Paul J Penton – Songwriter
“Release the Muse”
Archive for August, 2009
Golf Course- Daily Object Writing- Sept 1st
Author: admin
It should be green but with the drought and all it’s mostly thirsty brown strips of ground anxious for whatever drip of moisture they can lick up. The ball may be resting on a small crevasse on the fairway where bulbous headed crickets scurry and whistle their backlegs to each other. As you don’t have a buggy you hump along your scaled down bag like a backpack and decide that a seven iron will do the job. The clubs cackle to each other as you fish for the iron, their heads chatter away taking bets on whether you’ll make the shot properly or not. The rubbery grip is like a cushioned sponge in hand and you want more certainty so lock your little fingers together….Set. Thumbs down the shaft, body forms a ‘C’ shape, head straight and still. Now, breathe in the clean clear fresh country air and take away that club head. Keep the head still and cock that shooter and DRIVE…..
There’s something reassuring when you’ve put it all together right. A graceful, floaty moment almost like instantly being in love. It lasts for just a few seconds. A perfect spiritual connection between man and implement and ball. The thwack of the club head has a reassuring sound like the voice of your lover and you watch that tiny white dot follow a looping trajectory and pull up on the edge of the rolled piece of green within feet of the flag. Perfect. But it isn’t always that way, just like a bad date or an argument with your lover or partner those shots can sometimes go way off course; an inside hook goes flying out of bounds, just the way some of your stubborn positions on certain issues sometimes send her out of bounds. Your thick slice heading left…….
read comments (0)Nursery Rhyme – Daily Object Writing – Aug 31
Author: admin
The itsy bitsy humpty dumpty little lamb does not rhyme, but those nursery tales do. Itsy and bitsy, humpty and dumpty, Little Jack Hormer sitting in the Corner. These characters meant something to someone at sometime. When we were kids though it was just something simple to latch hold of and parade out. Did I learn mine out of a book, with a big sister or my mother reading to me, the same way she used to read Rupert the Bear stories to me, crouched on a stool beside the bed.
I wonder what Mary’s lamb would have tasted like. If I could have got hold of it and made a decent roast – probably very nice with some roasted potatoes and a river of gravy made from pan juices, hmmm yes I can see that steaming lump of meat being carved by my father with the special sharpened kitchen knife. The same way I now do it with the sharpener : pull blade toward me, flip and push away repeat until it will split a hair. I can see the guillotine knife exposing the pink tender slab of lamb, going onto my plate and sitting just under my nose. The mingle of the meat and potatoes in crispy brown jackets. The gravy from the container held daintily between fingers is a brown vale that cloaks the meal. Slicing through the potato a puff of steam leaps out and then tender clouds of roasted goodness float into my mouth with their crunchy skins. The meat is a soft cushion landing on the palette, melting away like butter on an hot day. Poor Mary did she walk about with her mouth watering the whole time, thinking of eating that little lamb and did Jack ever get to have a dessert of rich plum pudding, fabulous with custard, a yellow swamp of custard that the pudding drowns in. A vanilla sugar explosion that sets off the dark plum taste is a wonderful contrast.
Picnic – Daily Object Writing- Aug 30
Author: admin
The hill slopes down to the bottom of the botanical where a white rectangle will soon come to life. The Tartan rug has a miscellany of delicacies spread all over, from musty tasting humus and pita breads, to legs and breasts of red roosters finest chicken. The rug is also adorned with the flutes of wine bottles in varying vintages and styles. I’m sipping on a West Australian Chardonay, crisp and fruity, the classic white I think it is, all very pleasant. The conversation meanders around current events and how beautiful the sunset is . A chicken leg is greasy in hand as I start to mow it down to the bone, a slightly smoky roasted flavour enflames my taste buds. A hint of breeze bouncing off the trees sets off the 25+ temperature, truly delightful, like you’d read about in a Jane Austin novel or something, Ye’ olde English aristocracy parties with ladies in flowing dresses and gentlemen in smart suits. We’re all here dressed in our finest jeans and branded tops awaiting Holywood’s next brilliant piece of propaganda.
Scripture – Daily Object Writing – Aug 29
Author: admin
There’s so many words laid flat and bound in the holy book that the pages are like tissue paper, turning to the next page of neatly ordered words in parallel columns his words are illuminated in red, “blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth” etc etc. I hear the words in my head like a constant river maybe 50 feet wide, a back ground whisper of water along the bank of consciousness, whereas Mr Buddha, now he’ s just like a mountain snow melt stream that’s just beginning, small birds twittering in a field. And that God in the Koran, well that’s a visit to the blacksmith’s shop BIG, HEAVY, DEMANDING WORDS being struck on the anvil of your heart and mind. In one form or another each is the word of God or A god or a deity. It’s been quite some time since the bible sat upon my lap like a new born baby I would fawn over and take delight in. Do we become immune after a time? Once we’ve extracted the ‘meaning’ we want?
