Beautiful Stranger
The giant Christmas Tree in Martin Place has divided the thoroughfare between George and Pitt Streets in twain (I love that word - twain) and the usual chaotic traffic of criss-crossing pedestrians have been forced into the order of two distinct lanes. But this only lasts for about twenty metres.
As I keep walking towards my bus stop I see a beggar on the side of the Colonial building. There are at least a dozen suits walking out of their impressive doors, giving no notice to the man that they are passing. He holds his sign up towards the heavens, whilst his body slouches down towards the ground. It read:
Please help
I am in need of food, home
And hope
Or words to that effect.
As I drew closer to the man, a lady approached him. Her hair was pulled back in a neat and respectable manner. She clutched a Country Road folio and her suit covered her body in a way that only a good suit can. She began speaking to him in hushed tones and within a minute, sat down on the ground beside him to listen to his story.
I took a seat from a distance and watched the conversation unfold.
He would flail his arms in a frenzy, and I was convinced that he would conjure the whirlwind of unfortunate events that he had encountered into an image before her. He kept looking towards the sky and shied away from her eyes. He played with his cardboard sign with great unease and relief, a nervous yet comforting twitch, like biting one's nails.
She sat there on the ground and listened. She nodded. She asked questions. She cared.
After fifteen minutes she stood to say goodbye, shook his hand and walked off. His money box was left empty, but from the look on his face it was as clear as the sky that day that what she did was worth more than bills of plastic and pieces of silver and gold.
Brilliant - A Forward
According to a news report, a certain private school in Perth was recently faced with a unique problem. A number of 12-year-old girls were beginning to use lipstick and would put it on in the bathroom. That was fine, but after they put on their lipstick they would press their lips to the mirror leaving dozens of little lip prints. Every night the janitor would remove them and the next day the girls would put them back.
Finally the principal decided that something had to be done. She called all the girls to the bathroom and met them there with the janitor. She explained that all these lip prints were causing a major problem for the custodian who had to clean the mirrors every night. To demonstrate how difficult it had been to clean the mirrors, she asked the janitor to show the girls how much effort was required. He took out a long-handled squeegee, dipped it in the toilet, and cleaned the mirror with it.
Since then, there have been no lip prints on the mirror.
According to a news report, a certain private school in Perth was recently faced with a unique problem. A number of 12-year-old girls were beginning to use lipstick and would put it on in the bathroom. That was fine, but after they put on their lipstick they would press their lips to the mirror leaving dozens of little lip prints. Every night the janitor would remove them and the next day the girls would put them back.
Finally the principal decided that something had to be done. She called all the girls to the bathroom and met them there with the janitor. She explained that all these lip prints were causing a major problem for the custodian who had to clean the mirrors every night. To demonstrate how difficult it had been to clean the mirrors, she asked the janitor to show the girls how much effort was required. He took out a long-handled squeegee, dipped it in the toilet, and cleaned the mirror with it.
Since then, there have been no lip prints on the mirror.
The Journeyman In The Kitchen
The Journeyman sits in the corner, observing his new, temporary home.
The rug beside him is worn and tattered, covered with dust and dirt from all the feet that have passed it in its short and forgettable life. There is a drum kit, too, in the room, and the Journeyman begins to wonder how such an instrument could be at home in a kitchen. The fridge hummed consistently in the other corner, its head adorned with cereal boxes and miscellaneous muesli bars. A few days' worth of dishes were piled neatly near the low-lying sink, and the benchtop was of a fiery, orange hue. The Journeyman could already envision placing a few mandarins on the benchtop just to watch them fade into the background.
Amusement can be found in any situation, if you try.
The Journeyman sits in the corner, observing his new, temporary home.
His face is worn and weary, like those of young soldiers sent to a mad war. Or those who had seen too much, too quickly. Or those who had lost hope. Or those who had no homes.
He tells me that airports were everything he knew in life. And that it was in between transit (ie, his current situation) that he felt most vulnerable, alone, useless, and scared.
The Journeyman sits in the corner, observing his new, temporary home. He is waiting for the next journey.
