Dan Schaumann

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Paradise (The Earth Is On Our Side)

This is a song I wrote two weeks ago to help spread some love around the planet Earth! <3

The idea behind the song was inspired by my friend Lee-Anne, who runs a spiritual healing community called Temple of Balance. She said something in one of her recent newsletters which really resounded with me, regarding the concept of fear vs love:

“PLEASE do not live in fear of prophecies and bible stories… PLEASE send love, send peace, send energy… don’t worry, fear or doubt… these feed the poison… (which is fear)… Stand tall in your truth and help me DO something about it, by sending love… LOVE heals everything… FEAR heals nothing…”

Today I set up my home studio and recorded a demo of the song that I came up with, based upon these words. You can listen to it by clicking on the link below.

Dan Schaumann – Paradise (The Earth Is On Our Side)

You can also view an acoustic video recording that I made not long ago at Youtube.

I hope you like it, and if you do, please feel free to share it around with your friends. The Earth really is on our side

Paradise (The Earth Is On Our Side)

It’s just another day inside this paradise
A side of everything you’d hoped for
The invitation is an open card
Extend it to your friends and come inside

Oh the light inside it fills those fragile minds
It shimmers on the vital edge of all that dies
And if it edges up to you
No need to think about it

Cause every other day I long for her advice
I look the other way, I seek, I find that light
Of this paradise
And I know the earth is on my side

She is the past, she is the keeper of our fate
She is the legacy of those who left too late
To put their hands upon their hearts and say
They love her

So step inside this present time right now
And on behalf of generations past we’ll vow to love
This paradise
Then we’ll know the earth is on our side

The earth is on our side
The earth is on our side, yeah yeah yeah
The earth is on our side
The earth is on our…

So step inside this present time right now
And on behalf of generations past we’ll vow to love
This paradise
Then we’ll know the earth is on our…
The earth is on our…

The earth is on our side, yeah yeah yeah
The earth is on our side, yeah yeah yeah
And we’re all on her side, yeah yeah yeah
The earth is on our side, yeah yeah yeah
The earth is on our…

Why don’t you come and spend some time inside of here
Why don’t you come and spend some time inside of here
Why don’t you come and spend some time inside of here
Why don’t you come and spend some time inside of here

It’s just another day inside this paradise
The invitation is an open card
Extend it to your friends and come inside

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There’s a little bit of the Devil in (almost) everything you buy

Before I get into the significance behind the title of this post, firstly I must explain an encounter I had with a customer at work about 18 months ago.

One of the joys of working in a customer contact environment is that you get to talk to some interesting, bizarre, and often downright crazy people. It’s a true eye-opener into how different people can be; one call might be from a pleasant old lady who tells you her life story, and the next caller might be a complete madman who yells and swears at you.

Probably the most perplexing, and to be quite honest, frightening, of all customers I’ve ever dealt with was a middle-aged woman I spoke to when I worked in London. She didn’t speak English very well, and she called with a complaint about an order that she’d just received. Our conversation went something like this:

Me: “Good afternoon, this is Daniel speaking, how can I…?” *gets cut off by woman shouting*

Lady: “YOU TOLD ME THERE WOULD NOT BE BARCODES! YOU MUST TELL DRIVER COME BACK AND TAKE DELIVERY, I CANNOT KEEP IT! I MUST HAVE REFUND! YOU TOLD ME THERE WOULD NOT BE BARCODES! I CANNOT HAVE THE BARCODES!”

Me: “I’m very sorry, but I don’t quite understand?”

Lady: “THE BARCODES!!! I CANNOT HAVE THE BARCODES! NO NO NO THIS IS BAD, THIS IS BAD, THE BARCODES”

Me: *goes into crisis response mode* “Ok, ok, ok, please take a deep breath for me and let me know your account number so I can look further into what has happened”

Lady calms down slightly and gives account details. “THE BARCODES THE BARCODES” I can see that this is the first order she’s placed with us, which consisted of 6 or 7 various items, totalling around £30. “I MUST HAVE REFUND” For the purposes of explaining this I will refer to the lady as Mrs Smith. “THE BAAARRRCOOODEESSSSSSS!”

Me: “Mrs Smith, am I right in saying that you wish for a refund of your order because the items have barcodes on them?”

Mrs Smith: “YES BECAUSE YOU TOLD ME THAT THERE WOULD BE NO BARCODES!! BUT I GET YOUR DELIVERY AND THERE ARE BARCODES! YOU MUST GIVE ME REFUND, YOU MUST TAKE THE BARCODES AWAY!”

Me: “Can’t you just cut the barcodes off the packaging and throw them in the bin?”

Mrs Smith: “NO!! I CANNOT TOUCH THE BARCODES, YOU MUST TELL YOUR DRIVER TO TAKE THE BARCODES AWAY”

At this point I place Mrs Smith on hold and discuss the situation with my supervisor, who is just as perplexed as I am. We both agree on a fair course of action, and I return to my phone, not looking forward to the remainder of our conversation.

Mrs Smith: “THE BARCODES. THE BARCODES!”

Me: “Mrs Smith, I’ve just spoken with my manager and what we are happy to do is request for our driver to return to your address and collect your delivery. However, as these items are perishable, and as it is standard procedure for any form of packaging to contain a barcode, I am afraid that we will not be able to offer you a…”

Mrs Smith: “NO NO NO I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND THE BARCODES YOU SAID THERE WOULD BE NO BARCODES WHY WILL YOU NOT GIVE ME REFUND  BECAUSE OF THE BARCODES TAKE THEM AWAY TAKE THEM AWAY THE BARCODES THE BARCODES THE BARCOOOOOODES” *hangs up phone*

Me: “…refund.”

Woah.

It was an insane conversation, it really was. I felt so sorry for her; I mean, how can you possibly go through life with a phobia of barcodes? You’d pretty much be housebound and you’d have to get somebody else to do all your shopping for you. You’d drive yourself absolutely nuts.

