Letter from Australia

Lost, rudderless
Nowhere to turn
To go back is to despair return
Go forth; into unknown pluge

I’ve been wandering around for so long
Trying to find an echo to my song
This tune that’s in my heart, desperately
Wanting so bad to fall in love, deeply

All I ever wanted was to always be with you
So why does it seem to be so big a crime
I finally found you at just the perfect place
But why, oh why must it be at the wrong time?

Tears I hold back, but in my heart I’m crying
Each day without you, I’m slowly but surely dying
These mysteries of the heart, I’ll never understand
So live and let live, and let Fate deal her hand

You’ve searched my heart, and you know me through and through
I could try my darnest, but I could never hide form you
The smell of your skin, the gentleness of your touch
Totally fills my senses, I miss you oh so much

What Will Be Will Be

Alright fellas, let’s make a start
To the story of this broken heart
Anger, jealousy, guilt and pain
Everything to lose, and nothing to gain
Her sexy coy look, her sweet lying eyes
Ears too wet to discern her dark little lies
Naivety, gullibility, candy from a three year old
She fans the flames, then puts it out cold

She stares; just make a move if you dare
She touches your hand and – ooh all over, but she don’t care
Are you serious? Aw don’t act surprised
Either you do it or you don’t, what’s compromise?
Oh you wanna play the game, try to be slick
She sees through you from miles away you stupid prick!
What will be will be, but can’t you see?

She’s desperate for sex, not philosophy
So fella (yo) what’s it gonna be?

The land of your birth, or some foreign sea?
Go on, keep it in; pretend you’re in control
Acting oh so cool during the big show
Where’s the anger, frustration, helplessness and rage
That you stubbornly refuse to display on life’s stage
Let it eat you up then, yeah let it rule
No chick’s gonna love a phoney, you fool

DEMOCRACY

Waiting, anticipating,
The dawn of a new era
Silent, watchful,
The world continues unabated

Number, select
Another nation declares its sovereignty
Boom, crash
Another child's dream shattered

Loss; gain
Iconic constructs of mortal men
Death; birth
Forgotten miracles of heavenly worth

Smokey mirrors
Fiery reflections
Illusion of self
Deception of thousands

Prophets of creative truth
Disciples of true lies
Followers of perverse justice
Students of selective equality

Hegemony pervades
Rhetoric is but the tool
Names change
Relatives of the same family

The voice in the wilderness, as
Lonely then as now
The cacophony of the masses, as
Foolish as it is Futile

Wherefore Hope, my naive friend?
The more things change,
The more they remain the same
'Trust in the Beginning and the End'

The past few weeks have featured much introspection on my part. Questions regarding the topics, which must by now have become clichés such as one’s self-identity and purpose in life, have consistently fascinated me, but these days it seems that the fascination has come perilously close to obsession. Indeed, an obsession with observation and introspection may indicate the discontent that one feels, yet steadfastly strives to contain under the surface.

Being in Sydney has led me to seek out new experiences much more than I had preciously done. I discovered that the freedom of driving along the roads of Ryde and Bondi necessarily comes with responsibility, much as I would like to have ignored the latter. Unless one is in the driver’s seat, physically guiding an automobile from one point to another, one never really understands why an inexperienced driver would seldom hold a conversation with passengers (or with someone else at the other end of a mobile phone call).

Much is discussed about the need for a balanced life. Yet it is nebulous by definition and notoriously diverse in practice. The contented soul does not waver between extremes, nor does it see emptiness in activity that it does not comprehend. Referring to the message of the Zen masters of old, going with the flow is preached often, but too seldom practised. In despair some withdraw from the hub of seemingly mindless activity, seeking a balm of solitude to soothe their increasingly intense feelings of abject loneliness. The simmering of such emotion is a burnt dish waiting to happen.

Days of vacation are too often wasted in slumber or ‘idle worship’, to coin a puritanical phrase. Yet these are the days of much-needed rest; whether driving is your particular pleasure is really beside the point. Some drive; others drink a couple of beers (or more); still others prepare a specialty meal, and lounge in front of the telly (or as it is more common from my understanding, the personal or laptop computer).

Vacations are often seen as a break from the drudgery of everyday life, though there are those who love life to the extent that vacations become boring! Yet it may not be strange to entertain the notion that vacation activities often mask the emptiness of the soul within. Life is what we make of it, we are told.

It defies logic to speak of retirement in the prime of one’s life – yet there is a subtle difference between living one’s passion and thinking of the end of one’s means. Consciousness is such an illusion – it blinds those who become enslaved to it. Thinking need not end at any point, although it is best to use it as a tool while in the midst of action. Sub-consciousness takes over when the conscious mind relents to action. Here is the source of all that is purple; the ground zero of the zone; the border between thinking and being. All previous successes originate from this place – do not bask in its glory, for it vanishes the moment you do. All that can be done is to continue to prod disobedient flesh towards divine spirituality.