Music Sunday – “After the Curtain” by Beirut

For some reason, when I heard this song for the first time, it hit a nerve. Struck a chord. Made me happy. Perhaps to others it sounds like a guy saying “oohhhhhohhh” a lot but its beautiful.

Thanks Beirut. For many of your songs.

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Music Sunday – “Who Are We Fooling” by Brooke Fraser feat. Aqualung

This song is a few years old now, but I keep coming back to it. Musically, it is just beautiful and simple. The words, powerful. Such a realistic and beautiful summary of love and relationships.

Brooke has always been an inspiration to me. Before and after I came out, she remained consistent with no matter how I felt, her words still remained comforting. So I am very thankful. From the time I saw her perform in a local pub near my house, to the Recital Centre in Sydney, I held the memories attached to her songs close.

And on a cold winter Sunday afternoon, this makes good background music while you are baking some kind of muffin. Not even the baker (me) has any idea what type of muffin this is. But the fact I am baking, not the muffin, is what is important right?

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Music Sunday – “Cut Your Teeth” by Kyla La Grange

When I first heard this song, it sounded familiar but not sure why. Then it kinda just clicked, it felt like I was listening to a song from the early 90’s while in the back seat of the family van. But then new elements come in gradually, and I became addicted to this song and also the remix. Kyla has a great future ahead of her, her new album is out and is different from the usual pop out there at the moment. Something like quirk pop. Will also admit that she does sound a little “Robyn-esque”.

Original Version:

Kygo Remix:

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Music Sunday – “Rescue” by Yuna

The thing I like about this song, is that so many people try and rescue. But not everyone needs rescuing. Life comes from within. First Day of Winter 2014. Happy June!

 

 

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Keep startin at 30.

I type a paragraph, then it saves as a draft and then I go and watch a TV show. Then a month goes by.

I sit down, write another paragraph and then I have to like someone’s post and then read my newsfeed.

My 30th birthday goes by. A few months go by. For some reason writing isn’t as easy as it comes sometimes and I like to talk about that often because it is easier than ACTUALLY writing.

My mum gave me a 30th birthday card with a meerkat on it.

I like to write along one line of thought, because it saves the 1000’s of thoughts rushing at once. I can trace with my finger along one line of thinking, and let it flow. Though which one to choose.

I can leave my house happy if I know I have written something down. So often I leave my house unhappy.

This morning I found document after document of my thoughts from early 2000’s, mostly about the time when lots of change was happening. I am proud of my writing and thankful to my 21 year old self for writing. Because he gives me perspective, he reminds me of where I am now and also encourages me for my own future. 30 is an awesome number and a great age. A sense of self is something everyone has and we all misjudge how much we are truly aware of our own self, though we also overestimate some areas that we think are true, when they are not. About who we are, how we act or process things. 30 has always been there, up there, for someone who is under 30. Same with 40 or 50 or.. 100. You just assume it will always be there, and then you ARE that number. And you are slightly pressured to assess what that number feels like. The same as the number before?

Anyways, thanks 30. No pressure to be anyone else but me. May the stories continue.

Lloyd Falling Water

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The Pickle: One

Photo Credit - Kajo55 Flickr

Photo Credit – Kajo55 Flickr

 

Purple ugg boots scuffed the pavement, while the screams of children echoed nearby. Final day of school holidays and the local amusement park was lapping up the attention. Winter held things at bay until school broke out, and it would feel the cold again when those purple boots were dragged back to class. But for a short few weeks, winter did not matter.

Show bags were swinging, almost hitting the ground each time. Stooping down to look inside, the smell of the plastic stronger than the sweets inside. The dirt beside the pavement was filled with old pine needles and cigarette butts, but they made the perfect resting spot for her. The garish red wall of the fun fair’s entrance, her back support. As she looked around, her concern for her mother was lacking. Screaming of a different kind to that in the fair beside her is what she avoided. The park across from her, usually home to the few local wanderers, a happy father and son were throwing a football. What is so happy about that? Looking the other way, the sun blurred her vision, every now and then a passer by allowed her to see the market thriving with dawdling pedestrians.

A cheeseburger pickle landed in the dust beside her. Looking up, her brother. “Want a pickle? Ha ha ha G-FORCE!!!”

Ignoring him was best.

“Mum is looking for us! See her?”

Over near the market, the white polar fleece waddled along, looking around. It was at least a half attempt at searching. She would give her that. Wind chimes and scarves hung across the stall beside her mother, her hands randomly touching them.

“We should really go over to her.”

Cigarette butts and a gherkin were better company right now.

Two girls walked by giggling, and they seemed to be wearing yeti vests. A lot of girls seemed to be these days. Except her. Her purple ugg boots, worn at the toes and the heels, had been Dane’s attempt at being cool with her. Some people said they shouldn’t be worn outside. Purple was her, so she didn’t care.

The cool breeze from the nearby bay, made her wish the jacket had been thicker. Thicker than her skin.