Now these passages and readings and phrases are just back ground noise in the clash of other philosophies that bombard us relentlessly. Religion seems to be like distant ringing railway crossing bells that I’ve learned to tune out. Maybe one day I’ll go back to the station and wait for the train of enlightenment, but for now the trains ain’t running. Why did that happen I ask? Is it because I kept consulting the timetable and the train never turned up and I just gave up on the idea? How many times can you pay the fare and not take the ride. Whatever – I still believe in trains.
Check Out – Daily Object Writing Aug 28
Author: admin
So, it was as if I was standing at the front door watching a line of possessions move past me a on a conveyor belt to the moving truck. I was surprised the well muscled men did not beep every time they passed beneath the door jam or that they were not emptying stuff into a large crinkly environmentally unfriendly plastic bag. I was still in a state of dis-belief about things, as if I’d just found out someone had come and emptied my bank account. The conversation had been brief, bolt of lightning brief. ” This is not working out for me any more, I’m leaving”… and now here was the proof, she was of course absent, but was sure to make small incursions to pick up small items. I imagine her chewing pink bubble gum at whatever new place she’d lined up measuring and sizing things up. Whatever her reasons she had decided it was time to check out of this relationship and find another one. Somehow as I looked out the window at the removal van I imagined it was growing collapsible handles on the side and some giant would soon come and whisk it away. I was checking into my emotional bank account for something to withdraw but as mentioned earlier someone had found my P.I.N. number and emptied it out. At times like this, where a full internal inventory is taking place the option to ‘check out’ hangs as an option, but life goes on and things get better – or so I tell myself
Scissors- Daily Object Writing Aug 27
Author: admin
Cutting paper, cutting cloth, snipping their way across a page or a dress pattern; a pair of scissors but why a pair? Is it the resemblance to a pair of Marylin Monroe or or Betty Grable legs walking across the page in shining beauty, in silvered abstraction? With those big Milliners scissors in my hand I feel as if they’re eating up the cloth, tasting it sailing through the materials like a speedboat on a lake, easy, graceful leaving behind a wake, a rip in the fabric of time and space. The disturbed universe of cloth is ruptured for ever to be sown or stapled back into reality at a later time. Following the pattern laid down by the maker.
Do we have one – a pattern for our lives? Do we scissor our way through life guided by the fateful hand of a creator beyond our imaginings? Used to think so, used to be fatal in that way, now each day is a new pattern ready to be shaped and woven by conscious choices and desires that taste as sweet as afternoon tea. Sweet lamington ideas and ideals, that flow into buttered scone thoughts that float on cloudy scenes in my 3rd eye – driving me toward accomplishment. Sculpting and moulding each hour cutting my own pattern and cloth. My mind and vision supplying the motive force to make me cut a swathe through the strange designs that life throws at me. The challenges of shaping and forming the raw materials into something cohesive and understandable, like being in school, with bottles of sticky clag and coloured paper and shapes. The glue getting stuck to fingers in transparent rubbery globs that crystalise. That are picked off later in the day like scabs you get after falling off your bike………
Funeral- Daily Object Writing Aug 26
Author: admin
The order of service is presented as each person comes in, flowery writing announcing his name and the songs to be sung. The air is heavy with flowery perfume, daliahs and chrysanthemums and favorites from the garden. At the front of the small non religious chapel lies the coffin in shining polished wood, with a hint of light bouncing from overhead. As people come to pay their respects the music of the brass band he used to play with hangs in the air. Parades of speech march into peoples ears, his life story, tributes war history and his contributions all unfold.
A procession of cars glides in slow motion down the street with headlights on high beam. At the cemetery we become weight lifters hoisting the box above our shoulders in steely determination. A wound has been made in the ground ready to receive him . Final words are spoken, hands feel thick crumbly dirt, soft towel flower petals rhyme onto the polished wood like dancing elves.
Myth – Daliy Object Writing- Aug 25th
Author: admin
Loch Ness, Arthur and the knights, Babylon’s hanging gardens, Jack the Ripper. Facts or fiction? Somehow there must be a truth hidden in all myths or fables or they would not have been telegraphed down the wire of time. Some myths have been scientifically proven to be false, a whole program is devoted to it – Mythbusters. The modern equivalent is the urban legend I guess.
