Out of sight, out of mind?

I read an article a while ago, describing our society as "a canceling culture;" living with an understanding that it is okay to cancel appointments last minute. The article describes the comfortable guilt, we as a society, possess in conveying empty, joyous words of re-acquainting, and how at times upon cancelling an appointment we feel somewhat victorious having “cheated” in winning some “lost” time back. This is one of the reasons why I abhor chitchat. That moment of awkwardness when the forgetful banter is on its’ last breath and someone always ends up dropping in an obligatory “we should meet up some time,” whilst both parties know of the truth that lies in those words, or the lack of truth that is. I hate empty words and obligatory politeness. Why bother?

Recently a girlfriend of mine kindly decided to take on the trying mission of organizing a mini re-union with our group from high school, the majority we have not really seen since those uniformed days long ago. Of the dozen or so friends that we called our girls most had confirmed their excitement to the forth-coming re-union yet only three turned up. I know we are all super busy and super important these days building an empire, making the millions and raising our six children but when did we reach a point where we simply did not have the time to care?

From spending almost everyday of our adolescent lives together, laughing together, eating together, fighting together, learning and growing together we could not have afforded one planned evening with those that were once our lives. Nine years have passed, nine years filled with marriages, engagements, children, travels, graduations, careers and promotions, a whole load of tears and a whole load of joys but Facebook and the grapevine these days is enough to fill our failing need to know what is going on in an old friends life.

Needless to say that I could not attend but it really saddened me to think that all those that cancelled, at the end of the day, just couldn’t be bothered. We are all so self obsessed. There have been numerous times where an appointment fills me with a sudden bout of extreme laziness, but every time without fail I return from the evening with a smile on my face having had the best time, and thinking to myself that I should meet up with that person more often. We tend to feel uncomfortable in straying from routine and become content with the people that we already happily surround ourselves with on a daily basis, but what harm can come of doing something different for a change? I don’t believe that anyone can be too busy for a friend, be it an old friend, a lost friend, a distant friend or your best friend, and I'd like to hope that when I return to Sydney, people will be able to afford the time to see me once again.

My song of the moment, stuck on repeat...

Holy Batman!

Holy Batman!! So it has almost been a month since I have exercised my literary skills on this blog. I have not been lazy I assure you, but the London summer has lived up to every ounce of burdening expectation and reputation that everyone declares with their lives on. I have so much to speak of about life, but in fear that another month may pass before our eyes, I shall write this entry without crossing the “t’s” and dotting the “I’s.”

There are various conclusions to what people deem as true friendship. Since being here, I have come to my own two conclusions thus far. The first is that true friends are friends that help you before you even know that you need help. During my period of home-sickness and finding my feet in London, a few close friends managed to somehow unerringly know when I needed to hear a familiar voice or be reminded that I wasn't forgotten, and before I even had a chance to come to this realization, I would receive a timely phone call or message, just to say hi.

My second conclusion is freedom.

Friendship equals freedom, freedom to kick back and be yourself 100%. Freedom to laugh. Freedom to be a dork. Freedom to muck around all day long without the fear of being judged, as they know who you are and are friends with you for this reason, good and bad. Freedom to talk about everything and anything. Freedom of the past, the present and the future. Freedom of care (if that makes sense). I miss caring for my friends, my loves. I miss being cared by my friends, my loves.

Recently I have had two close friends come stay with me for a couple of weeks. As much as I have reveled in the independence of setting up a complete new life again, spending time with old friends from home is such a gift that can never be measured nor rivaled.

I miss the fuss that is involved with having close friends. I cooked dinner for the first time in ages for Reyes and Ed, and although sadly my skills have diminished (as now, eating dinner for one means whatever is the quickest fix will do), the task made me feel at home. *smiles* When the boys went out for the day and returned with dinner, they would automatically think of me as well. I miss that, just being a factor in someone else’s life. Enjoying the company of home and having them enjoy my company. The day they both left, as the emotional person that I am, it made me teary to once again have to say goodbye. I know I will see them both real soon but it still doesn’t get easier knowing that when I return to my abode in the evening that they won’t be there and my home will once again just be a house.

As mentioned before, my friends have impeccable timing, as on this day where I was a little dis-heartened to return to a somewhat empty household, I instead returned to a mysterious parcel… from Sydney… from my girls. Oh how I fricken love getting surprise snail mail (that are not bills)!! It’s the absolute best thing about living so far away from home.

Your words, your thoughts, your love truly touched my heart and made me cry… again.

There are a million things that I believe I do not deserve and have been too lucky to receive in this life of mine, but definitely on the top of my ever-grateful list are the people that are in my life… that are my life.

You all truly amaze me!!

one.. two.. three..

