Sunday, November 7, 2010

Autobiography

Preface: An autobiography is a tough and rewarding piece to write. I recommend it, not often enough do we take stock, and survey the terrain.

I was born in Dublin, Ireland in the Rotunda Hospital on the 3rd of April 1978. A stones throw from the Liffey River, Trinity College and in the heart of the surprisingly small city. First son to a young apprentice mother and father who were already contemplating a new life in a land of opportunity they had heard so much of. I have a great respect for my father, a man who would take a young child and wife to a new country with little money, but carrying conviction of self, and the promise of a bright future in a sun burnt country.
I chose a path less traveled in my teenage years and early twenties. I began my University education in the last millennium, a long-haired visual artist studying the use of negative space and 19th century impressionist art. A year later, deferred and a little directionless I moved to Coburg, Melbourne, where I learned to cook Italian food from a man named Rocco in a small kitchen on Sydney Road. I walked through the markets bustling with the different cultures, character, and alive with languages, people and colour, and grew a love for the city.
A few years later I returned to University in Ballarat, this time to study Computing. The pallet and paints traded for a keyboard and screen. I started work at IBM and so began a new chapter of my life. As irony would have it, the visual arts building had transformed, along with my interests, to the IBM building. I couldn’t tell if a hint of turpentine still lingered in the server room or of it was purely memory.
My wife of almost a year met me when I had little in the way of cares and even less assets. Kate, a beautiful woman in all senses, instantly bought me a calendar, gently began sanding my rough edges, an ongoing project with a risk of splinters. Kate referred to me as an emotional millionaire, a flattering compliment, which also highlights a failing, as Oscar would say; “my net income never matches my gross habits.”

I completed a Bachelor of Business (eBusiness) degree, and apart from the piece of paper, I carry with me a desire to achieve something great in my life, for a time a feeling of anxiety slowly grew in the recesses of my mind, a realization that others on the common path were into their fourth year working after university and I will need to catch up if I wish to be at the forefront of an industry.
Recently, on an idle Tuesday I passed a billboard for hiking gear which stated, “Life is not a race, come back to earth – Colorado.” And there it is, in a second, a whole reshuffle of goals, do I really want; the suit, the blackberry, the squash game lunch hour, the ulcers, the power meeting, the perks, the stock options, the performance evaluations? I do love the walk to the office in the morning sun, café latte in hand, a fresh suit adorned with pin stripes and ambition, a bold tie in a bright spring colour. Stepping over homeless people while I whistle with a spring street in my step. I don’t really do that, I am mocking the fact that I am aware and have empathy and concern, but apart from buying the Big Issue magazine, do nothing to support the underprivileged and unfortunate. I was more affected when first moving to the city, but you do become desensitized. I suppose live in Byron Bay but leave before it makes you soft and live in a flat in King Street Melbourne, but leave before it makes you hard. If you get that joke you are a bad person. If you made that joke you are worse…awkward, like being the only one to die with laughter at an inappropriate joke at a BBQ. Exposed.

I have recently started a new passion, trading on the stock market. What a rush, the excitement of gambling combined with the advantage some knowledge in economics can provide. The possibilities the freedom that trading can offer is amazing, and has dragged me in. I am reading a book on value investing to separate my flutter on the Gee-Gees from my investment strategy…a work in progress.

I would love to be living in a more amazing time, when Dr. King spoke, “I have a dream,” JFK reminded us that the fruits of victory were ashes, and how there was one small step for man. I don’t feel the same majesty and discovery in today’s time, but I suppose retrospection is a highlights reel and you only get out what you put in. These are exciting times nonetheless.
I have realized I am a dreamer, an optimist and a procrastinator. I am a Jack-of-all-trades and a master of none. I do not yet lie awake at night, like an agnostic, insomniac, dyslexic wondering if there is a dog, but now is the time for change and growth in my life. I have recently formulated an idea or image of where I will be in twenty years. I see bit of land very close to the coast, with a Spanish style house, an artist’s studio, grow my garden in the spring, surf and sangria the summer sun, and stew on the stove with the weekend paper and warm freshly baked bread in the winter. I hope to write books, travel, run my own company, make a million dollars from a dot.com, speak at least trez languages, build and destroy something beautiful by the time my days on earth are done and I shake this mortal coil.