Years ago I believe they scanned every foot of Loch Ness and found no signs of a giant swimming aquatic mammal – unless it was hiding in an underwater cave somewhere. The famous photogpaph has been discredited as a fake so what is it that people see? Is it something they want to believe in when hope has evaporated? Arthur and the knights of the round table Robin Hood, these stories were they or were they not true. Certainly The ideal of someone who was interested in a more real redistribution of wealth is a fine socialist ideal, roll into that story the ‘nasty’ king and you’ve got a winning myth. But how do we test the validity of such?
We’d have to be transported back in time, to a time before sewerage, where streets stank of the human waste, where a shower meant a dip in a hand beaten metal pot, probably cold- Have you ever had to have a cold shower on a cold morning? Torture Even the castle would stink. The smell of a fatted pig being slowly turned over open coals by a serf while the King prances down the stairs in his dinner regalia, freshly beaten and washed with river stones the day before. Dried in front of another smoky fire. Sitting in an empty echoing hall with pewter mugs and cobbled forks and rough knives- that’s the reality of living in Robin Hood’s day – not the romantic neat orderly myth we see on television shows and movies. Always such a jolly fellow he and his band, but I reckon they’d actually be a bunch of rough vagabonds – have to be to go around killing the kings guards and henchmen so mercilessly.
Once again I’ll start a rant about the propaganda myth plagued on us by televisions and advertising banners that leach and leach into our unconscious until we believe the myth they weave…….
Time
Author: admin
Time
It’s my observation
in our consumer driven world
that the one thing we want
can’t be bought
and that’s time.
Now when we were kids
it seemed there was oceans of it
it was all about filling in ‘time’
finding ways
to alleviate the boredom
games of cricket or football
any sort of game
to fill in the time
while our parents worked away
to provide enough money
to put food on the table
and pay for an education
it was just slipping away
and we didn’t know it
They knew it but we didn’t
the age old problem
that as you get older
it seems to go faster
and faster
until you look over your shoulder
to see yourself approaching
like a ghost
applying subtle pressure
to do things faster and faster
because time’s getting shorter and shorter
So now it’s all about allocation
making sure each moment
is measured for an outcome
it’s the last known natural resource
it’s the thing that you can’t waste
the thing you can’t call back again
so make each moment count
tick it off
tick the boxes
that proves that you’ve done the most
to advance your cause
don’t waste this,
don’t waste this time
If only it were balanced out somewhat
when we’ve got all the knowledge
at the end of our years
if only it could be spread thickly and melt
like butter on warm toast
that’s how time should be used
so yes, you can’t ‘t buy time
you can buy other people’s time[that's work]
you can only make time
by getting up early or going to bed late
making scarificies
but you can’t buy time
if someone could
they’d be a thrillionaire
Fragments & thoughts – Aug 7
Author: admin
Sliding doors
As I’m gliding down Chapel Street
on smooth layers of ashphalt
past beggars looking vacant
and two dollar shops looking vibrant
past the factory seconds place
where a bloke is having trouble
removing his security screen
As I’m gliding
each shop I pass
that has a door of sliding glass that opens beside me
revealing a sliver
another layer of consumption
except for the banks of course
because they’re only interested in taking
not giving
how much power am I consuming
by making these doors close and open
it’s just another another nail in the coffin
Plasma TV box
Two blokes are deconstructing a box
for a plasma TV
they’re just not big enough really
those boxes
As well as consuming half the grid
these things are big and bulky and ugly
it’s another sin of consumerism
another nail in the coffin
and another belch of greenhouse gas
everytime the button is pushed
There’s a girl out the front of a flat
around twenty something
just hanging there
waiting for something to happen
have here expectations been met
is her life everything she imagined
has she evr really been challenged?
By her dressed down manner
and her general demeanour
I’d say things are not quite working out the way
she hoped
she knows that anybody can be famous
and almost everybody these days expects to be famous
whether they can sing or dance or not
but she doesn’t think it takes work
hard work
and talent
and capacity
and ability
you cannot be everything you want
nor will never be
if you haven’t got the basics
so what about some realistic expectations
not the ‘you can be whatever you want’
because some things are not possible
if you sing out of tune
no degree of training will make you sing in tune
if you can’t tap your feet in time
you’ll never be on dancing with the stars
accept your lot
work with what you’ve got
to make it the best it can be
and maybe
maybe
something might happen.
Bus stop
cold metal seat
biting my arse
air temperature
cold enough to scare monkeys made of brass
eyes are radars
hunting down the road
looking for those green luminous digits
that herald the arrival
of the saviour
waiting for a sign of the sign
that the bus is about to arrive
Gym Hall
A gym hall filled with light and hoops
and polished boards
and yellow lines
and during the day
the sound of voices echoing round
like the thundering hooves of wild horses.