Paul J Penton – Songwriter

It stands alone, like an obelisk. like the Washington Monument straight and strong, unwavering, it’s purpose clear. It knows what it must be and become, where it’s come from. The blood of a thousands reeks in its nose, the ideals of generations float in its memory like pages torn from a book that float free on a warm wind of conscience. It tastes the open mountain trails and fresh clean air. In the minds of teenagers it grows like a forest fire at a thousand degrees centigrade, burns in their minds and hearts to become something, someone, to be independent. They have their own battles and wars with authority, their own war of independence on the way to ‘becoming’. Through the desolation of shopping malls and underage drinking parties and riding in fast cars with the smell of burning rubber in their noses they think they are beginning to know it all, they know how the world operates, but like turning an oil tanker round in the Panama canal it’ll take a while to work that one out of them.

Is it all it’s cracked up to be? Leaving home, paying rent, getting a job, are your really free – no you just tether yourself to the chains that society demands to fill your place. Your keel gathers the barnacles of debt and obligation as you trawl through this sea looking for another who wants to lose their independence with you and you both become dependent on each other. All your clear mountain stream blue sky wilderness dreams are clamped down with nappies and schooling and mortgages and before you know it you are independent in an aged home……

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BANOOL words sitting in three Dimensional abomination out of a perfectly smooth surface of the manicured hedge. BANOOL I never did find what it meant, but every inch of that hedge was clipped so the word just hung in space in the same way you can get into a word on your PC and ‘add 3D effect’ except this was real life and Pre computer, Pre PC games, maybe Pong was just about to arrive.

There’s a hill you see , a long drive from the main street and a very long bike ride or walk – at least 20 minutes of huffing and puffing by the time you get to the top. And about 1/3 rd along is this hedge. Among the pickets and the iron palings is a wall of green, a world within itself. In it’s close up glory just a bunch of small twigs and ripe green iridescent leaves, but from the street, from a distance, a united front. There’s not much to smell up on that hill apart maybe from the waft of a loose new cowpat or two in the adjoining fields. It’s right on the edge of town, the borderline, almost as if that hedge is a border line too. They’re probably great friendly proud people, but the imposing hedge suggests that privacy is a treasured thing.

It really is a bit out of the normal way though – without a car that hill is a challenge that does not need to be met, maybe if you are going to the back end of the lake it’s do-able, but otherwise well avoided. I guess whoever curates the thing is out there regular, with the grade one clippers, the big ones that operate like a bellows and maybe some smaller sheers for the fine moustache work around the letters BANOOL. How tired would hands get after sculpting that lot. Maybe they have an electric hedge trimmer. I used one of those once on a place I lived but the sheer mass of the hedge sent a puff of blue smoke out of the unit half way – it had that electrical burnt out smell. As it was I had to get in a lopper in the end it got so out of control…….

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It was on the last day it really became apparent. At the top of the valley with a 1500 foot descent the insides of my feet were so painful it was as if there were thumb tacks pinned to the insides of my shoes, or a bed of nails that someone put there just for fun. Seven days of carrying a pack across semi wilderness had bought it to the fore that I had FLAT FEET , fallen arches, whatever it is you want to call it. The victory was that we had managed to scale what the book had described as the most dangerous part of the journey – Stake Pass – where in a moment the weather could become blizzardine, where navigation might only be possible with a compass, yes we had managed to scale that mighty peak but somewhere in the ascent an elastic band or two inside my feet had finally snapped. At the top thankfully the weather was clear, the wind though was a bit cruel whipping into us with northern bitterness, straight through the swishing gortex jackets and under clothes grabbing hold of each goose pimple and squeezing it, threatening to make it explode, but we walked and kept ourselves warm as a drying room at a ski resort. A photo opportunity to look at the valley below and then the descent for a nice cup of tea and a bite at Dungeon Ghyll. Instead of air punching the air with elation it was a case of please cut my feet off they hurt so much.

I booked in to see a specialist finally when one morning I got out of bed and found I couldn’t walk, it was as if the muscles on the bottom of my feet were jelly, would support no weight. On hands and knees I crawled to the bathroom reviving my feet beneath stinging pellets of hot water with no cold added. Walking on heels is a funny balancing act while the rest of the feet wake up, trying not to bend those falling arches too much. The specialist supplied me with orthotics, two blue raised bumps that fit inside the shoes, these take the strain off those dodgy muscles and eventually make the pain go away- Five years later and it’s all still good, the occasional bad day. But I could almost take on that at walk again I reckon – anybody want to pay the airfare?