Whenever a conversation strikes I always count the seconds… 1… 2… 3… until the predictable questions arise:

a. Have you found a job yet?
b. Have you met someone yet?
c. Are you loving it?
d. What is clubbing like?
.. be a little bit more creative guys… please for my sake..

a. No I have not. In saying that, please do not be sad for I am yet to reach that point yet. My efforts in looking for employment have been quite disjointed and half-assed, being disrupted by travels and pure laziness. The design industry is tough anywhere you go, but more so in the UK and with the economic crisis… the construction industry has basically gone on hiatus. I’ve been continually told I moved over at a bad time, but really, when is it ever a good time? When I am at the point of being close to living life on the streets, rest assure I will get my ass into gear and find some sort of income. For now, I am enjoying the trials of looking for something in my industry. Just got to stop shopping.

b. I have met many a persons… but someone that I could be bothered to share something with, no. I would never have guessed that this question would be so popular, as if it were a goal I aimed to achieve or as if it were an easy feat. The male population is the same anywhere in the world, there are just more of you guys here, which also means there is a lot more rubbish to sort through as well; too-much-effort basket for the time being. Although I would like to point out that I saw more eye-candy in the brief time I was in Lisbon, than the entire time of me being here in London.

c. Now what kind of question is this?? Although, people do assume I’d be living a full on life everyday. Non-stop partying. As are the guys, so is life… life is the same anywhere you go in the world, work, eat, sleep, it’s the play that sets it apart. There is an abundance of play here!

d. Clubs in London are definitely not like the ones in Sydney at all. Clubs, and good clubs are open all through the week, yes even on school nights. This city really doesn’t sleep.
Show pony clubs: if you manage to get onto a promoters guest list, you are pretty much ensured free entrance and free drinks all night. Needless to say all those on the guest list are “attractive” females. The whole thing is to lure in attractive girls with free entrance and free alcohol to entice the male counterpart to frequent the clubs. For males there is an entrance fee, for a group of males you must buy a table, which ranges in the hundreds to thousands of pounds, for the table and perhaps a bottle or two of alcohol. These clubs are filled with girls not out to have a good time but to be show ponies. Some of the clubs I have been to are a lot worse than others.

At Jeloos, the door bitch really is a door bitch. She stands out front with her fancy 2pound clipboard pretending she was from the movie Studio 54. I have seen her blatantly say to girls in a group “you, you and you can come in but your friends can not” due to the mere fact that they do not fit the clubs aesthetic appeal or requirements. Cut-throat.

Movida is another club, all ritzy inside with an attitude to suit. I am not one to really allow myself to be effected by pretensciousness as I enjoy getting all dulled up from time to time, but this club is something different. The girls stand about as if it were like some kind of line-up for an escort service of fake tanned, bo-tox faced females. No they aren’t bo-toxed but the un-relentless grimace displayed on their faces, you would be pardoned to think they physically were not able to show any other kind of emotion whilst they judge everyone that walks by. These girls are not even all “that” in their topshop clad outfits may I add. I walked away from this club asking the question, where is the line drawn to when it is kind of wrong to use your body/appearance/sex for benefits, kind of like offering sex for money, like prostitutes. This is exactly how awful the vibe was in this club.

In saying all this, these show pony clubs also know how to put on a show. Another club, on their opening night had bar-top dancers, magicians, midgets, percussionists and even managed to hi-jack a massive python into the venue. It was quite some spectacle, but the music was a massive let down to the night, so in that sense, it is the same to the Sydney scene.

There are also normal non “Studio 54” clubs out there. The hip-hop clubs that I have been to, are legitimate hip-hop clubs, not pop, which possess a good vibe void of any “gangstas,” “I’m too cool for school” attitude or tension. Genuine nights where people are out to enjoy the music, where the girls aren’t mistaken for being at some sort of trashy fashion parade. I’ve also been out to a few bars here and there, but to be honest, I truly think my trashbag days are over. I go out now, just to check the fuss.

Vyner Street: Open Gallery Night.

The first Thursday of every month sees an influx of art enthusiasts, as they all come out to show their support on Open Gallery Night, (but I have a slight suspicion that a lot of them are more free-alcohol enthusiasts than art enthusiasts). Vyner Street on an ordinary day appears to be like some warehouse backstreet lane. It is, though, occupied by at least a dozen or so quaint little galleries showcasing the creative quirks of various talents. Open Gallery Night sees the laneway transform into somewhat of a mini festival with people spilling out into the lane, beers in hand, sitting on the curb and waiting in line to enter the next room which has more free alcohol, oh and art of course. If the free drinks run dry, they sell beers there for 1 pound! No wonder the art scene is so big here. No, but seriously I love the fact that London has all this to offer, this is why I am here! I felt in Sydney, the art scene was un-accessible, reserved for the “elitist,” for those “in the scene,” while here, all is welcome, even those that have not a clue what art is but is just a curious cat, you are welcome too.