So I did some research. I needed to find out how and why this poor lady came to possess such a fear. And wasn’t it interesting what I found!

There are plenty of websites out there that detail the reasons, and I’m sure some of you reading this will be aware already, but I’ll explain it briefly here by borrowing an image from an article by Dial The Truth Ministries:

This particular type of barcode is known as a UPC, or Universal Product Code, which is the standard for most grocery-related items. Basically, every digit that appears within a UPC barcode is represented by a combination of black and white bars. Digits from 0-9 that appear in the manufacturer code (left hand side) have one particular representation, and digits from 0-9 that appear in the product code (right hand side) have a different representation. There are also three guard bars that appear at the beginning, middle, and end of the barcode.

This next image, borrowed from an article at Hidden Bible, shows how the digits 0-9 are represented in the product code. Pay particular attention to how the digit 6 appears:

As you can see, the 6 is depicted by two thin black bars with a thin white bar in between. Now, if you go back to the first image and look at those three guard bars that I mentioned, you’ll notice that all three of them appear the same as the 6. These three guard bars appear in every UPC barcode, which effectively means that every item you purchase containing a UPC has the number 666 coded in black & white on the packaging. And we all know that 666 = The devil’s number!

Now, it must be pointed out that technically, the guard bars aren’t exactly the same as the representation for number 6 (you can read about this in further detail at Dial The Truth Ministries). But the fact is, to the human eye, they appear the same as the 6.

So you can understand now why particularly religious people may possess a fear of barcodes.

Give it a go yourself! Check out some everyday objects lying around the house and you can witness this in action:

You get the idea!

Anyway, I hadn’t thought much of the barcode thing for a while – until recently, when I was struck with a very ironic and almost morbid thought:

Does the barcode on The Bible contain the number of The Devil?

So I headed on down to the local bookstore to find out.

*         *         *

 

It does make me wonder, is all of this purely coincidental, or is it some kind of cruel joke that the inventors of the UPC barcode came up with way back in the early 70′s? If you do some reading up on the subject, you’ll find the inventor, George J. Laurer reckons it’s a coincidence. A pretty bloody funny one, if you ask me.

Now, I am completely accepting of all religions, but I’m not a religious person myself so I can see this whole barcode thing from a light-hearted and humorous perspective, as I suspect most people would do. But what I’d like to know is – are you religious, and if so, does it shock or offend you in any way to know that there’s a little bit of the Devil in (almost) everything you buy?

Feel free to leave a comment and share any thoughts you may have!

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Have you ever read someone elses mail and discovered something interesting?

For the past 12 months that we’ve been living in our apartment we’ve been getting regular mail addressed to some guy called Dr Macdonald.

Initially we did the noble thing by crossing out our address and returning them back to the sender, but the letters have just kept on coming and coming, at least once a week without fail. Today my housemate told me he’s gotten sick of returning them so he now makes a point of opening & reading them all before throwing them out!

This reminded me of a similar thing that happened when I lived in London last year. I was living with an American guy who had been in the UK for about 8 years, then one day out of the blue he decided he was going to return to the States. Within two weeks he’d sold everything he owned, packed his bags and was gone. Over the following few months we’d constantly receive mail addressed to him which wouldn’t seem to stop, despite us returning them back, until eventually curiosity got the better of me and I decided to open one of the letters.

I found that it was a final notice from the debt collectors, telling him to cough up the £10,000 he owed the banks, or else see them in court.

Which begs the question… have you ever read someone elses mail and discovered something interesting?

Leave a comment and let me know if you have!

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Heartbreak Science

I feel so excited after watching the documentary Heartbreak Science on SBS. For so long I’ve felt within me that the heart is so much more than what it’s made out to be. For example, I’ve always felt that in addition to the brain, it possesses and processes emotional intelligence, and that it acts as one of the many links between the human body and what we know as the “soul.”  Finally, it looks as though the scientific community are beginning to realise this as well.

One of the guys they interviewed for this documentary received a heart transplant recently, and after the surgery he found he had a desire and ability to write truly heartfelt poetry, dedicating his words of inspiration to all of his loved ones. This is not something he’d ever had the inkling to do in the past. After some time, he met with the family of the man whose heart was donated, and he made the incredible discovery that during his lifetime, this man was a budding young amateur poet.  I had read about cellular memory in detail in the past (thanks to this article from the April/May 2005 edition of Nexus Magazine) but it was so great to be able to see and hear the passion in the voice of this transplant recipient telling his story, as opposed to merely reading about it in black and white.

Another interesting finding: in a scientific experiment detailed in the documentary, they hooked a guy up to electrodes to measure the response from his brain and heart. They then showed him a variety of images on a screen that were designed to bring out intense positive or negative emotions, ranging from a cute kitten, to an image of a gun being pointed directly towards him. The findings of this experiment revealed that the heart – not the brain – would initially register the upcoming emotion, a split second before the image was displayed on the screen. It was suggested that the heart is therefore tuned into a higher, spiritual level of consciousness and may explain phenomena such as ESP, and why many of us feel strong gut instincts.

Of course I’m not a scientist so I can’t really comment any more on what all this means from a scientific perspective. But I really want to shout with joy that FINALLY this kind of material is being brought into the mindframe (or should I say, heartframe?) of the general public. I mean, there was even talk that this kinda stuff can help prove that life does indeed go on, once this physical life ends. All of this I feel within my heart is true anyway, but it really makes me smile to know that these so-called “theories” are being researched and found to have merit.

I am genuinely excited about what the future holds in regard to the emotional and spiritual capabilities of the heart. The word “Love” has never felt so true to me before!

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Mule, Neil, Rince and Sicker went for a Bath

I was chatting to my mate Sam at lunchtime today about the way we abbreviate people’s names, and it really left me thinking: why is it that we chop the last half off people’s names, and only ever shorten them to the first half?

