Boogie, boogie, boogie, boogie
Oh I feel so
Boogie Woogie.
Graham’s Newsletter
I couldn’t resist reposting a exert from a letter which popped into my inbox this morning. My Druitt, in Sydney is viewed by some in the same manner as Compton, Los Angeles. My first ever job, in fact, involved selling encyclopaedias door to door out there. A challenging task, to say the least.
Dear Inner Circle,
Wayside’s leadership is passing into good hands. Jon Owen and I were in Mount Druitt this week, helping to make a documentary about our succession. We stopped at multiple locations and always someone recognised Jon, embraced him and tried to catch him up on as much news as they could in a few minutes. Each time we jumped back into the car to head to the next location, Jon shared something of the story of the journey he’d shared with the person we just met. After the first couple of these, I was impressed by the compassion of a man who’d shared the worst of human tragedies with people, without for a moment thinking he’s achieved anything special. In one location, we stopped long enough to hear raised, cranky voices. A woman jumped into a car and before our eyes, ran it into the bloke at whom she was yelling. The car knocked the man to the ground and I’d wondered if he might have broken a leg. He quickly jumped up to his feet in time to kick the bonnet of the car before it sped off down the street. I was momentarily in shock. “In this part of the world,” Jon said, “that was just a negotiation.”
Ode to my Kindy Teacherl
I was reading through posts again this morning and ran across one from Cyranny the last words (or maybe all the words) of which dragged back vague memories of a kindergarten teacher of mine from another century who spoke with no apparent direction but with playfulness and love. Perhaps my memories of her have become distorted with time. But does that matter?
How I wish I had known her
And not outgrown her
words that had clattered out
like a runaway train.
And wandered about
off the tracks again and again
only to return to where she had been
to the central theme
Which was love.
How I wish I had touched her
And somehow clutched her
simple truths
so recklessly painted
with her wild word
by rules untainted
And wonder how, now
She might still be heard
Speaking from above.
Shut the door as you leave, Harvey.
Sitting in a hotel lobby (and really tempted to say ‘an’ hotel lobby to show what a dinosaur I am) without any sleep and really a bit fed up with this long life for a selfish moment.
Wading through WordPress posts from nicer people than me hoping to get a little glimpse of sunlight. And then reading a post from Lou which instead goes down a dark alley and leaves me with an urge to write something called ‘Sex and Vomit’, but fingers just freezing in the hover over the keyboard. I cannot, for the time being, do justice to the project.
But I can feel, not for the first time, a guilt about being male.
Not surprising then, that something shallow about Mr Weinstein should find its way onto the page.
I’m a man about town
Out and about
I feed like a beast
On your fear and self-doubt
What insecurity
Will you reveal
When I open your vault
And we close the deal
Over your fences
Under your skin
I’m not playing games
But I’m playing to win
Not seeking approval
Not seeking consent
Nothing has meaning
So nothing is meant.
Richmond Road 