Overheard Productions is getting its mojo working — but slowly and incrementally

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Sometimes you can end up in the right place at the right time.
Tote bag by Laneway . There are signatures on the back. This was a gift in return for me doing an interview with them back around about the time King Arthur was rounding the corners on his meeting table.

When I get more than five minutes on a QWERTY keyboard again*, I’m going to change some titles and move files around so the categories are a little more predictable and meaningful.

* At the time of writing, I could not predict it would take 25 days before my fingers touched a keyboard again. In that time, I did not have any consistent access to an IBM/PC QWERTY system.

As I write this, I’ve been 14 months with no PC to call my own. Think you’ve got tech troubles? Walk a mile in my moccasins.

You might have come here for a music blog and found a middle-aged man, wringing his hands over the cruel world in which he make his way, with a pure-ish heart (mostly harmless) and the best of the good intentions.

So my brooding, insightful, musings on the vagaries of existence are going to where all self-indulgent dross lives: Tumblr! [That was the plan.]

By way of a hopeful transition, I share this insight I had at 3.30am on Tuesday morning (yikes, what date? Tuesday 5 February 2013, maybe?) on Cronulla Beach.

I’d woken in the night, afflicted by niggling self-doubts, and all those concerns that come with the struggle to satisfying the basics of good old Maszlo and the bottom tier of his triangle.

I’d given away any thought of more sleep that early morning, and was driving towards a 24hr club for a cup of coffee, bright lights, and whatever sport was on TV.

But halfway down the Kingsway to my destination, I felt that pull of the moon and the sea — it’s gotten stronger since 2005 and gets stronger day by day.

So I turned YIGgy the Econo-Battle Van around and headed down to Cronulla Beach, the scene of an existential incident from last week

I’m still processing this one.

Diving through the water’s surface after a fast-disappearing 15 year old Chinese national. With the help of his Dad who finally sensed the danger, we got to him, and the young bloke started Year 11 in the Shire the next day.

I was getting out of the van in the dark, thinking about the cruelness of some, and FFS why ARE people so unkind?

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Aboriginal Tent Embassy: are we looking at it the wrong way?

Aboriginal Tent Embassy, Parkes ACT
Aboriginal Tent Embassy, Parkes ACT

Aboriginal Tent Embassy

Some reflections for Reconciliation Week 2012

Last Sunday, about a week out from Sorry Day 2012, I had a not-so-chance interaction at the Aboriginal Tent Embassy on the lawns of Old Parliament House, Canberra, ACT, Australia.

It galvanised and resonated with me two of the things that are most core to my being:

1. My favourite word in the English language (and several others I either speak or have some capacity with) is ‘diversity’.

Diversité. Diversiteit.

We can identify, celebrate, and understand our differences.

The less we can say, ‘I don’t understand’, and the more we can say, ‘Help me to understand’ when it comes to differences, the better off we can be, in my very humble opinion.

2. Never assume. Serving suggestion.

The older I get, the more I have grown to dislike this word and all the connotations around it and others like it.

‘I assume, I presume, Obviously, As you are aware’: they’re all illegal in my book. It’s like aversion therapy just being on the planet some days, hearing these repeated ad nauseum. Keep some tally marks today as they’re trotted out around you.

I can hear the words of my late father ringing in my ears: ‘Don’t jump to conclusions; you’ll break your leg’.

Intruder

On Sunday evening 20 May 2012, I was walking back from catching up with some people in Manuka and Forrest. It was one of the wonderful, clear, crisp Canberra nights in late Autumn when the air is still and so long as you have a warm jacket on (preferably in an outrageous 50s pattern) and an over-sized beanie, you’re sound as a pound.

Sorry Day Bridge Walk poster. I tried to ressurrect it but couldn't find anything to hammer it into the ground with. Sorry.
Sorry Day Bridge Walk poster. I tried to resurrect it but couldn’t find anything to hammer it into the ground with. Sorry.

As I walked through Parkes (the Parliamentary Triangle) and passed the statues of Messrs Chifley and Curtin, I got to thinking about reconciliation, the Aboriginal Tent Embassy, and the coming Sorry Day. Earlier that day, while walking from the city out to Manuka, I’d happened on a sign advertising the Bridge Walk this Friday and had spent some time (ultimately unsuccessfully) trying to re-plant it by the side of the road.

So this was all buzzing around as I approached the tent embassy along King Georges Terrace at about 8pm. I could have stuck to the path and the lights and headed off towards Commonwealth Avenue, but something drew me towards the ceremonial fire and I’d just descended the one or two steps when a resident called out from the shadows, ‘Hey, where are you going? What are you doing?’ Continue reading