Here it is acceptable to drink on the streets, to park your ass on a curb while smoking a cigarette, well that is a lie, it is most likely a joint here, with beer in hand people watching. Weed can be smelt on every corner and is not a hush-hush occurrence as it is back home so walking the streets stoned is no longer a paranoid experience, but doing the groceries stoned on a Saturday morning is a painful feat. A cloud of smoke usually hovers over the parks on picnic days from the portable BBQs, but I have to question how much of that smoke is actually from the BBQ's and not the spark of the green. Summer is finally here, well sort of. The past week has seen sun, so much so that I have been dying from the heat, but wait for it, I have been dying from the 23degree heat. How shameful, I think I have already climatised and am surely going to die when I return to the Sydney Summer.

Lisboa.. é triste dizer adeus..

Lisbon, the city of never ending hills, where everything is at a short distance but the hike makes it feel so far and as you are about to find yourself in a spot of exhaustion and perhaps defeat, you turn to your side to see an elderly local partnering you in your climb, unconsciously scorning us young foreigners: suck it in.

I just returned from 3 nights in Lisbon. I know that every time I visit a new little pocket of the world I consequently pronounce my love for the city, and I will do so once again, but, this time, Lisbon is different.

I wouldn’t say that Lisbon, as a city, is overly glamorous and beautiful like that of Valencia, the streets are somewhat dirty and the walls are lined with graffiti, not art. It is a sleepy city, not bursting with a confronting culture or life. Siesta is an all day event, not just for the afternoon, which I discovered whilst waiting for peak hour to hit. Needless to say, it never did.

Numerous castles and palaces sprinkle the skyline, telling a story of a wanted land, riddled with constant invasions, each spectacle, marks each victory of settlement, each with a distinct style from a different era. The intricate tile mosaic that decorates the floors, walls, ceilings, pathways and stairs of the city, tells a story of patience and pride and a culture bound by a religious belief. The crammed buildings that line the street, with small doorways and small window openings but vibrant in decorative colour paints and tiles and colour filled window boxes tells of a close social culture that finds the joy that is in everyday. The discovery of a park around each corner showcasing the great views that bless this city, tells a story of an appreciation.

My first experience staying at a hostel was in Nice. The place was small and uninviting with the walls being covered with dirty stickers; the couch, I would only dare to occupy enough space to warrant me to not be standing. I felt cleaner not having a shower than having one. It was such an unpleasant experience that I cut my days short and escaped to Paris as soon as I could. I guess the fact that it had followed a 3-week travel around the whole of Italy, on my first trip overseas and I wasn’t with friends didn’t help the situation. Lisbon restored my faith in hostels and healed the damage that Nice left me with.

The reason why this trip is set apart from the others is owed to the people that I was fortunate enough to meet and the stories that each one had to tell. We met two American guys that made me laugh so much my head remained on the table the entire time as I did not have the strength amongst the fits of laughter to hold it up. They played out and exaggerated the whole American clichés and stereotypes, making a joke of themselves, as well as of each other fuelling the territorial rivalry that exists between them, as one was from the north and the other the south. I apparently looked the sweetest out of the bunch, was out-voted and forced to hustle for some green, which led me to meeting Vinícius, a local from Lisbon who works at the hostel. This guy is beaming with personality and a smile that could light up the darkest of dark rooms. He invited us out for a few drinks with his friends to a bar, where we got told off by two grumpy weird men for being too loud. We stayed up till 5am on one occasion talking about all things random with Pedro, a local and Chris an Australian, Korean background adopted with Dutch parents from Melbourne. Vanessa and Hilda we shared a room with from the states, both can speak fluent Spanish. Vanessa is about to study in Valencia for the summer, we pretty much became instant friends and she has already welcomed a visit from us when she settles. V also adopted and of Korean heritage; probability was way out of whack in this hostel. Hilda was sent by her company to Amsterdam to make sunflower oil (or some kind of oil), now that’s not an everyday occupation you hear of. A Swedish girl, a real life hippie, who upon hearing I was Australian, first asked me if I had been to Nimbin. She serenaded the night with her voice and guitar and blessed everyone throughout the evening with random hugs and a never failing smile. She is one of those people that you meet and want to keep in your pocket; a definite treasure. A pure heart and a carefree life; she couldn’t stop smiling (probably had abit to do with the fact that she was stoned). I looked at her along with a few others in envy, wishing that I could be like that, having no real plan, living life with the winds, truly enjoying each day and taking the next as it comes. Not being “burdened” by a career, but at the same time, I know that the satisfaction in that lifestyle for me would be short lived, but still am tempted at the possibility.

When I return from a venture I am always left with a real sadness, this time was a little heavier then normal as it felt like I was saying goodbye to some friends to which I wish I had more time to get to know properly.