You can tell that flight was the only thing he lived for. Heathrow, Kingsford-Smith, JFK, Changai - these were the names he had grown familiar and accustomed with, as we do street signs and landmarks in our neighbourhood. He felt a sense of friendship with the luggage-handlers, customs officials and organised stewardesses who shook his hand in the streets. To the Journeyman, home was only a flight away.
The Journeyman sits in the corner, observing his new, temporary home. He is waiting for the next journey. The Journeyman does not object as I study him.
I envy his lifestyle because it bears the promise that tomorrow is different. Tomorrow I am surrounded with the stifling humidity of a South-East Asian monsoon day. Tomorrow I am greeted with the unpredictability of London showers. Tomorrow I am hurried by the crowd of the world's metropolis - New York. Tomorrow I am saying 'Ta' to the relaxed officials at Mascot.
The Journeyman sits in the corner, staring back at me. I question him.
Do you envy me? Don't you wish you had the comfort that a home can bring? That you had roots like a grand oak or even a simple palm tree? That you too were a tree, and not a leaf whose fate was subject to the occasion of a seasonal wind?
The empty suitcase sits in the corner, observing his new, temporary home.
I sit in the corner, observing my new, temporary home.
The Journeyman sits in the corner, observing his new, temporary home.
The rug beside him is worn and tattered, covered with dust and dirt from all the feet that have passed it in its short and forgettable life. There is a drum kit, too, in the room, and the Journeyman begins to wonder how such an instrument could be at home in a kitchen. The fridge hummed consistently in the other corner, its head adorned with cereal boxes and miscellaneous muesli bars. A few days' worth of dishes were piled neatly near the low-lying sink, and the benchtop was of a fiery, orange hue. The Journeyman could already envision placing a few mandarins on the benchtop just to watch them fade into the background.
Amusement can be found in any situation, if you try.
The Journeyman sits in the corner, observing his new, temporary home.
His face is worn and weary, like those of young soldiers sent to a mad war. Or those who had seen too much, too quickly. Or those who had lost hope. Or those who had no homes.
He tells me that airports were everything he knew in life. And that it was in between transit (ie, his current situation) that he felt most vulnerable, alone, useless, and scared.
The Journeyman sits in the corner, observing his new, temporary home. He is waiting for the next journey.
You can tell that flight was the only thing he lived for. Heathrow, Kingsford-Smith, JFK, Changai - these were the names he had grown familiar and accustomed with, as we do street signs and landmarks in our neighbourhood. He felt a sense of friendship with the luggage-handlers, customs officials and organised stewardesses who shook his hand in the streets. To the Journeyman, home was only a flight away.
The Journeyman sits in the corner, observing his new, temporary home. He is waiting for the next journey. The Journeyman does not object as I study him.
I envy his lifestyle because it bears the promise that tomorrow is different. Tomorrow I am surrounded with the stifling humidity of a South-East Asian monsoon day. Tomorrow I am greeted with the unpredictability of London showers. Tomorrow I am hurried by the crowd of the world's metropolis - New York. Tomorrow I am saying 'Ta' to the relaxed officials at Mascot.
The Journeyman sits in the corner, staring back at me. I question him.
Do you envy me? Don't you wish you had the comfort that a home can bring? That you had roots like a grand oak or even a simple palm tree? That you too were a tree, and not a leaf whose fate was subject to the occasion of a seasonal wind?
The empty suitcase sits in the corner, observing his new, temporary home.
I sit in the corner, observing my new, temporary home.
This Is It
The results are in and there is an addition to MAR-Z's FUCKING BEST ALBUMS (it should have read Mar-z's Best Fucking Albums, but that's just too ambiguous) collection.
If you love Mar-z (and we all do) you're gonna luuuuurve -> The Strokes - Is This It? It's Mar-z personified on CD - catchy, friendly and fun. Go out and download it and buy it... NOW DAMN YOU, NOW!
Now I know I'm quite late in joining the bandwagon, but good music is good music regardless of time, and it doesn't get better than this.
The results are in and there is an addition to MAR-Z's FUCKING BEST ALBUMS (it should have read Mar-z's Best Fucking Albums, but that's just too ambiguous) collection.
