The stated moral of the story of Baz Luhrmann’s Moulin Rouge, has a deeper significance for me than merely raising the great Bohemian ideals of Freedom, Truth and Beauty. Love, as The Beatles sang, is all you need; a sour note in the current climate surrounding Sir Paul and his Lady Mucca.
God is love, the Bible in the First Letter of John states this plainly, but is God all we need? There are some very lonely Christians around the place, desperate for the love and affection of fellow creatures (preferably humans of the opposite sex); many who have found this love which I have not, would agree with the above statement for as long as it lasts.
This is the incomplete one...and is better left that way. Maybe I'll use the title for another effort, but this one works best left as is...
Wednesday, 17 December 2008
If you can’t sing well, then just sing loud.
I must confess I am a big fan of the idea that if you can’t sing well then you should just sing loud, it says so much about confidence in the innate worth of the individual that I smile to think of this as a philosophy for life.
When I was small I was very small, smaller than all the other boys, even some of the younger boys were bigger than me, my little brother for one. I was always the last one picked for sport, lined up along the fence as all the heroes of playground footy/cricket/anything were numbered off by the opposing captains: just me and the fat kid, or just me and the kid on crutches and with plaster from groin to ankle awaiting the sealing of our fate, who would be chosen to leave the last one as the “default pick”. It was often me. I would like to say that I then played “loud”, but in all honesty my size was but one of my handicaps, the other being far more devastating: I was utterly crap at footy/cricket/anything and basically spent lunchtime running about calling vainly for a pass...never getting a touch.
Oddly enough, or perhaps it isn’t; singing was one thing I could do. I didn’t need to sing loud because I could sing well, (I still can). But I did sing loud, if not in volume then in influence: I was the only boy in the school choir. Nowadays being the one boy among twenty two girls would be a bonus, but as a twelve year old it underlined the awful truth, I was too small to play footy/cricket/anything with the boys. But I didn’t care, because I could sing and I did sing, and I sang in the front row where everyone could see me and admire my bravery at sticking with choir. And I did know it was brave, I realised that I could never compete in sport but I knew I could sing well and represent the school at that, and I did.
Now I sing at church along with the congregation, I was only in choir for two years, (the second year with four other boys, all too small for sport), but I remember the whispers and the words of praise my parents accepted on my behalf from the proud mums of Pakenham. I have decided to live well in the ways that I can, and loudly in all other things.
Jesus counselled the Laodicean Christians to be hot or cold but not lukewarm: this is the only way to live according to the Messiah. Perhaps he was talking about the life of faith, but then the life of faith is more than just about the stuff you do at church, it is living with purpose and bravery. It is a life that sings loudly at all times, learning to sing well by choosing to sing often: my life.
When I was small I was very small, smaller than all the other boys, even some of the younger boys were bigger than me, my little brother for one. I was always the last one picked for sport, lined up along the fence as all the heroes of playground footy/cricket/anything were numbered off by the opposing captains: just me and the fat kid, or just me and the kid on crutches and with plaster from groin to ankle awaiting the sealing of our fate, who would be chosen to leave the last one as the “default pick”. It was often me. I would like to say that I then played “loud”, but in all honesty my size was but one of my handicaps, the other being far more devastating: I was utterly crap at footy/cricket/anything and basically spent lunchtime running about calling vainly for a pass...never getting a touch.
Oddly enough, or perhaps it isn’t; singing was one thing I could do. I didn’t need to sing loud because I could sing well, (I still can). But I did sing loud, if not in volume then in influence: I was the only boy in the school choir. Nowadays being the one boy among twenty two girls would be a bonus, but as a twelve year old it underlined the awful truth, I was too small to play footy/cricket/anything with the boys. But I didn’t care, because I could sing and I did sing, and I sang in the front row where everyone could see me and admire my bravery at sticking with choir. And I did know it was brave, I realised that I could never compete in sport but I knew I could sing well and represent the school at that, and I did.
