Well, yes, that's my job...and there are a few wins.

But once they get it, it never leaves them.

The written word is a gift from the gods and a good story more often does more good than harm.

If there were no books in the world, life would not be worth living.

Books to the ceiling, Books to the sky, My pile of books is a mile high. How I love them! How I need them! I'll have a long beard by the time I read them.

Arnold Lobel

Character

"Strong feelings do not necessarily make a strong character. The strength of a man is to be measured by the power of the feelings he subdues not by the power of those which subdue him."

William Carleton

This quote reminds me of the writings from the famous Roman Emperor and Stoic, Marcus Aurelius, whose philsophy centres around self-control, specifically one's negative emotions that we all possess as human beings.

To have this ability requires a presence of mind, "mindful" of the present moment and the appropriate repsonse to a situation or individual.

This does not come natural to the human being.

Similar to all the Virtues, patience and presence of mind needs practice like riding a bike or playing the piano.

Next time you're doing the dishes or washing the car, attempt to remain in present time and not let your mind waunder - you'll find it very difficult.

A lot of us have strong feelings about our own opinions, our egos, and the "need" to be right can cause one to 'react' rather than 'respond' after thinking about what has just been said or done.

To "subdue" or temper and be aware of one's negative emotions is a sign of true character.

"You cannot dream yourself into a character; you must hammer and forge yourself one."

James A. Froude
English historian (1818 - 1894)

Virtue or true character are not innate but "hammered and forged" throughout a life time.

You may be an interesting ""character" (funny, eccentric or charming), but to have character is an entirely different thing.

Change.

The old cliche' that "change is as good as a holiday", may be true in some cases though a disaster for one who runs their life by strict routines. For these people, any disruption at all to their day to day activities can and will cause untold misery.

But isn't life, generally, about change?

We're born, grow to be toddlers, begin our first day at school, become teenagers, move into adulthood and, hopefully, meet someone that we can love; following this is marriage, the creation of those cute little rug rats then, before you realize it, one's children become teenagers, grow into adulthood, marry and suddenly you've become a grandparent.

You ponder: Where has the time gone?

Life is about change, however, resistance to change seems to be part of our natures.

Why?

In an attempt not to be too philosophical, change in any form, either consciously or unconsciously, equates to our death.

If you can somehow maintain the status quo, one's death can be delayed (at least in your mind) because your situation, activities, day to day routines remain the same. In a strange way, routine without change can make us somehow believe that death is far away; without change we can go on forever.

A good example is the middle aged accountant who has worked in the same cubical for many years. One day he's told that he has to move offices because the company is growing and more space is needed because a slew of young guns have been hired to keep the company growing.

"But Jack, I've had this office for twenty-five years, can't some other arrangements be made?"

"Sorry old boy, this has come down from the top. But you'll love your new office. It's bigger and you're also closer to the water cooler!"

He finds his new office slightly bigger and it is closer to the water cooler, but this change in his life brings on depression, as if his life has been turned upside down.

This change, whether a good move or not, creates so much anxiety, that he eventually has a cardiac arrest, and dies. All because of a simple change in space.

What we must understand is that change on this planet is inevitable, we are changing all the time, and yes, death too, is inevitable.

My personal mind-set is to accept change as opportunities rather than hints of my impending old age and certain death.

For me, as a person of routine, have been attempting to accept change as opportunities, because change has become all encompassing over the last two years...though, hopefully, life will settle down and my certain death, an occurence somewhere in the far future.


Change is a Reality.

What will the Future Hold?

I found it interesting that my last entry concerned teacher wages, and the next day, the government made a deal, ensuring beginning and experienced teachers a substantial pay rise, however, with certain conditions.

In the Australian press, the pay rise read to be more than generous, but as with all governments, one must justify one's spending.

In a staff meeting on Tuesday, the Union press release was read aloud to all staff. Not having read the document, the piece sounded like a convoluted mess.

A "give and take" deal that really made no sense.

The most ludicrist of all was that teachers must work an extra 10 minutes a day.

Excuse me?

Let me just say, teachers work more hours than the ratified Union agreements - aside from "face to face" teaching, there is lesson planning, phone calls to parents at unusual hours, lunch time detentions, after school detentions; coaching sport, rehearsing, after school and at lunch, the school's next theatrical performance. Enforced "personal development" time, when you are concerned about a student whose parents have booted them out and they now sleep on the school's oval.