Every time I travel to somewhere new, every time I meet someone new and am expose to others perspectives and to different stories, I find myself re-evaluating my life; the things I prioritise, the things I lay importance in and the things I choose to neglect in the world. These fresh experiences continually highlight everything that I am not, but everything that I could and should be.

Oh and we must not forget the Portuguese Tarts!!

Good Bye Two Five.

If someone had told me of all that were to unfold in the period of 12 months I would have bet my life on their bluff. The year that was my 25th could not have been scripted any more poetic.

It had appeared that the year was to begin with unemployment, which saw me take advantage of the situation and return to studying. The insanity of enduring once again, the pains of uni, had always been in the cards but if it had not been for pending redundancy, habit and money would have continued to take precedence. Late enrollment meant that my sanity would be retained for another semester and fortunately, as timing would have it, my directors, who were like my mentors, asked for me to continue on contract giving me the opportunity to save for the events ahead.

Completing my degree the first time round, saw me becoming well acquainted with forgettable, yet memorable weekend mischief. Great friendships grew over many great drinks, but feelings of a dissatisfied life began to make a home in me. I consciously decided to slowly fail in my reputation of being a trashbag for it was time to save these brain cells and put them to use as I started to struggle with deciphering what exactly it is that I wanted out of myself, and this life.

Above all else, my days of being 25 were all about friendships. Not friendships as in how many people I can accumulate on my FB list or how many people I can manage to mumble an obligatory hello to on the street, but true friendships. The definition and importance of quality was becoming more apparent and refined, which saw the strengthening of existing friendships, resurrecting of the old and discovering the new. Blessed with such bonds left me in a good place, embedded with the confidence and sense of assurance, giving me the strength to venture solo against the world, and for this I thank you.

Linh, who I have only really been friends with for a year now but hold as one of the closest to my heart, I am so glad that you decided to move into Pine St. Your tolerance and patience with my laziness, my indecisive mind and the ritual of hearing me tell you of my new brainwave every morning can only be rivaled by Ika. You have been a massive part of my life for the past year and you are no doubt one of the most-kind hearted, loyal and most giving persons I know. Thank you for always feeding me when I was too hung-over to get off the couch. Sorry for briefly forgetting that you lived with me at my birthday last year, curse you for introducing the junk cupboard into our household, yet forgiven with the introduction of viet spam. Ode to Ogar.

April and Kev who have been two of my longest running friends. Despite the regrettably our friendship going M.I.A for a long while, thank you both for your persistence and for always being there, when I needed you guys. You two have seen me through too many hard times and tears and I am forever grateful for both of your shoulders. Whenever we catch up, you both tend to ground me, and my flighty behavior, pulling me back down from the million-miles-an-hour-life that I tend to get caught up in. Don’t worry now… I’m back down on earth. Kev, no more stupid decisions, I promise.

Steaf, I know you hate emotional talk, so I won’t go on too much further but you know where I’m at. When I fail to see what good came from a bad period in both of our lives, I need not look much further than our friendship. Can you believe that we have only been friends for a few years!? I swear your absent mindedness has rubbed off on me, I was never so blonde but have also never laughed so much over stupidity and nothingness. Wicked wings and lets not forget the coke this time.

Dan, the biggest sweet. Who would have thought, was it 5 years ago, that this random drunk guy I served behind the bar, would become one of my dearest friends. I miss our buffet feasts, inappropriate jokes, spontaneous drunk nights, midnight culinary indulgences and hearing of what a shit and sleepless day you seem to always be having when I see you. Sorry for making you lose 1G but curse you for always disappearing on me on a night out. Thank you for the coffees, random phone calls, for your kind heart and I absolutely cannot wait to see you and Ed soon to continue the late night greasy feasting and mischief. Damn this phone tagging game that we are caught up in!

Chien and Jimmy, you guys are the best and although we have known each other for less than a year, it wouldn’t have been as good if you guys weren’t a part of it. Always entertaining me during work and lunches (with your sandwiches Jimmy), making me an honorary Gun Ho ho. Thanks for the generosity, encouragement and support with everything and for looking after my drunk ass every time. Jimmy your cheesecake is on the way.

Rick, you were an inspiration, encouraging me during a time where my life was neither here nor there, cruising on a plateau. Thank you for always being able to put a smile on my face especially during my moments of being homesick. Sorry for being a bitch on the last day before you left for Dubai and take your time in losing all the weight, for I will have to find another means of making fun of you.

Jess, when you left Oz I was cut, as we had just began to become tight but I promised you I would make it to this side of the world. You and Doug are family. Thank you both for your continual friendship, love and loyalty regardless of all the nonsense, and you two both made 3 years that I would rather forget worth while in the end.

There are loads others that I could go on about… Prue, Chaz, Kat, Abz, Nita and Frankie (you know the colours are reserved for you… but bitch you owe me a scarf and dinner), but it is running the risk of becoming some kind of speech seen at the Oscars.