Now I sing at church along with the congregation, I was only in choir for two years, (the second year with four other boys, all too small for sport), but I remember the whispers and the words of praise my parents accepted on my behalf from the proud mums of Pakenham. I have decided to live well in the ways that I can, and loudly in all other things.
Jesus counselled the Laodicean Christians to be hot or cold but not lukewarm: this is the only way to live according to the Messiah. Perhaps he was talking about the life of faith, but then the life of faith is more than just about the stuff you do at church, it is living with purpose and bravery. It is a life that sings loudly at all times, learning to sing well by choosing to sing often: my life.
Wide, Wide As The Ocean
At church this morning I had the most wonderful experience, of seeing old people remembering their childhood. There should be more of it; indeed it was Jesus who talked about being as a little child in our dealings with God, it was that which I saw this morning.
I was unable to attend my own church today so I visited the local parish church, the only place of Christian celebration within walking distance of my home. I don’t usually connect too well with the worship life of this congregation; the people seem rather religious and set in their ways although they are not unfriendly. Today however during the communion songs the pianist played C. Austin Miles’ well known Sunday School anthem, a song I remember my grandmother singing to us and making us sing at Sunday concerts in the lounge room back in Melbourne. Well, here were these oldies singing along with all the glee of the under tens, doing the hand actions and smiling broadly with the memory of years long passed now and how they had first learned to worship, perhaps in this very house. It pleased me greatly to see this, there is some life in the old church yet; sadly that life seems limited to those at the upper end of chronology as the younger adults and none of the kids were so vigorous in joining in...or perhaps for them, like me, it wasn’t really their song.
This is a great song, almost lost under nana’s insistence that it be sung for the entertainment of the post-dinner parents of the mid 1980s and the chagrin of the suited and booted boys that my brother, cousins, and I were shoehorned into being. My saviour’s love is indeed as wide as the oceans, as high as the heavens, as deep as the seas. I’m not so certain about the theology of unworthiness, I once was but now am saved and therefore am worthy of His love, (the Bible tells me so, in Romans if you care to check), but I most certainly am a child of His care where His love reaches me wherever I am: even here, even now.
I am very much looking forward to going home next weekend, to being back at Hillsong Church London and all that home is and means, but today’s forced absence allowed me to see that there is indeed hope for the Church in this world, and in this country; that the tales of childhood do sustain those who choose to find sustenance there, that His grace is indeed sufficient for all our needs.
I need to be reminded of the great love of God, and of the promise that He is a good God and is good to those He loves: even me. I need this reminder often in my line of work, in my absence from my family, and in my struggles with a past that keeps me leg-roped to so much weight.
I was unable to attend my own church today so I visited the local parish church, the only place of Christian celebration within walking distance of my home. I don’t usually connect too well with the worship life of this congregation; the people seem rather religious and set in their ways although they are not unfriendly. Today however during the communion songs the pianist played C. Austin Miles’ well known Sunday School anthem, a song I remember my grandmother singing to us and making us sing at Sunday concerts in the lounge room back in Melbourne. Well, here were these oldies singing along with all the glee of the under tens, doing the hand actions and smiling broadly with the memory of years long passed now and how they had first learned to worship, perhaps in this very house. It pleased me greatly to see this, there is some life in the old church yet; sadly that life seems limited to those at the upper end of chronology as the younger adults and none of the kids were so vigorous in joining in...or perhaps for them, like me, it wasn’t really their song.
This is a great song, almost lost under nana’s insistence that it be sung for the entertainment of the post-dinner parents of the mid 1980s and the chagrin of the suited and booted boys that my brother, cousins, and I were shoehorned into being. My saviour’s love is indeed as wide as the oceans, as high as the heavens, as deep as the seas. I’m not so certain about the theology of unworthiness, I once was but now am saved and therefore am worthy of His love, (the Bible tells me so, in Romans if you care to check), but I most certainly am a child of His care where His love reaches me wherever I am: even here, even now.