For example: Samuel. Why do we call him Sam for short, but never Muel?
And my own name, Daniel. Why Dan, but never Niel?
Why Flo, and not Rence?
Why Jess, and not Sica?

Sure, you may think that Muel, Niel, Rence and Sica all sound ridiculous, having been shortened to the last half of their whole name, but why on earth then, is it socially acceptable for the ELIZABETH‘S in the world to be known as BETH?!

Imagine a world where it was the norm to abbreviate the last half of people’s first names!

Stine: “Hello Topher, would you like to have a look at the photos I took of Jamin and Elope’s wedding?”

Topher: “I’d love to, Stine! It’s a shame that Garet and I couldn’t make it.”

Stine: “This is Berly and Borah getting prepared, Antha was doing their makeup, do you know Antha?”

Topher: “Is Antha Athan’s ex?”

Stine: “That’s her, but now she’s with Thew. Thew made friends with Othy and Olas, but he got on Nard’s nerve a bit, and Cob didn’t think much of him either.”

Topher: “Was Est the best man?”

Stine: “No, Man was the best man. Briella was the bridesmaid.”

Topher: “Wow, Briella looked brilliant. And look at Cole, Ifer and Gela! But who is that?”

Stine: “She’s Mine.”

Topher: “And who is that?”

Stine: “She’s Line.”

Topher: “I don’t recall ever seeing Mine or Line before.”

Stine: “You should have met Mine, she’s friends with Rine, do you remember her at Phine’s party that time?”

Topher: “Of course! She was the one who had a thing for Ham, right?”

Stine: “That’s her – but Ham fobbed her off to Cob.”

Topher: “Nice looked nice didn’t she!”

Stine: “Phanie looked lovely too, did you know Riah did her hair?”

Topher: “Did Riah do Ryn’s hair as well?”

Stine: “No she didn’t, nor did she do Nor’s.”

Topher: “Is that Dan and Anna?”

Stine: “Yes, they came with Niel and Belle.”

Topher: “How did the ceremony go?”

Stine: “It was beautiful, Elope and Jamin both cried as they exchanged vows, and I also saw Stal cry. Elope’s ring was 19 carat gold.”

Topher: “19 carat? I hope Garet doesn’t expect that from me if I ever marry her. What about the reception, did Get get the bouquet?”

Stine: “Et and Lett were both so close, but Get did get the bouquet.”

Topher: “What music did they play?”

Stine: “Elope walked down the aisle to Talie King Cole, but throughout the reception they played songs by Derick Stewart, Lan Green, Topher DeBurgh and Athan Lennon.”

Topher: “Enny looked drunk!”

Stine: “Yes, Enny had too many, Line had too much wine and Tin had too much gin. Ille was the first to be ill the next morning, then it was Ter’s turn, but Sica was the sickest out of everyone.”

Topher: “It looks like it was a great wedding, I do wish Garet and I were able to have come.”

Stine: “You weren’t the only ones to miss out, Cine was nowhere to be seen either. Why couldn’t you make it?”

Topher: “I got called away for work and Garet came with me. They send me to a different city every few weeks.”

Stine: “What town did they give you?”

Topher: “I got Laide.”

So tell me, what’s the current abbreviation of your name, if you have one? And what would it become if the opposite half of your name was the abbreviation instead?

Which do you prefer?

Let’s start a lution… err… revolution!

Click here to show the translation of the above passage!

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Why I Love The Winter

As the hot and bothersome summer months approach us in the southern hemisphere, I find my friends in the northern speak of the joys of their upcoming winter and their already-falling snow. How I long for the winter to return; how I long to once more bask in the romance of the whitened streets and the puff of those pearly petals precipitating from the heavens above.

My first experience with snow-filled landscapes was here in my own home country, on our grade 12 camp to the Snowy Mountains in the year 2001. A group of about 25 of us ventured 2,500 km down to the township of Jindabyne at the base of Kosciuszko National Park, where we stayed for just under a week, commuting to and from the Perisher ski resort every day. For many of us, including myself, our first journey along the winding, mountainous road between Jindabyne and Perisher gave us our first taste of that cold, white fluff we’d all been dreaming of, beginning in little pockets by the side of the road, and by the end of the commute, culminating in entire mountain ranges blanketed in it.

I have very fond memories of having to properly rug up here for the first time in my life. We were told one morning that it reached minus 11 degrees the night before. After living for so long in the tropical climate of North Queensland, it was surreal for me to even imagine that Mother Nature had the ability to drop the thermostat down to that level. But I loved it!

My favourite memory from this holiday was the day a small group of us caught the chairlift up to the top of Back Perisher Mountain. We could see the snow-capped peak of Mt Kosciuszko in the distance, and we were most likely the highest ground-baring people in Australia at the time. It was an incredible feeling:

We never actually got the chance to see snow fall from the sky during our time at the Snowy Mountains, as the flurry of the flakes only ever occurred throughout the night. My curiosity was left in limbo, and it wasn’t for another eight years that I would finally experience what it was like to witness snow falling from the sky.

I was in the Belgian capital of Brussels during the first few days of 2009, and I had just finished wandering through the Atomium, a popular tourist attraction built in 1958 that resembles the cell of an iron crystal (albeit 165 billion times bigger than the real thing). I’d walked past a chemist earlier in the day whose digital thermometer told me it was 1.5 degrees, so I’d made sure I was well-layered, with two t-shirts, a jacket, and gloves. The sky was overcast as well, so I had an umbrella handy in case it decided to rain.

Departing the warm comfort of the Atomium’s enclosures, I made my way to Mini Europe, another nearby attraction, featuring downsized scale models of famous landmarks from all around Europe. Within 5 minutes of me entering the premises it started to drizzle, so I took my umbrella out of my bag, ready in case I was to be attacked by a downpour. Strangely, however, I quickly noticed that the falling droplets were not like normal raindrops at all. Instead of being sponged up by the surface of my jacket upon landing, the droplets stayed as they were, gradually melting their way into absorption.  This was not rain at all, I realised – this was snow, falling from the sky!

