I stand, eyes closed, oblivious to nothing other than what some Gen X-ers may call 'The Vibe'; my concentration focussed on an indefinable, intangible aspect of social interaction.

The next choice, all those that have come before it, and all that follow, must be carefully considered. Each must flow, must travel, must have substance, but most importantly, must evoke.

I choose.

Sounds fuse together. A symbiotic relationship is born as each becomes intrinsic to the other. The foundations of one is the basis of the next. For some, hands raise in elated recognition; for others, blissful oblivion. Communication exists via this rhythmic electronic language, and everyone is listening.

Bodies glide together in motion, captured in the white-hot arc of light. Frozen instants of infatuation. Confusion. Flirtation. Frustration.

The tempo rises, all influenced by it oblivious.

This is my passion. My element. Here, I am complete.

In an age where digital data is commonplace, 3-d television is just around the corner and a lifetime of memories are available at the touch of an ergonomic button, I am naught but a Luddite. A technological throwback.

I do not long for my precious memories to be stored on high density DVD and played back with an accompanying dreamy soundtrack. Nor do I have a catalogued and indexed mini-SD tape collection with my children's birthdays in chronological order.
No, I have something far more technologically advanced. My mind's eye.

Before you cut and paste this article into your iPhone for later perusal, consider this. If we, as individuals, are afforded the luxury of total digital recall, then primarily from a neuro-cognitive perspective, we are not regularly exercising that part of the brain (the hippocampus), that allows us to recall these memories effectively. In other words, we're getting lazy. Why bother expending energy recalling that camping trip in year 12 when your best friend realised he had pitched his tent on a fire ant's nest when you can just pull up a few photos instead?
The difference? There's no feeling. No involvement. It's a 2-dimensional image, and unfortunately, so are the resulting emotions.

So you see, I want to hold fast to my version; the real 3-D, surround sound, ultra-high definition version that will be forever embedded in my memories.

I fall off my bike. Feel the gravel on my burning hands and see small birds flying across the horizon from where I lay. Best friend dies. Hate the pointed finality of a silently closing door at a church. The rain on my face as we walk to a car. The windows gather condensation as we sit and hold each other in silence. My first kiss. I sit in a darkened basement. Hear the thud of parent's shoes on the wooden floor above, feel my hands shake and see the half-lit face of a doll sitting perched on a rocking chair in the corner.

The ability to be instantly transported to that mental snapshot, with all the sounds, smells, feelings and nuances that made that occasion unforgettable in it's own way, is something we should strive to never lose. For if we lose this, then what is left? A digital representation of ourselves? These memories are what hold us together, create who we are, our reactions, our ideas, our passions.

Consider for a moment the 'Observer Effect' in physics, which states that "the act of observation will make changes on the phenomenon being observed". Being in a situation where someone pauses, tells everyone to wait while they retrieve a camera, effectively kills a beautiful, spontaneous moment.

So next time you want to capture something, don't rely on your digital toys.
Stop, immerse yourself in the moment, take in the sounds, the laughter, the tears and everything in between, and let it become a part of you forever.

I want to write.

All the time.

Subjects flit in and out of the periphery of my consciousness, to be replaced, overlapped and fused together by others.

I sit, silently cursing my nonchalant, arrogant response to what one could consider the seed of a brilliant insightful piece; the literary equivalent of a butterfly catcher devoid of a net, that awakens to find himself in a field in springtime and can only watch as everything he has ever desired swirls around him, yet can do nothing but watch helplessly.

At times I wonder if the humorous overtones that I so deftly deploy in the majority of what I produce serves not only to avoid serious criticism from the audience, but as a smokescreen to my own flailing self-confidence. A topic of utmost gravity becomes a shadowy figure of it's own possibility, not only in my mind, but the mind of the reader, and sometimes I am powerless to stop it.

The meandering, verbal journeys produced by those butterflies should at times be allowed to roam free, no matter what the subject, or the cost.

At times I want to write for nothing other than the sheer joy of creating. I simply long for the journey. Not for the destination, or the origin, but the meandering sprawl of everything in between. To walk slowly along a stream; to stand silently, omnipotently above a neon city at night; to lay sprawled on dusty, red clay as we did as children and watch ants scurry; to touch someone's hand for the first breathless time, and everything in between.

All I need is a net.

The rest is up to me.

I figured it was time my rather languid-looking LiveJournal got a facelift, so after much deliberation, and a plethora of what were they thinking-type designs perused, here is the end result.


Also, I've just started my own DJ School here in Canberra, so I'll be including all the information about what's going on with this venture here.

More information to follow shortly...

For those of you that have ever seen a movie entitled 'Office Space' wherein a fiercely annoying lump of a woman proclaims to anyone with less than a rictus grin that they appear to have a 'case of the Mondays', I, today, am a thoroughly suitable candidate.

Having had a weekend which I considered to be wholly enjoyable, I appear to have woken up this morning in a mood diametrically opposed to the general bonhomie I have experienced over the past two days.
In short, I am completely devoid of mirth.

Perhaps this is the non-pharmaceutical version of 'Suicidal Tuesday', that well-known period following an ecstasy-fuelled weekend, whereupon you awaken feeling like you've just been dumped by Tila Tequila because you weren't smart/tall enough.
In short, you have no logical reason to continue living.

Today I articulate this by staring hatefully into the soulless eyes of any public servant (yes, I do realise the irony), that comes within striking distance of me.

Fear my caffeine-deprived wrath..somewhat.


"When the blood burns, how prodigal the soul lends the tongue vows".. - Hamlet, Act I, iii

I'm not exactly sure where to start with the "dining experience" I had recently. I was told Element was one of the best restaurants Canberra had to offer, but

Most of the meals (we chose the Deg menu; $98 inclusive per head including wine), were disappointingly devoid of flavour, but when it came to the dessert, well, this deserves it's own explanation.

My partner had the Vanilla Brulee, and I chose the rather exotic-sounding "Chilli Chocolate Mud Cake".
Now, I do consider myself to have a fairly mature palate with respect to all things edible, but to say that the chef was a little heavy-handed with the chilli would be like saying Dannii Minogue has had a 'little work done'. I've consumed Vindaloo Curries with less kick than this.
After draining the contents of my partner's water glass and a nearby vase, I waited for the steam to clear so we could converse further.

Suggesting that we depart (in order for me to head home to apply aloe vera to my now rather numb mouth), we made our way to the cashier, who (before the transaction had taken place), inquired as to our meal. My partner advised him of the wait between courses and also the molten mud cake.

His response? "Thanks, I'll let the chef know. That'll be $197 thanks".

To sum up, I am reminded of something my mother used to say to me, 'I'm not angry, I'm just incredibly disappointed'.

And I was.