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Why do we use imagination?

Do we use our imagination to simply escape from things we do not want to be surrounded by? Or is imagination simply something that is there, like the desire to drink or eat? Or both?
When we are children it becomes part of everyday life, from very early on. A rock and some grass is not just a rock and some grass but it could be a bread roll and salad. Mum may have found me eating a rock and grass but hey, I thought differently.
But whether the question,  “Is escapism is really a bad thing?” is irrelevant. We do it. It makes us happy, or makes us explore beyond the walls of our own reality.

Iced milk is pretty good with some espresso in it.

There are three small birdcages in the cafe I am in. They are empty and obviously there for ornamental effect, as they are above a fire. Birds dislike fire. But you do see birdcages often in this kind of setting, with a lack of birds. What does it represent? Freedom? Or something they can dust? If it was to represent freedom the cage doors should be open. They’re ones don’t have doors, so they could represent subtle repression? That’s not relaxing for a cafe, I may write to them to inform them about this distressing feature. I have drawn them a picture to show how distressing it could be. Especially with one missing some of its top structure.

birdcages

Ants appeared in our kitchen this morning. It was a sad day for them, as I knew I could not rescue in this situation. He had already discovered them, so they were going to get wiped up, swept up and poisoned. I wouldn’t be able to convince him that I could maybe do some signage up to inform them they are probably not welcome.

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Music Sunday – “Stay Alive” by Jose Gonzalez

From the soundtrack to “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty“, this song is one I like to enter the new year in with.  Beautiful film, all about getting the courage to live for now. Sometimes you are forced to, and sometimes you choose to.

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Washing

summer rain

 

I like when the wood on the back fence goes several shades darker when it rains. It absorbs the cool, fresh rain and looks like it has a fresh coat of paint. Thats what is happening this afternoon, on the first day of 2014.

I love when it rains on the first day of the year. It feels like it is washing and preparing for the new. The sound on the metal roofing above gets louder and quieter, the cycles of how light or heavy the rain is. A calming, soothing sound. Then a roar, a blast of summer rain, cleaning out a harder to cleanse spot.

My Facebook feed was full of resolutions, greetings and love across NYE 2013. Every year it is bigger and bigger, where social media becomes the platform of sharing and expressing regret, or thankfulness, or goals for the new year. Inspirational sayings are posted and some just let everyone know how wasted they are. But we all move together into a new year, some people argue its just another day. Other cultures do not even celebrate yet. Either way, we all move together. Breathe into the next day, and whatever it brings we have the option to sit and distract and consume. Or we can sit up, lean forward and do something. Make something happen. And not just today but until December 31.

I tell myself this. Will I listen?

4 months til I am 30. 1984, good year. 2014  _____ year.

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Edwin

I originally wrote this a few months back, but that feeling of “how do I sum this up right now” did not go away, so I left it. Here we go again (Written on October 3rd 2013):

Why am I called Edwin?

My grandfather, or as I grew up calling him, “Pop”, was called Edwin. Eddie or Ed for short. So I was given the name as my middle name when I came into the world. And until two days ago, he was always present in my life in one way or the other. A rock to his family, always the cheeky and happy man.

At 5:45am on 1st October 2013, my grandfather left this world. I had four missed calls from my mum, when I woke at 7am. And I knew. It was expected but you never really can expect it.

He always wore a brass bracelet on his left wrist, to fight off athritus. He used to do silly little dances when he was happy and whistle a lot. He was a brilliant and talented carpenter. Three quarters of my family home he had either built or at least approved of. His phrases included “One up, all up” and “Strewth” to mention two out of many. His family came first, and if you were to learn patience of anyone, it would be him. He was a skilled builder, he started out learning to build boats on Cockatoo Island, in Sydney Harbour. He raised a family with his lovely wife Edith (I kinda think it is amazing that they were called Ed and Edie) of six children in South Sydney, and was a familiar face wherever he want. Everyone loved him.

When I began writing, and simply sharing thoughts, I began with the name “Southern Bloke” but then several years ago, changed to the name “Edwin Jones”. I told Pop about this, and he beamed. Well, I could tell he was beaming through the letter he wrote. I was inspired to write to him a few years ago, as I had never done that with him. Little did he know how much he loved it, and I eventually got a letter in return (originally was sent to the wrong address and it also took him quite a while to write it due to his lack of strength sometimes). His beautiful handwriting and his way with words shone through, and it will always be one of the most treasured letters I will ever receive in my life. He talked about the everyday things, just like I did. But that wasn’t the point, so much meaning between the lines. He was very keen to read my writing, it was just a small added extra smile that I was using his name. The fact he knew that and loved knowing what I was up to, meant a lot. Means a lot.

When I was growing up, the name “Edwin” was kinda dorky as my peers had never heard that name. You grow into your name though. And wish I smiled more when I let people know what my middle name was as a kid. I got to carry the name of Ed.

Edwin Ring

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