If you love Mar-z (and we all do) you're gonna luuuuurve -> The Strokes - Is This It? It's Mar-z personified on CD - catchy, friendly and fun. Go out and download it and buy it... NOW DAMN YOU, NOW!
Now I know I'm quite late in joining the bandwagon, but good music is good music regardless of time, and it doesn't get better than this.
Mar-z Gets His Teeth of Wisdom Pulled Out. Hilarity Does Not Ensue.
Last Friday, Blogger Mar-z had his wisdom teeth pulled out at the local hospital and was under general anaesthetic throughout the procedure.
He is now recovering in a stable condition, bedridden with a diet of chocolate Moove, chocolate ice-cream and chicken soup.
He'd like to thank his Mother for the care, HCF for covering all expenses, the surgeon's assistant who kept playing with his latex gloves and the anaesthetist (thank you Dictionary.com for the spelling!) who played the whole injection process like a great poker bluff.
Despite the relative success of the procedure (there are two golf balls residing in his lower jaw; a new throbbing pain replacing the old wisdom-teeth-is-growing-sideways-pain) he is still scared shitless of anything associated with needles.
Some things will never change, I suppose.
Last Friday, Blogger Mar-z had his wisdom teeth pulled out at the local hospital and was under general anaesthetic throughout the procedure.
He is now recovering in a stable condition, bedridden with a diet of chocolate Moove, chocolate ice-cream and chicken soup.
He'd like to thank his Mother for the care, HCF for covering all expenses, the surgeon's assistant who kept playing with his latex gloves and the anaesthetist (thank you Dictionary.com for the spelling!) who played the whole injection process like a great poker bluff.
Despite the relative success of the procedure (there are two golf balls residing in his lower jaw; a new throbbing pain replacing the old wisdom-teeth-is-growing-sideways-pain) he is still scared shitless of anything associated with needles.
Some things will never change, I suppose.
Watch This Space
Tomorrow there will be a mother of a blog post, where this one is sitting. The topic - Latham's proposal to redistribute Government Funding for Education.
I tried to do it in two or three senctences but it didn't happen. What did happen was that I discovered that the sentences all shared a common, steely composition - much like an alloy - 14% Wankers, 22% Fuck, 22% What the, 12% Stupid, 4% Howard, 2% Go cry to the headmaster, 1% Trinity Boys are like the Rabbitohs, 13% Elitist, 5% Pretty, 5% Boys.
If my math is correct, that should all add up to 100% pure Mar-z commentary. The fuel that is firing this preview and the upcoming post is proudly brought to you by Howard and The Liberals - Choice Is for People With Money.
And if you want to read a cohesive argument that I completely agree with, read JB's topic titled Edjumacation.
Tomorrow there will be a mother of a blog post, where this one is sitting. The topic - Latham's proposal to redistribute Government Funding for Education.
I tried to do it in two or three senctences but it didn't happen. What did happen was that I discovered that the sentences all shared a common, steely composition - much like an alloy - 14% Wankers, 22% Fuck, 22% What the, 12% Stupid, 4% Howard, 2% Go cry to the headmaster, 1% Trinity Boys are like the Rabbitohs, 13% Elitist, 5% Pretty, 5% Boys.
If my math is correct, that should all add up to 100% pure Mar-z commentary. The fuel that is firing this preview and the upcoming post is proudly brought to you by Howard and The Liberals - Choice Is for People With Money.
And if you want to read a cohesive argument that I completely agree with, read JB's topic titled Edjumacation.
Invading Elite
There are pieces in front of me, little squares with letters on them. They came packaged in a neat plastic bag, along with a flimsy, balsa wood frame.
I'm trying my best to make do with the letters that have been given to me, but the only words that I can make are invading and elite.
I keep staring at the pieces, hoping that they would change to fit an image of words that I would want and be proud to display - vocabulary that commands respect, admiration, awe and maybe even a guffaw! Words that have been forgotten, words that are saved for crosswords, an eleven-letter-long monster that nobody but the best Latin scholar or Scrabble Master would know - that's what I want.