But of course I cannot go without mentioning my girls, Nat, Iks and Tash. I have no idea what to write here, as there are no words for the love I have for you girls. The only thing I can say is that I can not fkn wait for the day that I see you all again over a big fat meal where Nat follows with an impersonation of the hunch back of Notre Dame saying “Can we go for a walk…” as she still hasn’t learnt when to stop eating. Thank you for never missing a step with me and for humouring me everytime with… “alriiiiight glenda…*eye rolls*” yet full knowing me well enough to see past whatever it is that I am speaking of. I have finally followed through with my words!

The last year my passport has been stamped from Hong Kong with my girl Nat and Charms (shame on you Nat for keeping her to yourself), from Vietnam with Chien and his boys (thanks so much for taking care of me and Chien, you are such a sore loser big 2 and trivial pursuit… “is that your final answer??!”), will definitely be seeing you in Saigon to drink Grey Goose by the bottle and to eat all day and night long once again. Mot... Hai... Ba... Yooooooooo! And of course, living my dream… in London, which has already seen me travel to France, Spain and Ireland.

Where birthdays are traditionally reserved for the deliverance of a life, instead I want to celebrate the people who have in this past amazing year MADE my life, for all who have brought me laughs and unforgettable memories over the past year. Fk I miss you all so dearly. This birthday is not going to be the same without Sydney, but here is to growing up... here is to an amazing year and here is to happily bringing in, hopefully, an even greater year to come… from LISBOA!!! xxx

HAPPY BIRTHDAY RULY… save me some fruit salad!

A Life in Debt.

I write this upon my return from an open mic night at Troy Bar in Shoreditch. Live music, people courageously exploiting their raw talents inspires me every time!

Inside Troy Bar

As each day passes and I begin to experience more of what London is about, the more I am convinced that LONDON IS MY CITY. I have always known since my teenage years that my destiny entailed of making a home outside of Sydney, and it is somewhat of a relief that the belief I had in myself, in my life, was not misguided.

Maybe it is still the novelty that keeps me on the high but I am certain that this feeling will prove to be more than just a fashionable state. I am alone, yet I have never felt more like I fit in, feeling a sense of peace within, here on the streets of London. It is a tough city, a relentless city that does not forgive and that is not generous for those that are unwilling, but I am one that loves a challenge, that loves being pushed and motivated and inspired. I thrive on a tumultuous life.

I think of my childhood, as far up to as my early 20’s, where I was unsure of my place in life. I never felt entirely right about things, not that I had anything to really complain about. Even up until not too long ago, I had always felt somewhat alone inside, despite being surrounded by so many great friends. This just amplified my feeling of isolation, as I never quite felt that I connected on a level that I needed to connect with someone spiritually or artistically (if that makes sense). It is wrong for me to say it had anything to do with the people that I surround myself with (because I could never replace or want to replace the people that I love), but it was me. I was not happy with me.

I feel free here. Though, London does fill me with disgust; dirty with regret. Regret that I have not always embraced the talent that is inside of me. No excuse may be given than the sheer fact that I am a professional procrastinator coupled with being ultra-lazy and having the horrible habit of taking things for granted. I am not saying I am overly talented at what I do, but I know that I do possess a talent of some kind otherwise I would not be in the industry that I am in today, loving what I do and smiling when I do it.

Life is a beautiful thing, how it “not-so” coincidently smacks you front on in the face with signs and wakeup calls at times when it is needed most. For me, one instance stands out above all else. My 2nd year, in my 2nd degree, I had lost heart, and had gone astray with my studies. I had submitted a presentation of two boards in comparison to the standard six. I knew I was going to fail yet even with this knowledge I was not one bit apologetic for my lack of commitment and for choosing sleep over brainwork the night before, until the juror at my presentation conferred of enlightening words.

He stood me aside and said: there is a natural talent that I posses, evident in the two lame panels that I had displayed on the wall, that other people in the class, work twice as hard to produce something close to what I had with a half-assed attitude. WOW. It is nice to be recognized and appreciated without obligation. It was not the fail that crushed me, or the year that I wasted, nor was it the extra 4G that would be added to my mammoth HECS debt, but it was those words. I had failed at being fair to myself. I am in debt to my 2nd year juror.

Recently in London I met this guy. We began chatting and he asked me what I do as a profession, and before I had a chance to process his question, he guessed that I was in the creative industry and that I was a designer. I know this may sound somewhat inconsequential, but it was a massive compliment to me. It was like I was given the assurance that everything about me, is me. I have grown into the person I want to be and who I am meant to be and that my creative spirit radiates from within. Considering in Sydney people only ever assumed I was in finance or business. (I think it was more of a racial generalization because I am Chinese, which is quite funny seeing as though I am terrible at maths, so terrible that my maths teacher in high school would ignore me).

