Paul J Penton – Songwriter

The problem with a cheeseburger is that word that is hanging off the front of the word ‘burger’- Cheese. Already I have documented my displeasure with this staple of the Western world, but just to recap – sour, dour, strange reaction, apoplexy, vomitous, churning sea stomach the moment I taste it. If you can imagine typex being applied to your tongue that’s how it is for me with cheese, so the solution is just the plain old burger – the small ones – I won’t get brand specific for fear of litigation.

I sit in the window sometimes on my way home on the bike when in a hurry. I sit in the window and watch the dance of the traffic outside, the busy hurried lives of other souls who are on their way to better things now the working day is done. I watch them hop skip and jump across the pedestrian crossings on their way to a better something. I’m sitting here with my hands clawing at a waxy wrapper unpeeling it from anemic thin ‘Australia’s next top model’ bun I raise it to my mouth like a shotgun and I’m about to pull the trigger and blow my brains out , but as I bite I decide the stomach will do for tonight. I wonder how much sugar is in the bun, it seems to dissolve like sherbet, and the pattie of meat has a uniform consistency and flavour – because this is the junior model, the meat is only a sliver thinner than my tongue- at least with a cheeseburger it’s a double dose, but even the thought of that cooked cheese that’s dripped all over the meat is enough to begin my gag reaction, to start my volcano stomach wanting to erupt…. I did mention I don’t like cheese didn’t I?

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Celestial fields in ultra white glow, palaces and fabled animals unicorns and gryphons. All your other selves all become one at the meeting point at the gateway to eternity at the big pearly gates with that bearded man or is it the pot bellied one? He guides you on and you walk along a fragile transparent path to the hall of Akashic records where you review your life- like the way they say happens when you’re drowning, it flashes before you, a fast forward movie, a formula one racing car – but all in silence and knowing – a life time compressed into a full stop where everything is known and seen in an instant – where all the choices and all the ways you went are revealed and in the light of your current perfection and holiness you now see how much further you might have come.

You feel lighter than air as you float toward the birthplace of souls, for your re-insertion into life, carrying all your knowledge in a back pack , the knowledge of other lives lived well and fully and other lives where you didn’t live up to all you could be. Going back to do it again, perfect now but all will be forgotten when you return, until you go searching and find that pool within, and drink from its refereshing fountain and let it fill your aching soul with laughter and joy and fullness.

Which life will you choose? The hard one or the easy – what does your soul need to learn before it ascends back to the god-head and becomes one with everything and is in everything again? A baby screaming in an operating theater, testing its lungs as the blood and water are cleansed with a soft towel and a mother embraces and bonds in a green hospital gown while beeping machines and drip feeds continue to monitor her progress. The beginning of another life . Will this one be less ordinary than the last? Will challenges be faced and met – another 70 years will tell the tale.

visit www.objectwriting.com for the word of the day

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The next dash of salty inspiration from the muse was when I had to get that first ‘extra’ doona/blanket/cover after the first night with a seasonal chill. Here’s my random train of thought:

Autumn mornings start to bite
have to pull those covers tight
bring you in even closer
it might be a nasty winter

Another perfect morning
for sitting on the verandah
tasting the colour of the morning

a jewelry box full of glitters and sparkles
hazy autumn mornings
dew is icing on the grass

Are you afraid of Ghosts?
Do you hear their voices
Like tyres on a wet road
Whispering past?

don’t want to boast
but I’ve suffered a lot
to get to the place where I am
to keep running at the pace I plan
is gonna take all my life
but some people search all their lives

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He stands on the back, tall thin and gangly as if he doesn’t eat enough or his metabolism eats stuff up way too quick, the guardian in a flannelette shirt with a red and black cross pattern. He’s in control riding the back of the trolleys, like Captain Ahab on the high seas, his rudder, his only control, is that lever. It looks like the big old things they used to use in Railway Junction boxes, probably the same vintage. It has a caliper like a bike brake that he pumps and soothes between snaking dips and heights, measuring the screams of the participants, giving them just enough. The air cuts through his nostrils on the dives and he breathes in the sea, just a hundred meters away on the farthest leg of the circuit, he also imagines the smell and taste of a cigarette on the break that’s coming soon.