Oh, what a joyous occasion it was. To the average Belgian citizen, the flakes were so few and far between that they would have been fobbed off as a feeble and unnoteworthy. But to me, it was magic. Here I was, with a scale model of the Eiffel Tower in front of me and an enormous monument dedicated to the iron crystal behind it, and I was witnessing my first ever snowfall. I will never forget the day.

 

 

 

Less than a month later I found myself in the English portside town of Dover. I’d spent much of the very chilly morning exploring Dover Castle, before hopping on a ferry across the English Channel to Calais in France. I returned to Dover later in the evening and it was during the walk between the ferry port and the train station that it began snowing. Unlike in Brussels, this was proper, thick snow that poured from the sky by the bucketload. I stood by the side of the road underneath a tree in hibernation for the winter, with my arms outstretched, basking in the glory of these beautiful falling white flakes catching the light of the passing cars and dancing their way toward the ground. On arrival at the train station, it had been snowing for long enough that the platform bound for London was covered in a thin film of wintry white. I had never seen anything like this before and I loved it.

 

 

I spent the entire train ride home to London in silence, staring in awe out the window as it became clear that the whole south-east of England had been blessed with a blizzard. It was still snowing heavily by the time I reached London, and I was lucky to catch one of the final trains home to the southern suburbs before they got cancelled for the night due to the adverse weather. On arriving home, my housemates and I played in the half-foot of snow that had now accumulated on the road, and this made us all very, very happy

 

 

I went to sleep that night, my mind still trying to comprehend this amazing new experience called “Snow” that I had just encountered. But nothing could have prepared me for what was about to happen the following day!

 

 

 

 

Snow Day in London on the 2nd of February, 2009, remains one of the all time happiest and memorable days I’ve ever lived in my life. Words cannot express how much this country boy from tropical North Queensland came to fully appreciate London and its incredible weather patterns on this day, so different to anything I’d experienced before.

Only a month later, I went on a road trip through the Scottish highlands, which further cemented my fondness for the cold months. I got to experience the most incredible snowcapped mountain ranges, a hundred times more impressive than what I’d ever seen in the past. I got the chance to drive through a blizzard trying to reach the western side of the Isle of Skye – one of the scariest, yet most exhilarating drives I’ve ever had the pleasure of undertaking. I stopped by crystal clear waterways with tufts of white powder gracing the shoreline, I made friends with sheep on the snow-covered fields surrounding ancient castles, I ran near-naked through frozen vanilla valleys, I saw some of the best fucking scenery ever imaginable, amplified by the crisp, frosty atmosphere and the sensational, shivering SNOW!

Having grown up in such a hot and tropical climate where the closest thing to winter I ever experienced was a few days in June where it got down to 14 degrees during the day, my time spent in Europe over winter was a godsend. This was “me” – this was the climate that I felt most suited towards. The warmth and sunniness of the Australian summer simply doesn’t interest me, and I yearn to be back where the clouds are grey and the mercury struggles to reach anywhere above 7.

This, my friends, is why I cannot help but ADORE the winter. Bring it back, please!

 

 

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67 going on 17

Last weekend, the day before I was due to leave Brisbane for the drive home to Sydney, I went on the XXXX Brewery Tour at the famous Castlemaine Perkins brewery in Milton. I’m not too much of a beer drinker to be honest, but I am fascinated by large industrial workplaces. It’s one of the many touristy things I’ve always wanted to do while I actually lived locally, but never got around to doing.

I chose the “Brewery, Beer and BBQ” tour. After we’d finished the walkthrough of the premises we were all treated to four beers at the bar and a freshly cooked barbecue.

I’d gone on the tour alone, and out of the group of about 20, there was another guy who had also come along by himself. He ended up sitting with me for the barbecue and we got talking. You know when you meet someone who inspires you and makes you think to yourself, wow, what an awesome person this is?! He fell into that category.

His name was Alan.
He was from LA. Supported the Lakers.
Initially I thought he was in his early/mid 50′s. It turned out he was 67.
He’d been a school teacher for the past 30 years and had only recently retired.
He travelled through Australia back in 1996, and was now on a return trip 15 years later, retracing his steps to see if much had changed, and visiting some of the country that he didn’t get to see last time.
His trip was going to culminate in December in New Zealand, where he’d booked tickets to U2 in Auckland. He’d already seen them about eight times in the past.
Over his lifetime he’d set foot in 104 countries.
He refuses to stay in a hotel, and has only ever opted for accommodation in youth hostels. That way he gets to meet people.
All his friends back at home think he’s crazy.
He lives to travel, and has no plans to slow down any time soon.

We spend about an hour drinking our complementary ale and chatting about all kinds of things, from beer to travelling to iPhones to Lady Gaga. He was such a cool & friendly guy who was genuinely happy to be alive, with the world at his hands, and living life to the maximum capacity. There is no way at all that he had the mindframe of a 67 year old – he was as youthful and full of zest as any one of his past students would have been the day they graduated from high school at 17 years of age.

If I could be half as active and happy as Alan when I’m his age, I would consider my life a success. He proved to me that there is no such thing as growing old, if you don’t want there to be.

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I Don’t Smoke

Over the past week as I’ve been recording vocals in the studio for my upcoming album, I’ve been reminiscing over some old documents and photos to try and get back into the same mindframe I was in when I originally wrote the songs.

Yesterday which searching through my archive, I happened to stumble across one particular document – a short story I wrote in early 2008 – which I had completely forgotten about. I had written it as a competition entry for a Brisbane City Council publication, where applicants were asked to write a story relating to the city of Brisbane. The winners would have their stories published in a book, and would also receive a substantial amount of prizemoney, which was my main motivating factor as I was preparing to embark on an amazing overseas adventure and could have done with a little extra cash to help subsidise my travels.