I am very much looking forward to going home next weekend, to being back at Hillsong Church London and all that home is and means, but today’s forced absence allowed me to see that there is indeed hope for the Church in this world, and in this country; that the tales of childhood do sustain those who choose to find sustenance there, that His grace is indeed sufficient for all our needs.
I need to be reminded of the great love of God, and of the promise that He is a good God and is good to those He loves: even me. I need this reminder often in my line of work, in my absence from my family, and in my struggles with a past that keeps me leg-roped to so much weight.
Freedom, Beauty, Truth. Love.
I have a sneaking suspicion that Baz Luhrmann’s Moulin Rouge might just be the best film ever made. Well, perhaps not, but I have enjoyed seeing it again because it is full of cleverness. I have had the passing idea, all too passing actually, to attach new songs to old stories, to incorporate songs from various artists into a single show, like the ones playing in London at present yet not limited to one band. Baz has already done it, and done it well linking his story through the songs to an historical time, an infamous revolution in the arts, one of its great heroes, and its great downfall.
I am especially pleased that this film was made in Sydney, and features some of Australia’s finest actors in its many roles, indeed only Ewan McGregor is out of place among the leads.
Australia has no need for cultural cringe when such work as this can come from its shores, yet still the story is one of Montmartre and not of Melbourne. It reminds me of a panel discussion I saw on one of those Sunday afternoon’s arts shows on the ABC, where cultural cringe was being discussed by a group of Australians, including a koori. What was most notable about this panel was that all except the koori spoke in French. The French facilitator described what France knew of Australian culture and summed it up in the equation 32 and 17, not for the purpose of maths but for the purpose of sport, that being Australia’s winning margin over France in the 1999 RWC played at Millennium Stadium in Cardiff.
Australia’s is not a Bohemian culture, but then, having recently visited Prague, I must say Bohemia’s isn’t a Bohemian culture either. The four great pillars of Freedom, Beauty, Truth, and most of all Love are somewhat forgotten, or perhaps only belittled, in our postmodern land girt by sea; but we still have much to be proud of beyond our prowess as a nation of wannabe Wallabies. (Especially following the 2007 RWC.) Australia is however a clever country, a creative country, a can-do nation of battlers, of Bazzas and Shazzas who can make art work just as easily as they can find water in a drought or convert a try from the sidelines. Australians have travelled beyond the Fatal Shore to establish themselves in all corners of the planet, how great it is that Baz Luhrmann is able to fly the flag from the Emerald City itself.
I dream of an Australia where we are known for more than just our green and gold; although may those great endeavours never cease. May we be proud of our clever Baz, and shine more light on Australian arts in cinema, literature, fine arts, and music of all genres. May we be proud of our Nicole, (born in Hawaii), but continue to shine light on Australian science and discovery. I love the sunburnt country, a land of untamed imagination.
I am especially pleased that this film was made in Sydney, and features some of Australia’s finest actors in its many roles, indeed only Ewan McGregor is out of place among the leads.
Australia has no need for cultural cringe when such work as this can come from its shores, yet still the story is one of Montmartre and not of Melbourne. It reminds me of a panel discussion I saw on one of those Sunday afternoon’s arts shows on the ABC, where cultural cringe was being discussed by a group of Australians, including a koori. What was most notable about this panel was that all except the koori spoke in French. The French facilitator described what France knew of Australian culture and summed it up in the equation 32 and 17, not for the purpose of maths but for the purpose of sport, that being Australia’s winning margin over France in the 1999 RWC played at Millennium Stadium in Cardiff.