He likes the way the smoke rolls over his tongue and bites his throat. The smell of the still burning sulphurous explosion of the match that fights against the steamed dim-sims in the packet in the other hand, they hang near his nose as he lights up. He goes for a walk outside, drifting through the Big Mouth of Luna Park looking up and but being blind to the Garish colours, he’s seen them so many times now it’s like a blind spot. The cigarette is stubbed under foot as the second shift leads the coaster around the park, it ratchets its way up the first dipper and a series of whoops and screams fade off toward the other end of the park. The dim sim is warm and pudgy in his hand like a chicken skin not quite cooked enough, needles and dials on the taste scale pin over as the soy infused balls seem to explode in his mouth, cabbage and vegetable reek through his nostrils. This will all sit nicely in his gut as he ballerinas the carts around the track another few times today, before he goes home to the bedsit off Grey street with the 21 centimeter TV……

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Tall stories
always adding an an element of  drama and intrigue
making things larger than life
bigger than they appear
he wa great at doing that
telling those tall stories
tall as the masts on the square riggers he sailed on
tall as the glasses of beer he laerned to do it with
tall stories

Confectionary free

I thought this was an aisle
where you could not buy confectionary
upon enquiry I discovered 
confectionary was not available
to those little fingers of little children
they would not be tempted
on the way through

Reaching out
fingers stretched
for bright wrappers
enticing colours
sucking you in
making your hands reach out

You remember the last time
you tasted pleasure
and your brain threw out chemicals
pathways of pleasure
released in advance
of what it will be like
to have another kiss
another glance

But mum knows best
she’s headed straight toward
the aisle with the sign
‘confectionary free’
no temptations today
just a round of magazines
the latest on Brad and Angelina and jen
and the death of Michael Jackson
and pack of ‘ransom-
“Twenty fives”
They’re insatiable
like that hunger for the lollies
That lies between the purse and the trolleys
at lazy checkout lanes
at the supermarket
Overheard – “I did the world a favour, I did

Poverty

you might own acres of property
but if no-one loves you’
you’re living in poverty
you can have all the money in the world
fast cars and call girls
but if nobody loves you
you’re not free
you’re living in poverty

Getting There

Hey!
I know people who are ‘getting there’
with their brand new kitchens
their plasma televisions
their buns in the oven
living out the lives they imagined
the life they planned all those years ago
but where does it get you
in the end?
when you’re really gone

Yeah. I see them
chained in suburban bondage
slaves to the kids and the mortgage
always in a daze – exhausted
wondering how to divorce
form their present reality

Some people seem worried
about what’s in store for me
I didn’t make that choice you see
and when I turn Old and grey
who is going to look after me?
I don’t believe in that far ahead
just a day at a time
I might be soon be dead
so just one day at a time

Those choices made long ago
forced on me by circumstance
choices made for me really
just been following the script
playing my role
it’s got me to here
wherever here might be
developing my character
through trials and tribulations
the only thing is
there’s no standing ovations
no fans at the door asking for autographs
it’s a singular choice
a strange path – but really
it’s not for me
that other life.
Sunday wak June 28

Crisp
blue skies
taste the clarity of teh air as you breathe in
so cold you smell it in half frozen nostrils
sun still low
eleven in the monring
loking up at electricity pylons
their complexity
of knotted and tangeld wires
where they cross from the other street
and intersect in  spider web lattice
supported by porcelain kunuckles
the chit chat of Indian minors echoes
from the roof tops

A man slides by in a motorised buggy
like my dad had
an orange flag for visibility
flaps casually in the breeze
he wears a beanie to keep his head warm
a red flashing light signifies the rear of the vehicle
he goes shooting off down the footpath
creaking over the cracks