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Monday Morning sometime 1974, Springvale Primary school, hundreds of youngsters standing on a sea of black asphalt, standing on the cracks, standing on the lines that define the basketball court, looking toward the headmaster speaking about something or other. Alraedy the day is hot , the sky is an unbroken blue diamond – unbreakable, it seems no clouds can penetrate its defence. The yellow disc is pulsing wavers of heat like electricity, like having your fingers across a nine volt battery – These are not the days of sunscreen that smells of chemical goodness, or hats with floppy sides and peaked cap and #7 sunglasses to keep your eyes pristine, no . Who knew then what we know now about the cancer causing sun. The ozone layer had not been sucked into space at that stage, sunburn was worn like a medal. Peeling snakeskins shown proudly at recess on the football field. No back here in 1974 we’re all lined up in our size fours, scuffed and unpolished, blue shirt tails hanging out of our Grey shorts getting ready to sing the national anthem.

“God save our gracious queen,
Long live our gracious queen……
noble and glorious
proud and victorious……

Of course as children we had no issue singing about a queen in some throne in some far away land – and heavens, being an immigrant fresh off the plane it was all perfectly natural, but someone in some place in high power had determined enough was enough. Was there a vote? Was there debate? I don’t recall, but now it’s “Australians all let us rejoice for we are young and free”……. I did take it on myself to learn those words – hard! Our land is ‘girt’ by sea… now to get that one in I had to do a bit of a look up. The inter-net is a wonderful thing isn’t it? Just a few taps on the keys and Googleworld opens up before you, lines of blue and black code that take you on mysterious journeys to another time dimension because by the time I found that girt’ meant ‘surrounded’, an hour had evaporated. Gone! No longer mine, ungettable again. So the girt begat an advert begat a purchase became a download. You know the chain. And with the fantastic plastic it’s all so easy……. [thanks to Lily Allen for the fantastic plastic line!]

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Flat, dead flat, an ECG dead flat line of green at eye level. It goes on forever, steamrollered, manicured, pruned and teased, just the faintest hint of a few lines at the other end. The ball is medium, heavy, a small cannonball ready to launch out of my arm, and like a cannonball it too has a trajectory, based on the ‘bias’ of the ball. One side heavier than the other- the bias – like a set of scales with too much weight on one side it will lean to the left or right on its journey toward the jack – The White ball the size of a snooker cue ball that needs to be approached by all of the other bowls.

Sometimes it’s too close to call, between sips of light beer from the 1950′s clubhouse a strategy forms – the other team have 4 balls in the zone , you have none- solution – do a blitzkrieg roll, a mighty fast one right down the middle if you can. Like a bolt on a single action Winchester my arm coils back then sling shots the brown globe with the yellow side down the runway. Have I judged the bias right? – Not so important at this speed I think – yes straight at the jack but then no it veers to the left in the last few metres- thankfully knocking a couple of the oppositions’ balls out of the way with a satisfying clacking sound. Now the score is 2-1. Better. Who thought that such a degree of competition could be invoked by such a simple game as rolling a ball along the grass – but it’s there the killer instinct, the desire to win, the well of pride we dip into to maintain our self esteem and position- I won’t back down.

For the rest of the afternoon we hang around near the barbecue out the back while Ben’s mum sizzles sausages and steaks, the smell of frying meat curls the air, and a snag sandwiched between two pieces of plasticy bread with sauce is the ‘Aussie’ main course at a BBQ, salty red tomato sauce,with the burned taste of the barbecue grill- lovely! Back for another round at the green lifting that ball now seems a bit harder several beers seem to have made it gain ounces as well as me! it almost seems as heavy as that spare tire I changed last week – that’s a fun job……