For about two weeks I slaved over the computer screen writing and workshopping my story, entitled I Don’t Smoke.  I had previously written and recorded a song using the same title, based on a rather unforeseen and disheartening experience I had when I first moved to Brisbane in 2005. My story was an extension of this song, detailing what happened on that day. It consists of two parts written from my own perspective, which is factual, as well as a part in the middle written from the perspective of another man, which is not entirely factual, but based as much on the truth as I could pick up from my actual interactions with this guy on the day.

You can listen to the song below, and if you enjoy it, then feel free to head over to iTunes and check out the other five songs from my 2007 EP, Comfort Zone

Dan Schaumann – I Don’t Smoke

Unfortunately I didn’t win the prize, and on hearing this news, I filed the story away without any further thought. But now that it’s resurfaced I thought I’d share it here on my blog, in case anybody is interested in giving it a read and finding out the meaning behind my song.

I hope you like the song & the story – and also, if you haven’t yet, then please “like” my music page on Facebook to keep in the loop about the new album and its release date!

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I Don’t Smoke

As the train rumbles through the tunnel on its way to Central Station, I sit in the dark carriage alongside thirty or forty strangers and contemplate the marvel of public transport.  Only fifteen minutes ago I conveniently caught the 1:19 from Indooroopilly on my second ever train journey to the city.  Previously I had opted to drive, but the thought of weaving my way through the urban traffic and paying my hard earned cash for a parking spot didn’t resound well with me today.

It was an infrequent occurrence for me – or most people I knew for that matter – to catch public transport during my 20 years growing up in North Queensland.  While life in the outskirts of Townsville did see me catch the bus every day to school, this was by no means similar to the prospect of public transport here in the big city.  For starters, everyone on the school bus knew each other, and you could almost guarantee that on any particular day, you’d see the same people sitting in the same seats, engaged in the same adolescent conversation with the same friends.  We had fun, we had arguments, we had best mates and some of us had worst enemies, but all in all, our youthful experience on the school bus remained a consistent form of social gathering throughout our years.  Those were the days!

Yet here I am today four years later, the big city of Brisbane about to open up to me as soon as the businessman in the suit and tie presses the flashing train door button.  Behind him, a frustrated mother pushing a stroller complete with crying baby yearns to leave the enclosed carriage, out to an environment where the hustle of city folk drowns out the sound of her infant’s sobs.  I notice the affectionate couple sitting opposite me as they raise from their seats, hand in hand, presumably to find the nearest of many flourishing gardens where they can spend a romantic afternoon together strolling the footpaths.  Remaining seated on the other side of the carriage, cheerful parents of ethnic descent remind their mischievous children that they still have one more station to go before they can depart.  And as I stand up to exit the train myself, a lone, unshaven figure wearing a scruffy shirt and jeans catches my eye, as he also prepares to disembark at this busy and boisterous central destination.

I have not long ventured to this South-Eastern metropolis from the comfort of my home town with the prospect of beginning a new life in a new place.  I had travelled to many Australian cities throughout my youth, but for some reason Brisbane resonated with me as the place that I wanted to be.  It was big, yet small enough to see it as a kindred community.  Busy, yet relaxed enough to warrant a smile from the passing locals as you walk down the street.  I found it to be amazingly lush and green, with a surprising amount of trees still adorning the hilly suburbs despite the impending drought.  Brisbane reminded me of home in so many ways, so it was natural that my life progression saw me relocate here.

The one thing that I missed about Townsville, however, was the fact that – just like on the school bus – anywhere I went, I would see somebody who I knew.  Whether I walked into a shopping centre, drove down the highway, stopped by the Strand for a swim at the Rock Pool or had a quick snack at the university refectory, I would constantly run into a known face.  Familiarity was abundant in my hometown of 145,000, but here in my unexplored locale of almost 15 times that population, everyone and everything is new to me.

As quick as a flash the businessman and young mother hastily make their way outside the carriage doors, and I feel as though I’m being pressured by those behind me to make a similarly hurried exit.  This is only my second time here at Central station so I look around and try to judge which direction I should walk to lead me out of here.  My mind floods with this newfound stimulation… escalators, stairways, trains coming and going, newsagents, public announcements and people everywhere!

Ahead of me I see the businessman already halfway up one of the escalators trying to push his way through the crowd blocking his path, so using him as a guide I leave the platform level and follow him up.  By the time I’ve reached the top, he’s already shown his ticket to the inspector and is well on his way to God knows which office building.  I somehow doubt that he’d be the kind of local to greet you with a smile as you walked past him, but I remember that I’m in the city now and I really shouldn’t expect people to go out of their way to show hospitality.

Fumbling to get my ticket out of my wallet, I question my next move and instinctively head south towards the Edward Street exit of the station.

I really had no specific reason to come into town today.  There are a few minor things that I’d like to accomplish, such as a spot of shopping to help me settle into my new house, and I’d also like to stop by a café or snack bar for some lunch, but my journey is mostly being carried out with an exploratory sense in mind.  I just want to breathe the air of the city and marvel at its architecture, its functionality and its people.  I’ve barely even left the train station and already I have taken in so much around me, lost in my own thoughts of the amazing place that I am experiencing.

“Excuse me bud,” I hear behind me.

Ignoring the request for communication, I carry on walking towards the congested pedestrian crossing.

“Hey, excuse me,” the voice continues.

The monotony of his expression brings to mind the thought of delinquency.  I ask myself, who is this strange person trying to talk to me and what does he want? I subtly turn my head to investigate and out of the corner of my eye I see the same man who I saw on the train – that lone, unshaven figure who judging by his messy attire clearly has no respect for his self-appearance.  Still, I carry on walking.

His voice persists, my ears once more picking up on his call for attention.  This time I can almost hear a sense of desperation as he moves closer to ensure his call doesn’t go unnoticed this time around.  “Sorry buddy… excuse me.”