Australia’s is not a Bohemian culture, but then, having recently visited Prague, I must say Bohemia’s isn’t a Bohemian culture either. The four great pillars of Freedom, Beauty, Truth, and most of all Love are somewhat forgotten, or perhaps only belittled, in our postmodern land girt by sea; but we still have much to be proud of beyond our prowess as a nation of wannabe Wallabies. (Especially following the 2007 RWC.) Australia is however a clever country, a creative country, a can-do nation of battlers, of Bazzas and Shazzas who can make art work just as easily as they can find water in a drought or convert a try from the sidelines. Australians have travelled beyond the Fatal Shore to establish themselves in all corners of the planet, how great it is that Baz Luhrmann is able to fly the flag from the Emerald City itself.
I dream of an Australia where we are known for more than just our green and gold; although may those great endeavours never cease. May we be proud of our clever Baz, and shine more light on Australian arts in cinema, literature, fine arts, and music of all genres. May we be proud of our Nicole, (born in Hawaii), but continue to shine light on Australian science and discovery. I love the sunburnt country, a land of untamed imagination.
And an end to all that
These five hundred words get harder to write each day; surely I cannot be running out of things to say already? The problem is that I have too much to say; so much I have been carrying unsaid which now fights to be the first story to be released.
What I am certain of is that today is the time that there be an end to all that: all the distraction from what I don’t want to know any more.
I choose to write. I choose to write as more than just an outlet for my angst or my latent creativity, I choose to write because I am a writer and writing is what I do. But if I am to write, to do writing, then I must stop doing what I am not being. I am a writer, writers write. I am not anything else, so I shall no longer do nor seek those other things.
Better than focussing upon what I am not is attending to what I am. I enjoy writing and I shall do that, and let everything else fall away: it doesn’t matter what it is it matters only what it isn’t.
I know what I want to write about, but I wonder if it all comes across as a little self indulgent. My first foray into publishing under my own name was not as well received as my extensive work under pseudonym; but then I wrote those stories under very different circumstances. I shall rewrite Malcolm’s story as suggested by one of my critics, and I shall write in a better frame of mind and for a better purpose.
I also know what I don’t want to write about, so I shall indeed stop researching such things.
“A memory is never finished as long as you are alive”; well that’s the case according to Sunset Boulevard’s Jesse. Maybe only God has the capacity to forget entirely upon request, but I can choose not to remember. I am struggling; not only with the 500 word challenge, but also to move my writing beyond where it was most comfortable in 2007 because I can see that it was heading into a dead-end. Today I am trying to write about not writing about what I no longer wish to write about: a circuitous argument if ever there was one: not a lost cause, but a foolish endeavour, as foolish as the original endeavour had been. I don’t want to drop out of life and the world, I have things I need to be doing, but I am struggling today with pressures from all sides.
How can I run the race and win the prize if I can’t even get onto the blocks? Sometimes the race is not to the swift but to the persistent, I shall put it all down to experience.
Wake me up inside, call my name and save me from the nightmare I’ve become.
It ends now.
What I am certain of is that today is the time that there be an end to all that: all the distraction from what I don’t want to know any more.
I choose to write. I choose to write as more than just an outlet for my angst or my latent creativity, I choose to write because I am a writer and writing is what I do. But if I am to write, to do writing, then I must stop doing what I am not being. I am a writer, writers write. I am not anything else, so I shall no longer do nor seek those other things.
Better than focussing upon what I am not is attending to what I am. I enjoy writing and I shall do that, and let everything else fall away: it doesn’t matter what it is it matters only what it isn’t.
I know what I want to write about, but I wonder if it all comes across as a little self indulgent. My first foray into publishing under my own name was not as well received as my extensive work under pseudonym; but then I wrote those stories under very different circumstances. I shall rewrite Malcolm’s story as suggested by one of my critics, and I shall write in a better frame of mind and for a better purpose.
I also know what I don’t want to write about, so I shall indeed stop researching such things.
“A memory is never finished as long as you are alive”; well that’s the case according to Sunset Boulevard’s Jesse. Maybe only God has the capacity to forget entirely upon request, but I can choose not to remember. I am struggling; not only with the 500 word challenge, but also to move my writing beyond where it was most comfortable in 2007 because I can see that it was heading into a dead-end. Today I am trying to write about not writing about what I no longer wish to write about: a circuitous argument if ever there was one: not a lost cause, but a foolish endeavour, as foolish as the original endeavour had been. I don’t want to drop out of life and the world, I have things I need to be doing, but I am struggling today with pressures from all sides.