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Butter sizzling in the pan as if its a pool of lava, yellow bubbles emanating from the non stick grey tongue that laps heat from the orange electric element. Swirl it round and round, a good coating. A piece of bread soft and spongy sawn from the knobbly loaf as if it were a ham. An ear of bread dropping down to listen to the wooden chopping board, joined by several relatives. The eggy mixture now ready after minutes of pounding with a whisk. Cracked open in yolky stickiness. The eyes popped open, the yellow and gold mixing with the clear until it’s all a smooth off yellow, the whisk clattering against the side of the tin bowl, waking the dead, waking the sleepers from their reveries. Grains of pepper and salt held between pinched fingers .Now the bread dives into the pool and does underwater gymnastics and emerges with a new skin of slimy yellow. Fingers drip with greasy slimy mixture while the bread begins its frying motion on thin the pan, Hissing louder than a frightened cat- it squeaks and cracks and groans as if an earthquake were in progress and then it settles down, A quick high jump and the bread is showing a smooth browned smiling face, mouth waters at the thought of the crisp crunch to come, the buttery release of chemicals. Finished! Number one, It’s edges still hot and partially singing fingertips launches for my mouth and the crackling crunching sensation is sweeter than stepping on a lake of frozen ice and hearing the ice just begin to crack , the thrill of the moment you might break through. That crack ripples all the way down my throat, with sweet buttered oiliness. Consumed in 4 bites it’s time for another. Again the slimy swim, the coughing sizzle and the settle. With a shot of straight tea – no milk just the bag and the water I’m ready for anything- except the washing up- yeah Later! The train will pull in soon, Overcoat donned for the brisk 2 minutes tot he station, winter overcoat braces me in second skin. My mouth becomes a steam train sending swirling circles of steamy breath before me. I’m a plough horse, yes what load will I have to drag and drey today…….

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Used to be it would come in a small orange envelope – on a Thursday. I’d flip that flap on the way home on the tram as it ground it’s way through the streets on square wheels – The Number five to Wattletree Road In W class splendour its sides painted green, the pantilever reaching up to the sky like a drawbridge, arcing across the over head wires. I’d lift that flap just out of Chapel Street and pull out the three red twenties, real paper money- real money that I was really earning- my Forty hours exchanged for 60 real dollars- lets see – that’s One Dollar Fifty per hour then – after tax of course!

Now all I get is an email with a PDF attachment- your pay I has been disbursed to the following institutions X Y Z- it’s a pity the superannuation isn’t available until 60 + but that’s probably a good thing. Pretty much every payday since I started working has been a waste- alcohol fueled nights of youth spent in swirling disco bars, cars that I should never have bought , the Ford Capri in its deep ruby lip gloss red, that golden sports stripe along the side like a swishing tigers tail. The money pit it became- everything seemed to be sucking at my meager pay , the money was a magnet attracted to the centre of the earth.

Even now before I know it, syphons and probisci have entered my bank accounts and swept off portions of my income before I even realize it’s there. It’s just all so distant and separate- at least in my youthful days I physically felt the roughness of the paper- the thousands of hours of humanity welded into the paper. These day with plastic notes it doesn’t even have a smell- Paper money – now that had a crispness when it was knew- those green two buck notes with the jumping jumbucks. Charles Kingsford Smith flying across the old Twenty- yes those were the days, when I could see it and store and had to go to the bank to deposit it –All physical- all time consuming- all so bloody inconvenient-Now it’s only inconvenient while we wait for an ATM to dispense the folding stuff through that slot. With it hot in hand a small demon appears at the right shoulder humming the mantra to ‘spend’ ‘spend’ ‘spend’. Nasty critter- sort of green he is and scrawny and hunched like an old oak tree. ‘Spend’ a quiet but pushy voice…..

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Oh lord, look up at this mountain I have to climb, it seems so high and so far away, grant me the strength to overcome all obstacles that I see. I never really got them in high school and as a late age Uni student I was quivering in my boots about the first one I had to send in. Memories of thick red lines and the breath of Mr Wilson singed with the smell of pipe tobacco were not sparking off pleasant experiences for my finger tips on the keyboard.

I never really ‘got’ essay writing- I mean writing based on one sentence in a book – I wish I had as it’s about intelligence. if I could weigh the ounces then that it would have cost me to know what I now know against the pounds of slogging through life – when the answers to certain things lay in just writing a couple of essays instead of going on strike. Those lightweight sheafs that might have sat in my mind germinating into arguments and discussions and opinions were stamped on by the Jackboot red pen of WILSON! AAAArgh I just want to get my sizzling fingers and wrap them around his scrawny neck and choke choke choke and see his eyeballs popping out – how he wounded that beautiful muse. His red pen through those beautiful lines was drawn with my blood, crushing the flower of creativity stunting this intellect to into dwarfism…grrrr.