I know what he’s after.  Money.  No – cigarettes.  I can intuitively tell by the tone of his voice and the way he looks that he’s trying to beg me for something I have no intention of giving him.  I’d been in a similar situation quite some time ago back at home, when I was confronted by an inebriated and obviously impoverished man of the streets, asking me for money to help restock his bodies deprived supply of nicotine.  When I refused, he swore and cursed at me and unsuccessfully gave chase, before realizing that begging wasn’t going to get him anywhere.

Don’t get me wrong, I felt sorry for the guy and guilty for refusing to help him out, but I had no cigarettes and I definitely wasn’t going to give him any money, knowing it would be spent on toxins that would only serve to drag him further and further into a state of misery.

With this in mind, I prepare to deal with the voice that now harasses me.  You’re talking to the wrong person, I think to myself as I obnoxiously turn around to ask what his problem is.  I don’t smoke.

*      *      *      *

I don’t want to be here.  I have no idea where I am, and I have no idea where I’m supposed to be going.  This place scares the living daylights out of me.  It’s so huge and the people are plain arrogant.  Why would anybody want to live here?  I just want the day to be over so I can go back home and lock myself in my room.  And cry.

I live in a town called Toowoomba, about 150 kilometres from where I fatefully walk at this moment.  Toowoomba is such a great place to live, and I will be eternally grateful to my parents for giving me the opportunity to grow up there.  It’s quiet, laid back, very country-oriented, full of amazing people, and I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

I grew up on a property just outside Toowoomba, where I was given fantastic exposure to so many aspects of life that city folk just don’t get to experience.  Our parents were country right to the core, Mum and Dad both grew up in the outback, first meeting in high school and have been together ever since.  They moved to the farm in Toowoomba just before I was born, and as the first of three offspring to country parents, I was raised the typical country way as a damn hard worker and an even harder partier!  My brothers and I all learnt at a young age how to drive, how to saddle and ride a horse, how to tend to our crops, fence, plumb, fix just about anything that breaks… and most importantly, how to drink beer like a man.

Unfortunately though, the financial gain of farming life had become more and more difficult to achieve as years passed, and two years ago my parents sold the farm and moved closer to Brisbane to take up other ventures.  I loved Toowoomba too much to want to leave, so I decided to stay here and take a course in agricultural studies.  Although I visit my parents regularly, I hate the traffic and yearn for them leave the enclosed space they are living in, back out to the environment on the land where I know they are most happy.

My childhood was constantly full of activity; I was always right into my sport and I made the A-grade in the local rugby league team.  One of the proudest moments of my life was the time we won the grand final, it was a home game and I remember my father was there at the sidelines cheering me on as I scored the winning try with only six minutes left in the game!  After the game ended and we were handed the trophy, the team did a victory lap around the field carrying me on their shoulders as I held the “holy grail” high up in the air.  The photo that Dad captured of that moment took pride of place in the pool room, every time a mate of his would come over he’d proudly show it off to them and boast about how great a footy player I was.  Those were the days!

Yet here I am today four years later, the big city of Brisbane surrounding me as I try to work my way through this confusing metropolis that so many people seem to love.  The first thing I’m going to do when I get home later tonight is go straight to my photo that Dad was so proud of and just hold it.  And cry.

As a country family, we were right into our cars.  We had heaps of rustbuckets out the back that we used to drive around as kids, and we even made a track through the back of the property that we’d circle over and over again.  We’d race each other, we’d do time trials to see who could maneuver the track the quickest, we’d make modifications to our cars to try and give them that extra bit of speed or traction, and every now and then one of us would lose control and crash.  It was a pretty harrowing experience, to crash, and more often than not it would result in a serious injury and a huge mess to clean up.  I was in hospital once for two weeks after I mistakenly navigated my way into a tree.  I lost consciousness straight away, broke my collarbone and ruptured my spleen.  It was an experience I never want to have to go through again, yet it didn’t at all deter me from my passion, and I was out driving again as soon as my broken bones had healed.

Of all the cars that we owned, our pride and joy was a 1976 eight cylinder LX Torana that Dad had picked up for cheap at an auction when I was 15.  It needed quite a bit of work done to it, but as the years progressed we slowly but surely turned the old bomb into a driver’s masterpiece.  We painted it “Valencia orange,” overhauled the engine, added a mean-sounding dual three inch exhaust and reupholstered the entire interior.  It became an unquestionable goal of Dad’s to get the car roadworthied and driving like a dream, and I’ll never forget the day he picked up the license plates from the transport office – his level of pride only ever equaled by my conquering try on the football field.

Mum never shared the passion that we boys did with our cars, and especially since my accident she always erred on the side of caution every time we took our cars for a drive.  The wide, open country roads were perfect for the Torana, and Dad used to take us out for a spin most weekends, much to Mum’s disapproval.  Sometimes we totally lost track of the time as we were out there enjoying the freedom of the road – I remember one day after telling Mum we’ll only be gone for an hour, we got all the way out to Roma before realizing we had better turn back!  She was so worried she’d even called the police to find out if there were any reports of a crashed Torana.  Poor Mum.  I guess being a teenager I never understood why she was so worried about us.  “Cars are our way of life,” I kept telling her, “you just have to get used to it.”

Two weeks ago I got a phone call from Dad asking me if I wanted to join him on Sunday for a trip down to the Gold Coast to burn some fuel and visit a few of his mates.  I hadn’t been out driving with Dad in months so I would have loved to go with him, but unfortunately I had to decline the offer as I already had other plans.  However I was free on the Saturday of the next weekend so we made a date to do something then.

Oh, how I wish I could turn back time.

It was late on the Sunday after I had returned home from a night out with my friends, that I received a devastating phone call from my mother.  Earlier that evening, she was informed by a police officer that her husband – my father – had been tragically killed in an accident.  The car he was driving – his Torana – had careened across to the other side of the road and hit a tree.