A tree besides the Freemasons retirement village
actually at the entrance way
its leaves are now completely golden,
nothing green at all
glowing in streams of midday sun

Poplars
their white pasty bodies
sprouting boughs and branches
and then smaller tentacles
that drip down in shrinking submission
thin reedy fingers
waving in the wind
bare of leaves as winter is approaching
The only trees with any clothes on
are the Eucalypts

turns come gliding in to land on the lake
their wings flapping furious
legs paddling in mid air and in the water
aiming for the central bread throwing position
be-ware of the swans
they’ll try to take it away from you

Rowing Instruciton

Stroke, stroke
not sure if this is coming from on board
or form the coach traveling along on dirt track
beside the lake
he tells them to rest
his nasal tones
emanating from a megaphone
echo and bounce off the water
to us on the other side
who are quietly going about our business
of circumanavigating the pond
all five kilometers of it

11 am city still shrouded in mist
not going to lift
how do aeroplanes navigate it?

the Basics of life?

Love Fear Anxiety Peace happiness sadness shelter company food money home entertainment care future past present a job

Grass
uncut
maple leaves are caught in it
sitting upright
vertical
in dying autumn brown

Trees along the road have superfine branches
which from a distance
give us the illusion
that they are out of focus
 -do not adjust your reality

SONG IDEA/ CONCEPT
- HOW DO YOU KNOW
how do you know that this person you’re about to meet
might be someone or something you want to hang out with
How do you know before you meet them?

How do you know if you’ve got he jog
b
how do you know

car turning right stretched across the road
turns the corner
he got tooted
makes me think of road rage

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I recently had a song of mine -Another Perfect Morning  Critiqued at a seminar by none other than Mr Pat Pattison himself- generally he liked the song – as did the crowd – and made some suggestions for improvement-

I thought it would be interesting to document the initial inspirations and ideas and see how the final version [almost] has evolved.

Over the last year I have take to longish Sunday morning strolls around the neighbourhood and off in the bush too, usually armed with my mp3 recorder/player. So if I hear/see/smell something unusual I hit the record button and make a note- at the time the thing may seem almost inconsequential – but later they might ‘join together’ as was the case with this song…..

Just after we had changed the clocks from summertime I was riding to work at around 8.30 am. The day before it was of course 7.30 a.m- hence I noticed that the shadows were longer and that there were some damp patches on the ground. I stopped the bike and hit record and made some notes and observations:-

riding ’round the Botanical
golden light of mornings
seems to shine off buildings

Autumn rain,
mirror puddles in the park
all reflect the world right back
those golden hues of autumn

puddles on the ground
mirroring the world
Trees stripped bare
losing their autumn coat
autumn leaves reflecting the earth

the trees are losing their bloom,
colder days are coming soon
The sun is getting up so much later

mirror puddles in the park
all reflect teh world right back
those golden hues of autumn

shadows seem to stretch to noon
got to get to work real soon
computer screens growl
telephones buzz like angry mosquitos
and people come around
with impossible expectations

everybody I know
would rather not be working

I’ll pop up another installment tomorrow.

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“Go to Reg Hunt”, a voice seemed to boom from below the clouds. The golf clubs were being hefted into the boot, they snaggled against each other with metallic cries for freedom. The boot clumped shut with a low frequency boom and I was left staring at the spot of exposed red undercoat on the roof. My hand ran over the remainder of the paint job from last week; the Gemini now outfitted in a coat of deck egg blue seemed to be smooth, but the gradients on my skin detected imperfections irregularities and flaws that I had intended to level out with the cutting and polishing compound.

On Wednesday I got out on the street after waiting for a week for the paint to cure, visions of a shiny new strips of body work floated like zeppelins in the upper part of my minds eye. The screw driver clicked open the tin and I dabbed in a sheepskin cloth . The vapours from the cutting compound and the paint I was disturbing had a sort of sweet smell – tantalising almost like being in a lolly shop when I was a kid. The rubbing and grinding were beginning to smooth down the paint, but then disaster! The red undercoat made a re-appearance. Gripping fists of panic climbed my windpipe and breathing seemed to be temporarily suspended, as was my disbelief at the site of the undercoat – so soon!…. I had not even achieved a small glimmer of gloss yet. The last year of filling and sanding and checking flashed like a mountain snow melt before my eyes’. The aching muscles that had burned, The sore knees from crouching down too long.. all wasted?