(Today a student's parent rang up and said "We're moving, and I expect the school to feed my boy." So we spend our time finding ways to feed the boy during the week and hoping he has a roof over his head.)

The list goes on but there is no point. Unless you are a true teacher, committed to the learning and welfare of your students, no one, not even our politicians, have a clue.

To be sure, I'm thankful for the pay rise, although souding like an acountants nightmare of percentages, over years, might come true, eventually.

As written in the last BLOG, everyone "thinks" being a teacher is a cake-walk, but when 50% of all beginning teachers quit after only three years, should tell us that it is a difficult profession and society should treat it as such and reward it as such, otherwise, what will our future hold?

Teaching & to be a Teacher.

Why in the Western World, apart from Russia, are the teacher's of our young so poorly paid?

This has never made sense to me, and if logically studied, a logical answer cannot be found.

As a teacher of secondary school, when our adolescent students are emotionally and physically changing at the speed of light, and the problems these children face is, more often than not, terribly dramatic; not to mention their home lives, the teacher must play many roles:

Teacher

Carer

friend

psychologist

Sounding Board

mentor

motivator

A teacher must have their best interests at heart.

In most cases, this children come from broken homes, thus the teacher is their point of safty and stable 'parent', because their home's are in utter chaos.

As a teacher we must wear many hats, work long hours, at school and at home to ensure these young people have the opportunity to be the best they can be and, hopefully, future contributors' in our society.

Similar to most 'jobs', we have good days and bad. But in the end, the teacher is most happy when a student actually learns something, making the connection to what they have learned to real life.

In Australia, students with disabilities, i.e., ADHD, Autism, broken homes leading to unruly behaviour, Asbergers, etc, are not suitably funded to handle such children in, for example, a classroom of 25 students. Yes, we have teacher assistance in the form of "intergration aids", but these individuals are not trained to successfully handle these children. Thus the responsibility comes back to the classroom teacher. We modify the work for them, but often, (depending if they have taken their medication) will disrupt the other 90% of the class and learning does not occur - these are the bad days.

Teaching is a difficult profession and we deal or cope with what resources are available.

To be honest, Im tired of the old cliche, that teachers get too many holidays, therefore their low pay is somehow justified. We work many hours at home and school, therefore the hours do not even come close to the holiday time.

The irony, really, is that during a political campaign, most often the main issue is education, but once voted into office, the successful party, ignore the issue.

It only takes Union Protest to remind these overpaid politicians what the situation with education is truly about...(and it is not ideal by any stretch of the imagination.)

What is a tragedy is that 50% of graduate teacher' resign within the first 3 years because the work is too hard, and the remuneration, ridiculous.

Teaching is a Noble profession. A great teacher can change a young person's life to then turn them into greatness...and I've seen it many times.

I truly believe that the profession of teaching is a 'calling', it is in your blood and bones.

These overpaid politicians need to wake-up and smell the coffee, attracting smart people who are more than capable to teach our young and paid well for their huge contribution to our future society.

True Kindness and a Real Friend.

This week has been one of the worst, emotionally, for a very long time. Why?

When suddenly you've had a moment of clarity, the "pieces of the puzzle finally falling into place", and you have realized that you've been used and manipulated, for some years, it is a terrible feeling.

To have the power to remove another's sense of self is dangerous, and it does happen and, unfortunatelty, too frequently.

But you continue to 'love' this person, hoping circumstances might change...this does not happen when you are dealing with a self-cognizant manipulator.

I guess it is the thought that you have really been used; invested time, so much love and money, ignoring the other people in your life that you love and care for, then it all comes to not...

Their true colours reveal themselves and denial is the first port of call.

"How could I have been so stupid!" (An ego thing.)

The emotional tail spin is all too real.

Life now seems out of control, everything that you trust now is untrustworthy.

Then, out of the blue, you receive a package from an old friend, (just when you're about to give up) and inside the package is a book, a philosophical text that is rare.

He knows you love this writer, and running across it in a second hand book store, decides to buy the text and send it to you. (Even though he really can't afford it.)

This thoughtful act of kindness pulled me out of the haze of denial and self-pity, knowing that there is a sensitive friend who cares, selflessly.

Stronger now because of my friend's selfless action, life is now worth living.

True kindness, selfless kindness, is one of the greatest attributes a human being can have...and my friend, well, at this time, without knowing it, you saved my emotional life, and you have given me back my love for the world and humankind.

Thank you.