I should have been there with him.  I should have accepted his invitation to go driving with him that day instead of selfishly opting to spend it with my own mates instead.  If I was there with him I would have at least been given the opportunity to spend our last precious moments together.  If I was there with him, maybe circumstances would have been different and he would not have undergone the misfortune of this catastrophic end to his life.  Maybe I could have driven the car instead?  Maybe I could have picked up on a looming disaster and averted the crash before it happened?  So many maybes and so many what-ifs, but nothing now will change the fact that what has happened, has happened.  Nothing, except the mind-altering chemical high obtained from the drink…

As soon as I hung up the phone after talking to Mum I burst into tears, and I don’t even remember the last time I cried.  We were always taught as kids to “be a man” and deny any sadness or pain we were feeling, so to all of a sudden start crying like this must have meant I was taking a huge step down the path of weakness.  My only option was to open my bottle of bourbon, that incidentally had been given to me by my father for my 23^rd birthday, and drink until I couldn’t feel the pain any more.

I’ve always had a liking for alcohol; many people have told me on many different occasions that perhaps I drink too much of it.  But I can’t help myself, it becomes an addiction and after the third or fourth drink you feel so relaxed and uninhibited.  It’s always been my way to deal with stress, Dad always taught me that if things were getting down, a nice cold draught beer or shot of whiskey would pull me back up again.  Unfortunately sometimes I took that advice a little to the extreme, finding myself at a point of no return where I make decisions that I live to regret.

Over the past week I haven’t shown up to any of my work or study commitments and my friends have all been worried about me.  I haven’t seen mum at all, and since that dreaded phone call I have spoken to her only once, where she despondently gave me the information on today’s proceedings.  I just can’t bear to see her in the horrible state that she’s in, nor can I bear for her to see me like this.  Within the next hour now I will have to face my fears and confront my family for the first time since we heard the news.

Today is the Saturday that Dad and I had intended to spend together.  Instead, here I am at the train station in the centre of Brisbane.  I have never experienced such a range of withdrawn emotions before in my life – I am exhausted, I am angry, I am confused, I am lost, I am distressed, and I am sick… menacingly sick, from drowning my sorrows like I have never drowned them before.  I have no idea where I’m going, I have things to do, and I only have an hour of time before I have to be at my destination, all of which I know is somewhere in this huge bewildering city.

I was in no state to drive here today, so I hitchhiked a lift into Ipswich this morning where I caught the train here to the city, carrying little more than the clothes on my back, some money, and a sheet of paper with the address of the church I had to find.  I’ve never liked the idea of public transport; you’re always stuck in an enclosed environment full of strangers.  Everybody tries to keep to themselves, yet I feel as though they judge others around them based on their appearance, or by eavesdropping into conversations.

I try not to take any notice, but I know that people are looking at me strangely.  That’s the thing with us country boys – we never make friends in the city purely because of the way we dress.  Just because I don’t match their own standards, people clearly assume I’m here to cause some kind of trouble.  City folk think anybody who wears a flannelette shirt and jeans must be some kind of inebriated cowboy, and although I’m definitely not out to cause trouble, perhaps the look of fatigue on my face and my bloodshot eyes gives away the fact that I’m not going through easy times.  But I really don’t care, I don’t particularly want to talk to anybody nor do I care what they think about me.

Getting out of the train is a nightmare; hordes of people were pushing themselves past me into the train as I was trying to walk out.  Can’t they just show some patience and wait for everyone to leave first before they disrespectfully shove their way on board?  I look around and follow a group of people from my carriage who have made their way over to the escalators.  There’s a guy in a suit carrying a briefcase who’s trying to force his way through the people standing on the escalator, and I think to myself that if I have to deal with people like him during my stay in the city, I’ll probably end up driving myself even more insane that what I already am.  But reality kicks in and I realize I need to get myself organized.

As I leave the train station and walk out into the streets, I pull out the address of the church I need to find and figure my only hope is to ask one of the locals for directions.  It makes it even more difficult because there are a few things I need to do before I get to the church, and I don’t have much time left at all.  Everyone is moving so quickly, I don’t know who to ask.  I contemplated asking the ticket inspector but he seemed too busy dealing with the swarm of faces walking towards him all showing their little white slips of paper.

Outside the station now, I see a man ahead of me who I vaguely noticed staring at me back in the carriage, and call out to him, “Excuse me bud.”

No answer.

I try again, a little louder this time, “Hey, excuse me.”

Still nothing.  All I want is to ask a simple question in my time of need and he can’t even show the decency to turn around and acknowledge my existence!  I’m really getting desperate for some kind of good luck now – not only has my father died, but I’m in a horrible state myself, I’m about to face my worst fears in front of my family who I haven’t seen in weeks and now I’m being ignored by the one person I chose to ask for assistance.  Again, reality kicks in and I remember that I’m in the city now and I really shouldn’t expect people to go out of their way to show hospitality.

I try one final time, this time with a genuine sense of urgency in my voice, “Sorry buddy… excuse me.”

*      *      *      *

“Yes?” I impolitely reply, half expecting the subsequent conversation with my newfound vagabond friend to consist of some kind of sob story, followed by a request for my services, followed by a just-as-impolite “No” answer on my behalf.

“Oh sorry to bother you mate,” he began, “but I was just wondering if you could point me towards the nearest florist?”

My attitude instantly softened as I came down from my pedestal.  I wasn’t sure of the location of any florists in the city but I suggest that he maybe try out a department store, and I pointed him towards MacArthur Central on Queen Street where I knew there was such a retailer.  He half-heartedly thanked me for the help, but my curiosity quickly gets the better of me and I ask him what the flowers are for.

“My dad died in a car accident the other day,” he revealed.  “I don’t know my way around Brisbane and I need to buy flowers before I head to the funeral.”

As I walk alongside him during the moments before his final goodbye to his father, I listen to his story and surreptitiously hang my head in shame.  Never again will I let my own judgment come into play before hearing one’s story.  Such a valuable lesson I learnt today, and I would not have been given the opportunity to learn it in such a moving way if it were not for that fact that I don’t smoke.