“Go to Reg hunt”. the voice boomed. The car dealer was just around the corner. so the car and my deflated zeppelin dreams limped there and parked a safe distance away. When I saw ‘Betsy’, the cream 82 Corolla I knew my allegiance to the Gemini was over. A quick assessment of the Gemini revealed that ALL the paint would need to be stripped back……..

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Now that the days are as short as possible and time is as tight as a near empty toothpaste tube, you’ve got to get as much done as you can in the remaining hours before bed – including eating. If you’re as organised as me you make a meal last two days- even three in some cases – you know, a big vat of spaghetti Bolognaise that gets slopped onto three plates – two of which are covered in that non breathable sticky plastic wrap stuff. It isn’t always the easy to shred it from the roll with those angry dented metallic teeth. Sometimes in its angelic transit to the plate it folds over on itself and you spend a minute unpicking it all. Very tricky trying to slide a fingernail in there to separate the statically bonded leaves!

So, you open the fridge the next night and slide your hand in just below the supa-chill section, its seems to breathe a jack frost kiss over the back of your palm as you pull the prized dish out. The trick you learn is to leave the wrapping on, other wise when it’s in the hot house of the microwave certain parts go crunchy and other parts hardly get any heat!. You push that big flappy door release handle and the plate seems to grate on the glass dish inside the oven. The door cracks shut. Because you are now familiar with this particular oven you think nothing of the sequence of beeps and tings that you shuffle through to get that rotisserie plate spinning, but to a foreigner what you’ve just done might be akin to safe cracking. With that firm push of the ’start’ button, the machine launches into a constant hum almost like a distant vacuum cleaner. Perhaps it’s sucking out the cold molecules and then making them dance a frenzy before spitting them back into the food. You don’t want to stand in front of the oven as it cooks….

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Boxed quilted jacket, a green anorak. Walking to school on crisp winter mornings where the puddles had frozen over, stepping on the puddles and hearing the ice crack. Seeing the rainbow colours of petrol that had leaked form a leaded fuel tank. The smell of leaded car exhausts purring while waiting to exit the dirt road with frosted rocks form the breath of overnight stars. Waiting to cross the Kings Ride, snuggled up safe in the anorak with its pillows of padding. Safety, protection, insulation against the hard cold world. The road icy as I cross between drifts of traffic.

The first lesson is music and singing. All of us in 2A crowded into a room adorned with maps of the world in plastic topographical correctness. All the mountains of Europe staring and pointing out from the wall like molehills. Doe, Re Mi, Far, So La Tee Doe – the Solfage method as I later come to understand. Why is it so easy to do and why is the rest of life so hard?

English history the conquest of the Romans – trips to Fishbourne in a big diesel bus chugging along dual carriage motorways and eating jam sandwiches for lunch – all squishy and mushy by lunchtime – the jam stuck between a padding of hand cut leaves of bread. Roman ruins, the mosaics now covered by a layer of glass instead of a layer of dirt. Implements, tools and coins from the Roman era padded from time by layers of dirt. Shards of pottery, entire jugs as tall as me, a dome of light above that echoes with our 8 year old voices…..

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Well just 39 Days to go now before I aim to have the ‘backbones’ completed for the two albums – progress is at about 40% so I’m going to have to ramp it up a bit. Last week I did a draft of ‘More than sometimes’- hopefully it will be on the site soon. I also worked on a Nashville rewrite of Mr Perfect, and made some small adjustments to buried and dead- the violin version is on the demo page now. Hoping to record Act Naturally -as soon as I work out how to do an 11/4 beat and sing at the same time! ‘In the name of’ is now digitised and available on I-Tunes- cool.

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