Late in 2014 I had the honour of being a guest at National Australia Bank’s “Night of Nights”, a celebration of its best employees in south-eastern Australia.
A couple of years ago I wrote one of my favourite articles exploring Pink Floyd’s song “Wish You Were Here”. In it I tried to turn music into description. “Who hasn’t “rocked or hummed along?” I asked. Who were its “lost souls swimming in a fishbowl”?
But I erased it this year.
What a year 2016’s been. It was a milestone for me but who’d have thought of the millstone chaff it would globally leave behind? And with so many people it seems begging for 2017, now’s the time for a dose of encouragement.
Sometimes I feel like a moon shot spat out of a gravitational lasso, missing a planetary caress while I’m trying to be the best person I can.
Integrity, honesty—they’ll flatten me when their gift to some is never enough. So there I lay listening for my heartbeat finding stillness instead, a state of illusory void I acknowledge. But I have to get up from this mat. Where is my saving hand?
It had been a tough couple of weeks. One of those periods when your head fills with cobwebs and the strategic picture flashes like a poorly fit neon sign pulsing an annoying buzz each illumination cycle. “Eat at Joe’s” it might say for a brief time but you’d know the gravy would be lumpy and the ketchup rimmed with crust. So you walk by.
Nature abhors a vacuum and if the chaos of five prime ministers in Australia over the past eight years hasn’t resulted in its worst effects: petrol at the pump skyrocketing during the globe’s lowest crude prices, guns proliferating in its capital cities, domestic violence at pandemic levels, and extremist Islam claiming a toehold—then the shying away from the Australia Tax is crippling the once lucky country even more.
The 200th anniversary of Waterloo is in the air and without doubt, some of our 1.4 billion Millennials will say, “Gee I didn’t know ABBA wrote a song that long ago.”
I read a book in thirty minutes tonight: Paul Arden’s “Whatever You Think Think the Opposite”.
Part of me is happy I did. Part of me is impressed the same. Part of me is flummoxed by its message. Part of me wants that message’s twenty bucks back for post-readum dejection.
I have a confession to make. I can’t exactly number them, but I’ve wasted more than a day waiting for something to happen. In fact, I’d admit there have been too many of them to count.
It’s hard to believe that the woman celebrated as the Candle in the Wind, once had ties to the greatest of American pastimes; even harder to believe that she did so in a city that boasted a Candlestick Park in her days.