Being in London you are confronted by talent, you are confronted by people that are putting themselves on the line, doing what they love, dreaming of making it big, but hold no fear of disappointment if they do not, as the most important thing is that they are being who they are, they are being real, and that is success in itself. This is my inspiration, people with talent doing what they do with love. I want to be this person as well, and with the passing of each day, it fills me with anxiety that I am not fulfilling my creative potential. I want to contribute to this world, to make my mark in this world (I guess this is why I started this blog). I want to be an everyday artist, not just an artist by occupation.

Avec l'amour de Paris

A play in continual strokes of harmonious collisions between the horizons of blue and green; silently sprinkled with polite intrusions of our existence whilst the clouds dance patterns in the skies and the winds tickle a graceful riot through the blades and branches, to ensure of no slumber.

The fields are a patchwork of greens offering tenderness below to the rugged terrain. Every blade of grass, every spec of soil, every drape of a leaf is of no coincidence. Poetically poised with a purpose, commissioned to tell a story in mother natures’ landscape which we are blessed to call our home.

The magnitude of it all, reminds me of our mortality. We are merely visitors on this earth. The lands have breathed life, centuries before you and I, and will for centuries beyond. Yet we still, like a sacred ritual, magnify our daily curses, which are yielded to nothing but trivial pursuits in contrast to the play that is at hand.

As I return, I contemplate how simplicity in the modern world has been lost. How beauty is something that we search for, when really, all we must to do is pause for a moment and realize that we are living on God’s canvas, floating in the daydreams of Mother Nature.

This piece began on the train returning to London from Paris... I wish now I had taken a photo of the scenery but I guess now it's all up to your imagination.

I want to visit your world.

Lately my mind has been racing from all different directions and I am finding it problematic to grasp just a single thought long enough before it’s position is contested by another in the clutch of my concentration. Even writing poses as no release for me in this instance, as I am not too sure of what I am meant to be writing about. It is an odd feeling I possess, as I am neither upset nor overly joyous, I am not anxious in my confusion nor do I feel confused. I feel like I’m back in Saigon and I have been planted defenseless in the center of the largest intersection, sun blazing, bikes traversing faster then the wind leaving behind a trail of dust and smoke and a concoction of foreign words and beeping horns in my ears as evidence of their passing, whilst I hopelessly try to decipher which way is the safest route out. It was always a mini victory to have survived crossing the road. I was advised to always take small steps, to continually walk slowly forward through the traffic and to never hesitate or turn back, good analogy for life really. The difference is it is hot there (Saigon)… it is cold here. No more picnics for the time being, the God’s must be angry, the English Gods are always angry.

Perhaps this mind congestion all began with a simple question that I am still unable to find an answer to.

Where would you wish to wake up to tomorrow?

Fifty People, One Question: Brooklyn from Fifty People, One Question on Vimeo.

I spent the day drowning in this question, until I slapped myself across the face and told me to pull my head from under the waters, but I am still swimming against the tide. The most apparent answer would be with my friends and family in Sydney, but it holds no truth, for even after the goodbyes they have never left me and I know that they would be disappointed to see a premature return. I wish of no city or reliving of a loving memory. I wish of no fulfillment of a desire or dream. Where do I wish to wake up tomorrow? Am I lost as I cannot think of any aims or goals that I would like to be viewing upon on top of my victory mountain when I wake tomorrow? Is it wrong to not know, to have no direction? Although I do have an enviable list of varied things that I would like to accomplish before my time is up, not one stands out above the other. Someone asked me the other day, if I could be anything (occupation wise) what would I be, to which I also struggled at to find an out right gold medal response; under the pressure, in the end I said a writer. I don’t know.

Perhaps this procrastination just means I am exactly where I am meant to be right now. My time on each little victory mountain will come, in which order is yet to be known. Such a simple question, such a difficult response!

Here’s another one…

Before the end of the day what do you wish to happen?

Fifty People, One Question: New York from Fifty People, One Question on Vimeo.

This is an easier one, my answer would be to make someone smile. There is no greater gift than to see a pure moment of joy alight on someone’s face and knowing that you were the cause.

Here’s another one, from a different project…

What do you want to do before you die?

This is a project done in polaroids... I love polaroids, they have a more tactile quality about them. They seem more real and personal. Hopefully technology one day will also make them more affordable and not obsolete. Check the site:

http://beforeidieiwantto.org/usa_nyc.html

"Hearing hundreds of different answers to this question from hundreds of different people makes one wonder: What make some people more aware of their own mortality than others? What motivates people to take action in their lives? What values do we hold as a society? And what values do other societies around the world find important?"

I love these kind of things, exploring the human mind and their perspectives on things.

We all live on the same planet yet we all live in different worlds.

I wish I could visit everyone’s world… that is what I would like to do before I die.

...

"Your thoughts have the power to paint someone a beautiful life"

-Jason Mraz

What is music?