I keep re-arranging the pieces, trying to spur a hunger to make the most of my pieces - I want my epitaph to include the word insatiable and the phrase carpe diem without any sexual connentations.
I keep peering over my desk, in search for ideas from others or simply gauging my progress and quality against what they have. Some have an unfair advantage of useful letters and a creative mind, others are systematic and calculative with their words, a few are satisfied to have even made an arrangement, and one is happily typing away after pushing the interruption aside. I resign to sinking my head into my hands, wishing I could be like any one of them during various stages of mood swings throughout the dying hours of the work day.
It is 5:15PM and I look at my piece of balsa wood again, at the letters that it holds, at the words that I have created - invading elite. I've done nothing more remarkable than place certain pieces next to each other to the best of my ability and as true to my vocabulary, regardless of how weak or strong it may be.
And now, I'm experiencing grand delusions that I've discovered the key to life in two words, one afternoon, eleven squares and one flimsy, balsa wood frame.
There are pieces in front of me, little squares with letters on them. They came packaged in a neat plastic bag, along with a flimsy, balsa wood frame.
I'm trying my best to make do with the letters that have been given to me, but the only words that I can make are invading and elite.
I keep staring at the pieces, hoping that they would change to fit an image of words that I would want and be proud to display - vocabulary that commands respect, admiration, awe and maybe even a guffaw! Words that have been forgotten, words that are saved for crosswords, an eleven-letter-long monster that nobody but the best Latin scholar or Scrabble Master would know - that's what I want.
I keep re-arranging the pieces, trying to spur a hunger to make the most of my pieces - I want my epitaph to include the word insatiable and the phrase carpe diem without any sexual connentations.
I keep peering over my desk, in search for ideas from others or simply gauging my progress and quality against what they have. Some have an unfair advantage of useful letters and a creative mind, others are systematic and calculative with their words, a few are satisfied to have even made an arrangement, and one is happily typing away after pushing the interruption aside. I resign to sinking my head into my hands, wishing I could be like any one of them during various stages of mood swings throughout the dying hours of the work day.
It is 5:15PM and I look at my piece of balsa wood again, at the letters that it holds, at the words that I have created - invading elite. I've done nothing more remarkable than place certain pieces next to each other to the best of my ability and as true to my vocabulary, regardless of how weak or strong it may be.
And now, I'm experiencing grand delusions that I've discovered the key to life in two words, one afternoon, eleven squares and one flimsy, balsa wood frame.
With Dreams
There are voices everywhere
And an uprising from underneath
They beckon things unheard of in life
From the things
That are ripped at the seams
And in between the notes
There is silence
And in between silence
It can be seen
That there is something in the midst of this reality
That exists in a union with dreams
There are voices everywhere
And an uprising from underneath
They beckon things unheard of in life
From the things
That are ripped at the seams
And in between the notes
There is silence
And in between silence
It can be seen
That there is something in the midst of this reality
That exists in a union with dreams
Hmmm.
Do you ever get the feeling that you are under constant surveillance? That your life is being recorded by all those black bubbles in strange corners and high ceilings? You know, like The Truman Show?
No?
Well I guess I'm just a vain and paranoid fucker.
But I'm sure it's not much of a worry. Even the most dedicated viewers are sure to agree that my life is shit boring and tune off after a minute of watching me stare into space.
Again.
And again.
Do you ever get the feeling that you are under constant surveillance? That your life is being recorded by all those black bubbles in strange corners and high ceilings? You know, like The Truman Show?
No?
Well I guess I'm just a vain and paranoid fucker.
But I'm sure it's not much of a worry. Even the most dedicated viewers are sure to agree that my life is shit boring and tune off after a minute of watching me stare into space.
Again.
And again.
Da Da da!
There's a spring in my step, and a gold mini ipod in my pocket.
Hurrah!
My life, right now, feels so complete.
Oh, if only I could have this feeling everyday.
And to the regulars, visit -> JB
There's a spring in my step, and a gold mini ipod in my pocket.
Hurrah!
My life, right now, feels so complete.
Oh, if only I could have this feeling everyday.
And to the regulars, visit -> JB
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