How can I run the race and win the prize if I can’t even get onto the blocks? Sometimes the race is not to the swift but to the persistent, I shall put it all down to experience.
Wake me up inside, call my name and save me from the nightmare I’ve become.
It ends now.
The scent and sweat of a casino are nauseating at three in the morning.
The first words in Ian Fleming’s Casino Royale bring the reader straight into the scene which later editions of the James Bond novels and films have made very familiar. I had never thought of a casino having a sweat beyond its scent, and I find casinos nauseating at any time of day: but there it is; the murkiness of low lighting, the cigarette smoke, the smell of fear, the pain of loss. Casino.
Several years ago I wrote a lesson for Year Six Literacy based around the beginnings and endings of stories; the first and last sentences in a novel. I have never read any of Ian Fleming’s novels, and I’ve not seen all of the Bond films yet, but this first sentence of this first novel is a fitting opening because all of Bond on scene is there. It is a great sentence.
I am beginning to see stylistic traits coming out in my own writing, in no way as characteristic as this first sentence of Fleming which indicates an entire genre in fourteen words, but still ways in which people might identify me as the writer behind anonymous or pseudonymous works. I wonder if these things will remain.
I have noticed that I like using semicolons and commas, separating out my sentence with loads of punctuation. Charles Dickens did this. I have noticed I use some Germanic forms of grammar, like the Australian I am. I didn’t notice this until it was pointed out to me; British English has a different word order. I want to be able to write well in both dialects, but I also want to be able to write correctly in each one and not confuse the two.
I am still seeking a beginning, even as I refine my style and my use of the English languages I still wonder about the genres in which I shall write. Ian Fleming was a journalist for The Sunday Times, and also wrote fiction. He was a man whose business was writing and words, mine is not. I have been many things in the past, and I have written as a part of all of those things, but writing has never been the main part of what it is I have done. Now it will be, indeed it will at times be the only thing I shall do. It is the piece which dictates the opening sentence, the first thing read is close to being the last thing written and I am confident to wait: but still I would like to begin on the middle.
Only Connect: I choose to adapt Forster’s famous words as only commence; because connection only follows commencement. If I provide a substance, relational connections may be made. It doesn’t matter what I write at this point, only that I write: but it is important that I write of myself and from myself, even when only starting out.
Several years ago I wrote a lesson for Year Six Literacy based around the beginnings and endings of stories; the first and last sentences in a novel. I have never read any of Ian Fleming’s novels, and I’ve not seen all of the Bond films yet, but this first sentence of this first novel is a fitting opening because all of Bond on scene is there. It is a great sentence.
I am beginning to see stylistic traits coming out in my own writing, in no way as characteristic as this first sentence of Fleming which indicates an entire genre in fourteen words, but still ways in which people might identify me as the writer behind anonymous or pseudonymous works. I wonder if these things will remain.
I have noticed that I like using semicolons and commas, separating out my sentence with loads of punctuation. Charles Dickens did this. I have noticed I use some Germanic forms of grammar, like the Australian I am. I didn’t notice this until it was pointed out to me; British English has a different word order. I want to be able to write well in both dialects, but I also want to be able to write correctly in each one and not confuse the two.
I am still seeking a beginning, even as I refine my style and my use of the English languages I still wonder about the genres in which I shall write. Ian Fleming was a journalist for The Sunday Times, and also wrote fiction. He was a man whose business was writing and words, mine is not. I have been many things in the past, and I have written as a part of all of those things, but writing has never been the main part of what it is I have done. Now it will be, indeed it will at times be the only thing I shall do. It is the piece which dictates the opening sentence, the first thing read is close to being the last thing written and I am confident to wait: but still I would like to begin on the middle.