Being surrounded by music enthusiasts, the topic seems to continuously arise, what is music? It was once again posed yesterday (I think my friend thinks I’m bored, sending me all these topical pieces), and once again I had my two pennies waiting, although this is a topic I always try to tread lightly on, in fear of a backlash or offending anyone, as I am not overly informed in this field like I know my friends are to be. So here it goes (fingers crossed).

Response to:

OBJECT OF SUBJECTIVITY

Following is an excerpt:

“Commercial music is definitely where the money is and that is the direction you should walk at if you want to sell albums and be rich and famous. There are loads of bands that I consider amazing, but they are not even close in making it as big as Bieber and perhaps never will. But as you would have figured, Bieber is not listed in any of those music sources I read, or the radio station I listen to.

So what is good music? What would be the criteria of being a successful musician? When you go platinum? I don’t think that is the case, because if that is true, all musicians should be making commercial music. On the other hand, selling albums is one of the top priorities of any bands.

Music is subjective. I think this is the beauty in all creative industries. What one person loves might be what another despises.

I would like to end with a message for you to; don’t be shy and crank up your music! As ANY music is good, it is just a difference of preference.”

I think this is where the confusion lays… today the music industry presents itself as much more than just music. It is a moneymaking factory, a commodity, a perfect engagement of marketing, advertising and entertainment. Companies do not scout for artists; they scout for opportunities for molding and sculpting of an image to fit a specific criterion to produce the dollars. It seems these days all you need is a half decent voice and a pretty face (males included) to call yourself a singer or a musician. Records does not equate to music, it just is a measure of popularity. Minus the face paint, stupid wigs and ugly costumes that is Lady Ga Ga (even the name you cannot take seriously), I cannot believe she would sell as many records. She is a perfect example of a gimmick, but gimmicks get old, so I am curious as to how she is going to continue capturing peoples’ attention and entertain. Real music however, does not get old, it’s that track that you will continue to play on repeat and ten years on will unashamedly discover it once again and still be amazed at every note and every lyric that you hear and you will still appreciate it like you did when you were first acquainted. It’s the track that makes you smile for no real reason, the track you want your kids to know that you listened to when you were younger.

Just because one can play an instrument and put a few notes and words together doesn't mean it is music nor does it mean that one is a musician. There is music, which is an expression, an art and then there is noise (but noise can be also good, don’t get me wrong). We can all hold pens, write and draw but we do not (should not) all call ourselves writers, artists or designers. I do not have an answer to the criteria of “being an artist” but I have observed that many who we would call artists never seem to place such labels on themselves, they simply say they make music, they say they paint, they write but are not artists. Coming from an architecture background, architecture in the common sense means buildings. Ask me what is architecture, I will not say it is what surrounds us or what we inhabit, they are merely just a means of shelter, architecture is that structure that deserves to be paused at, and I think, “wow.” Wow in every sense that I cannot name and simply looking at it makes me happy and inspires me to improve and think differently and despite my personal taste in style I am still able to appreciate it regardless. Architecture is the product of consideration, consideration of materials, construction, form and space, the consideration of its environment, the future, the people, society and quality of life. That is architecture. Builders can build houses but are not architects.

Selling albums is not the highest priority of all bands. True musicians hold making good music above all else, as it represents who they are, as music is art and art is self-expression. There are loads of artists who are not willing to sacrifice their artistic integrity for the chase of money. Temper Trap was offered a contract of numerous zeros for “Sweet Disposition” to be used in an advertisement, but declined. Why? Well I have not asked them personally but I can only assume they didn’t want their music to be abused and tarnished. They did not want the integrity of their art to be misplaced and just be known in association with a product or a brand so they can receive a heavy cheque at the end of the day.

The line is unclear to what we call art. Yes it is subjective, but I believe in any case art is a talent, it comes with thought and from a personal place, it questions and makes us think, it pushes boundaries. I think money, media, stupidity and lack of commonsense blurs our judgment quite a bit when it comes to art. We cannot go around calling everything art, or everything music because then we run the risk of everything becoming meaningless.

In keeping consistent with the previous blog, I leave you with two quotes from one of my favourite architects, Tadao Ando (mastermind)

"My hand is the extension of the thinking process - the creative process."

"You can't really say what is beautiful about a place, but the image of the place will remain vividly with you. "

- Tadao Ando

Conformity.

Knowing that I love to debate and have an opinion on everything, my friend recently sent me a piece to occupy my day. The following are excerpts of her writings and my two cents, or should I say two pennies worth.

Response to:

THE HUMAN MIND IS VERY COMPLEX YET EASILY MANIPULATED

(This was written after reading, THE LUCIFER EFFECT by PHILLIP ZIMBARDO)

“We live in a world that is shaped and controlled by authority and society. I do agree that we do need rules and guidance to be able to live in harmony with other beings. Thou shall not kill. Thou shall not steal. And the list goes on.”