 

I Don’t Smoke

Stuck behind an unseen wall

Distinguishing nothing at all

Outside the boundaries of my barrier

Who knows who could be a carrier

Of a social disregard

Cause I feel as though it’s hard to deal with

Slam right through my unseen wall

But still I leave unseen your call

Persevere with your attempting

To steer me from my venting

Of your social disregard

That I feel is oh so hard to deal with

CHORUS

Sorry for not obliging, these streets are a joke

Recurring expectance, I don’t smoke

Getting to know you, now I sadly revoke

My misdirectness, you don’t smoke

A tragic scene you soon unfold

A wasted dream is all you hold

Of all the things in life you’d rather

Had surrendered but your father

Who died alone and cold

By the tree beside the road

To think behind my unseen wall

Had I left unseen your call

You’d have walked the streets for hours

For a place to buy some flowers

For the funeral this afternoon

With an added sense of lonesome gloom

CHORUS

Were you lost inside, indignified, the world’s ignoring

With foolish pride I stepped outside to hear your story

To be blown away with what you say, anticipating

You to provoke me for a smoke, so irritating

I don’t smoke.  You don’t smoke.  We don’t smoke.

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A Strange Thing Happened At Toowong Cemetery

A couple of evenings ago I went to the Toowong Cemetery, the largest burial grounds here in this fine city of Brisbane, with the intention of taking a few photos and admiring the sunset from a unique location.  Rumoured to be haunted, the cemetery is situated on 200 acres by the side of Mt Coot-tha, and much of it is positioned on a slant overlooking the city skyline. I have wanted to take evening photos here ever since I first set foot in Brisbane in 2005, and it’s taken me five years to return and fulfil the dream.

I’ve copied below some of the better snaps that I took; you can click on them to make them bigger if you like.

Along the way, I will also share two slightly eerie occurrences that I experienced…

*cue high-pitched theramin noise*

 

 

 

 

 

It was around about this time in the proceedings that the first strange thing occurred.

I had my camera in manual mode, and I’d set the aperture to f/7.1. I took a few photos and moved on a few metres down the path.

I went to take another photo but I realised before I pressed the shutter that the aperture had somehow changed itself to f/13. I didn’t think anything into it, and just reset it back to f/7.1.

I took another couple of photos at this setting and moved on again.

I found another spot not far down the path and went to take another photo, but once more, the aperture had changed to f/13.

There is NO WAY that the camera could have done this automatically while it was in manual mode, and it’s impossible for me to have changed it by accidentally knocking something, as it requires the press of a button and the flicking of a dial at the same time to alter the aperture setting…

 

I stood in thoughtful silence for a minute and made the connection between strange electronic things happening and me being in a cemetery. Perhaps someone or something was trying to alert me to the fact that I wasn’t alone?

It didn’t happen again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

By this time it was quite dark, around 7pm, and I decided to call it a night and go home. Before I did though, I found a monumental cross-shaped gravestone that I thought would look superb in a photo over the night-time sky, with one small lone star shining through in the background. I set my camera on the tripod and took four photos of this gravestone, occasionally altering the settings and experimenting with the flash in the hope that one of the images would turn out ok.

I noticed nothing at all out of the ordinary while I was taking these shots, and it wasn’t until the next day when I looked through them that I found something quite interesting in the fourth and final picture of the set.

The first three of the four photos are below:

 

 

 

 

As you can see, they all look much the same, except I didn’t use the flash in the second one. For the camera buffs out there, these were all taken at 7:06 pm, at f/8 with a shutter speed of 10 seconds.

For the fourth shot, I increased the shutter speed to 20 seconds to see if it would improve the quality of light.

At 7:07 pm, I took this photo:

 

 

What the hell is this??

 

Here are some things to consider:

I had full view of the gravestone and the heavens while the camera was in action and noticed no other light, flash or reflection appear in the sky. My first sight of this was when I got home and checked the photos.

There were no planes or other such flying objects in this part of the sky – and if there was, it would have left a 20 second streak across the photo from left to right.

When looking at the four photos consecutively you can see the star in the lower-left corner progressively moving downwards in the shot with the rotation of the earth. The strange light, however, appears to have more of a left-right motion, if “motion” is in fact the correct word.

Aside from resizing, I haven’t Photoshopped or touched up any of these four photos.

I’m not saying that it “is” or “isn’t” the presence of a ghost or spirit, but it certainly is an interesting thought…

You be the judge!

If you enjoyed reading this, then perhaps you’ll also enjoy reading about my other ghostly experience in Scotland in March 2009: The Haunted Wiccan Stone Circle (Auld Reekie Edinburgh Ghost Tour)

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Boltsnapper

Have you ever walked across a bridge and found that a pair of lovers have engraved their names onto a padlock and fastened it onto the fence surrounding the walkway, as a symbol of their everlasting love?

I see this regularly whilst commuting by foot across the Sydney Harbour Bridge.

It’s all well and good that they do this… but have they ever stopped to think about what will happen the day the council worker comes along with a set of boltcutters and snaps away at their love?

A young man
His sleeve without a guard
Validating all he’s ever known

A young girl
She waves a kindred arm
Letters on the lock she draws

The young man
Strengthening their source
Couples firm their talismanic crown

The young girl
Her cheek a crimson rose
Pressed against his supple jaw

 

I’m a boltsnapper
Yeah, a boltsnapper

The young man
Aware not of the part
To tackle, crash and leave a foolish boy

The young girl
Survival in this picture perfect world
Will last not long

 

I’m a boltsnapper
Yeah, a boltsnapper

Glisten in the wildest faces
Nonbelievers, fight the tension…

Don’t snap that bolt

Glisten in the wildest faces
Nonbeliever’s intervention…

Don’t snap that bolt

 

 

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