Only Connect: I choose to adapt Forster’s famous words as only commence; because connection only follows commencement. If I provide a substance, relational connections may be made. It doesn’t matter what I write at this point, only that I write: but it is important that I write of myself and from myself, even when only starting out.
Stop seeking what it is that you should be giving
There was a fable once told about a tiger which was lame, and was fed by hyenas that brought it meat which they found in their daily scavenging. A man who heard this story decided that that sounded like the way he wanted to live his life: and almost starved to death. The moral of the story is that we are meant to be like the hyenas, not the tiger.
In my world I see the truth in the direction to stop seeking what I should be giving; because I am poor in many ways. At various times I have wanted friendship, partnership, praise and recognition. I have wanted help but have been left to do it alone, even in the midst of a great crowd. I wonder now whether others have felt the same things at the same time, perhaps they were waiting for me to notice their need and then act to meet it with them.
This continues to be a dog eat dog world: I wonder whether selflessness has a place in the running of our society or whether those who seeks to be hyenas will end up starving, or as food for the tigers. Scripture is clear in describing servanthood as the preferred lifestyle for Christians; it is the model of Christ. If he could do it, then I should be able to since the same spirit (Spirit) lives in me, but why do I always feel like it’s give give give and then when people see I’m a giver they ask for more? How do I give so much assistance yet never find the help I need, when I need it? Can I truly find if I never seek? No.
The answer is to be the answer, not to deny my requirements but to find them in dialogue. Loneliness is not defeated by selfishness but by community, and community occurs in shared experience, in bearing one another’s burdens. Many feel the way I do; these are the characteristics of my generation. Therefore it should be easy to have my needs met; by meeting the needs of others I am blessed by their response. I make friends by being a friend; but I also earn praise by offering it, and am acclaimed by being personable and therefore becoming known to many.
What then shall I give? Attention for starters, but of the right form. I’ll offer friendship and conversation, and spend time with those who feel overlooked and marginalised. I shall offer partnership; in financial form but also through prayer and follow up with those who I wish to become like, or those who wish to become like me, both as mentor and mentoree. This is the simplest, most important way; I want partners and I have heard it said many times that that is the best way to move on in life: to spend time with those already heading in the direction I desire.
In my world I see the truth in the direction to stop seeking what I should be giving; because I am poor in many ways. At various times I have wanted friendship, partnership, praise and recognition. I have wanted help but have been left to do it alone, even in the midst of a great crowd. I wonder now whether others have felt the same things at the same time, perhaps they were waiting for me to notice their need and then act to meet it with them.
This continues to be a dog eat dog world: I wonder whether selflessness has a place in the running of our society or whether those who seeks to be hyenas will end up starving, or as food for the tigers. Scripture is clear in describing servanthood as the preferred lifestyle for Christians; it is the model of Christ. If he could do it, then I should be able to since the same spirit (Spirit) lives in me, but why do I always feel like it’s give give give and then when people see I’m a giver they ask for more? How do I give so much assistance yet never find the help I need, when I need it? Can I truly find if I never seek? No.
The answer is to be the answer, not to deny my requirements but to find them in dialogue. Loneliness is not defeated by selfishness but by community, and community occurs in shared experience, in bearing one another’s burdens. Many feel the way I do; these are the characteristics of my generation. Therefore it should be easy to have my needs met; by meeting the needs of others I am blessed by their response. I make friends by being a friend; but I also earn praise by offering it, and am acclaimed by being personable and therefore becoming known to many.
What then shall I give? Attention for starters, but of the right form. I’ll offer friendship and conversation, and spend time with those who feel overlooked and marginalised. I shall offer partnership; in financial form but also through prayer and follow up with those who I wish to become like, or those who wish to become like me, both as mentor and mentoree. This is the simplest, most important way; I want partners and I have heard it said many times that that is the best way to move on in life: to spend time with those already heading in the direction I desire.
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