These are more morals that should be instilled in us by human nature. It is disturbing to think that these are rules laid upon us, teaching us of how we should live our lives.

“Verbal communication is the topic of today as it is the most effective way to influence others.”

I argue with you in saying that verbal communication is not the most effective way to influence, but is the one most widely used. Verbal communication has boundaries; language boundaries, literacy boundaries, educational boundaries, technological boundaries, it is governed and censored. Actions are less restrained by such factors and is understood no matter the education or literary level, no matter the language spoken or the culture or era lived in and can be effective through any technological advancement. A smile or a hand outstretched is a universal language, one that is even understood through different species. Example of the fireman, hand outstretched to help the koala.

“Do you remember Hitler?

Once upon a time, there was a man who decided to conquer the world with the power of words. I believe he succeeded. He persuaded many to do the unthinkable… I honestly could not say that I would be a hero and not hand over my Jewish neighbour to be taken away… A very similar situation occurred in Rwanda genocide in 2004 where the Hutu were encouraged to murder all the Tutsi.”

Hitler did not conquer the world with words of persuasion, he conquered the world by instilling fear, preying on the weak and offering a utopian ideology. That is what dictators do, identify insecurities and peoples fear and feed off them. You would have turned your Jewish neighbour in, (hopefully) not because you believe in the words of Hitler, but because you fear the word of Hitler and it is not the words that you fear as such, it is the acts of persecution if his words you were not perceived to lay belief in.

Similar was the case in Rwanda, the Hutu Power took advantage of existing ethnic tensions, encouraged a growth in fear of disposition which was later seen to be affirmed with the murder of one of their political leaders, thus seemingly giving grounds for genocide to occur. In a country where there are education and technological limits, how are the people meant to know/learn any different to what they are fed.

If conspiracies on George Bush and his government prove to be true, he (allowed or) manufactured a state of fear, by presenting a world of anarchy and terror. When ones position is threatened, logic and intelligence are often thrown out the window and all it takes is a strong figure to lead offering assurance and security. If there were no 9/11, and there was no presence of dooming war, do you really think that Bush would have been able to round such support from the American people with his words for so long? Bush spoke of no wise memorable words. He did not inspire he just offered a sense of security and justice to a nation that felt threatened and whom are at large poorly educated or ignorant. The truth is not always given, but must be searched and questioned with an open mind, which most are too lazy to do.

“WE BELIEVE AND WE CONFORM. We conform because we want to impress others and be accepted in a group.”

We conform because we are afraid. We conform because we do not believe and trust in ourselves and rely on others to tell us who we are. We rely on others approval for our own approval in existence. It takes great strength for one to stand out apart from the crowd, to be a voice rather than to be just ears.

People sacrifice their truths in fear that others will deem them wrong. Why do we lay such heavy significance on others thoughts if it is our own truth?

“Who decides the style of fashion that is going to be ‘in’ next season? … Remember the shirt-dress? 7 out of 10 girls wore a shirt-dress with leggings for a period of time. I hated it.”

I think there is a fine line between conforming and informing. I was one of the 7 that wore the shirt-dresses, but are you to say that I was conforming? Perhaps I was just being informed… as today, I am sure that shirt-dresses are pretty much not in vogue and I still wear such attire, but it’s more about how I make that style my own.

You can say that people change to conform… what about those that are anti-conformity, they are also being swayed by social behaviors. They are choosing not to conform on the grounds that they don’t want to conform, not on the grounds that they don’t stand for whatever it is that everyone is conforming to. I know for a fact, you choose not to like things because it is mainstream or because it is too popular, or you begin to like things less because everyone likes it and you do not want to be like everyone, peer pressure in the reverse?

“Individuality is something that is sort after yet hard to find.”

Too much emphasis is laid on “individuality.” You cannot sort after it. It is who you are, and until you find the person that you are, individuality will always elude you, you are just “conforming” to anothers’ individualism. And what is individuality? Why must we sort out for it? Is it because we are uncomfortable in our own skin that we search for “individualism” to make us stand out rather then having faith in the person that we are to make us different and liked? While others are wearing black, I don’t need to be wearing white to feel like an individual. I know if I am one of a million who are wearing black this does not alter who I am and this does not mean I will be forgotten amongst the masses. Take for example identical twins, two people who look the same, but yet, people will be drawn to one more than the other based on personality and the person that they are, not by the individualism that they aesthetically display.

Society does judge a book by it’s cover, but only if we care for it, only if we do not have faith in the strength of our hearts and personalities that we allow this to effect us.

I leave you with this quote:

"Most people do not openly force us into roles, they merely suggest that we adopt them through their reactions to us, and hence surreptitiously prevent us from moving beyond whatever mold they have assigned us."

– Alain de Botton, Essays in Love.