That first essay back from Journalism school of all places- I was expecting at least a few stabs of red but no, just a few comments down the side about my ‘arguments’ Hell – what’s an argument? – What’s a point……. what’s up for ‘discussion;’ this was all new. Given that I left school without even knowing what a sentence was I was pretty proud of that first one and the more and more followed all saying ‘good’ or ‘pass’. The brick wall had been overcome, Wilson’s crowbar tactics had been beaten down – I was on my way to expression, but why had it been such a long long lesson? Now it’s all just tapping on keys, the lines on the page are there for ideas – for writing quickie lyrics to songs- which in a way are like an essay- you’ve got a main point and your verses reinforce that. Pity about those 15 wasted years…..

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Did you or your mother ever have those catalogues, the ones with the shiny armor plated pages with people slung about on pieces of furniture or standing near elaborate draperies. It was the ‘home shopping network’ of its day. Well in our shop we had the authorised traveling salesman who’d come and deliver stuff courtesy of one of those catalogues. For months I let two things gestate into realities in my mind – One was the Rambler Cassette radio- which I’ve written on before- the other was the TIMEX wristwatch. The thing with the Timex was, it was self winding, no dial except for changing the time – How the hell you’re meant to get you tiny fingers around the pin head of a thing I don’t recall – but on the birthday it turned up I was about as excited as a squirrel just out of hibernation or that hyperactive acorn chasing creature from the ‘Ice age’ animations….

The box was made of toughened plastic with a velvet cushion inside. It made a hollow sound as I put it on the table – almost like opening up Alladin’s cave I lifted the lid – you’d swear there were glittering fairies dancing all around it and sprinkles of magic dust – the gold band slid cold over my tiny wrist and I shook the thing to start it going. Funny, it felt lopsided – that was the nature of the counterweight, reminding me of those automatic oil wells with heavy counter weights seen on so many movies – ahhh

The muted gold said I have ‘arrived’ I am grown up I now control time – little did I realise that the whole picture would change and that it would be controlling me…… however this wonderful little round face with its hairline second hand just continued to charge around the clock like the sun round the globe, the sun around the center of the spiral arm etc all funneling back like a tornado to MY watch, my grown up 13 year old watch. Of course one day the band broke as they do and it never got fixed and I put away childish things and got a CASIO digital hmmm how long did that last with its tacky plastic strap. It was an early one.

Now I do not wish to be constrained by know what the time is all the time- of course it’s all around me and if I really need to I just glance at the mobile phone… I could probably tell you within ten minutes what the time was anyway – I sort of have an intuition about it almost like I can put my time sense out there and sniff the prevailing minute or hour- maybe by the weight of the sun or the aura of the atmosphere… what ever I do it keeps going faster and faster and there ‘s so much to do! Can’t i just get a giant stop watch and lap time the world….. for just a moment!

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My nose grumbles and complains again and wants to send another slimey stream of congealed stuff out, I reach for the box of tissues. Thankfully these ones are tinged with Aloe Vera so instead of having red raw sandpapered folds of skin at the end of my nose I’ll have a soothing experience, but when will this stream of Mucozoid alien stuff stop flowing out of me? I brace myself for another expulsion, tense up every muscle and blow hard – out it shoots like I’m a building construction site and we’ve just thrown out a load of bricks down the skip at the top, down it tumbles and rockets hitting the sides landing in the skip in my hand- don’t want to look at that stomach turning oily gunge of green and yellow. I just want to lie back now and recover and breathe a bit through temporary passages.

When things are less serious the gently perfumed smell of a tissue is extremely pleasant when I have a hearty blow, just some bits of congealed muck in my nose that need releasing- sometimes that might be toilet tissue – that’s actually more heavily scented- Funny I think about a competition we had in high school to find names for toilet tissue that had a double letters- i.e for B it was Bum Brighteners, C was Crap cards, F was Fart Flatteners- others I won’t go into – this must also have been around the time of the ‘Grande Farting competition’ poster where descriptions of farts were printed up in bold type face- what was and wasn’t acceptable- i.e thunderclaps were ok, but dribblers- where a degree of bodily fluid escaped- meant immediate disqualification. Of course these things had us rolling round like hogs in mud with laughter. Or there was that time where I let one go – just as the class fell silent and the eruption reverberated on the wooden chair – the result – instantaneous cheering and laughing from the whole class, laughter hanging off the ceiling like a bunch of hungry seagulls fighting for scraps of food……

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