I recently have found solace, a belief in self, in both my professional and personal life. I think this is born from the experience in a business and personal sense, growing into your skin. A throwing of the shackles of insecurity that binds you and a belief that your experience and way of seeing the world is valuable, unique and is worthy of sharing with others.
I have been fortunate enough to have some writing recently published in the MX free travel newspaper. Although a tiny milestone in the grand scheme of things, my brother graciously put it, I am the first Nolan to be published, making my heart sing and rise above the fact that today’s newspapers are tomorrows fish and chip wrappers. I will strive for a life less ordinary , I want music, dance, paint, passion wine, let it all flow. I hope that I have the courage to pursue the dreams and the ideal and give them wings.

To be continued…

Friday, August 20, 2010

A Reasonable Critique is Practical

So how does one go about writing a savage review? I think takes a ruthless and cold-blooded nature to be able to serve up cold hard truths without pulling punches he said, kicking a puppy. I have seen businesses and possibly careers decimated by savage machete slashes through the green foliage of achievement and self-aggrandising exclusivity. AA Gill, a food critique and brilliant writer once attested to being able to eat alphabet soup and shit a better menu then the one of a restaurant he had evaluated. Lets see if I can bat at that level, he said, slowly then drew a long breath and mounted his soapbox, machete in hand.
I recently went out for a riotous Saturday night on the town in Ballarat, the bustling 40-watt bright centre of regional Victoria.

After a beautiful Japanese tepinyaki journey, and as long as your clock works, you will know that it is time to make the journey then the Karova lounge. One of the last bastions for live music and entertainment, and one of the few venues not suckling on the depraved pokies teat. Apparently the Whitlems wrote a song about the pokies, I would love to be able to afford the CD , if it wasn't for my debilitating gambling addiction.

We depart with our $17 dollars at the door and received the rudimentary hand stamp. After three Coopers Pale Ale, a wonderful South Australian, brewed in the bottle and brandishing a crisp and tangy flavour with just a hint of pencil sharpenings and plumb. It is recommended that you cellar for up to three days before devouring. So I have been dishing out all good reviews so far, the night is going swimmingly...

Announcing himself on the stage arrived Whitley, a young John Mayer looking twenty something brandishing a beautiful guitar. The Whitley band was out the back, but alas only certain venues can accommodate "the talent", the ego and the other band members at the one time. Tonight our stage was straining under the massive weight of this balladeer.



Finger picking and swooning a drab blanket of treacle across the crowd of one hundred ears, the musical genius stopped, not five bars into the second song, just like the last. Someone in the crowd was talking! What an affront to the delicate genius being revealed to the lucky few. The crowd was promptly informed by princess Whitley how difficult it is for a artist to weave their magical tapestry when people are talking. This is understandable, considering cranky pants was only amped up with a few hundred watts and a plethora of fold back speakers.
After about thirty minutes of morose mumblings the fleet foxes roadie could belt out with more skill, a few political references were thrown out, yes, yes everyone disliked Howard, and the twenty-one year old crowd did seem to salivate over the musician with a cause, [insert objectionable main stream policy here] It may be time for some new material.
So in summary, the hung over, talentless princess Whitley and his massive ego hearts club band and skinny talent morosely mumbled though forty minutes and left after admonishing the crown for their lack of homage to genius. No one protested, save one when we were informed he didn't like encores. I restrained from yelling out, "No encore please, maybe you should have been an architect or a librarian...SHHHHHHH."
I have a test when I see a band, can you hum it later? Was I amazed by the musical talent? Was there blood to the music, a passion in the songs? If so, the band is on the right track. A resounding no sounded to all of the above and a reluctant three out of ten has been awarded for turning up, not electrocuting yourself, and having all the strings on your guitar, seriously, become an architect!

You can buy the new Whitley album "Talentless Whitley and the massive ego hearts club Architect Band" Online now - personally I would rather spend that money at the pokies.

Friday, August 13, 2010

Art and Culcha

Do you appreciate the art that is around you? Do you absorb the expressions, appreciate the creativity, discuss, lament and ponder the concepts and ideas born in the art that is sprayed, carved, etched and hung on the walls around your city? Or are the Galleries, the architecture, the ornate buildings, and exhibitions all places the tourists visit while you rush, latte in hand to your real life? Or is it all for the tourists?

We are often told, Australia has some of the world’s most livable cities and has beautiful buildings where art hangs sitting, waiting to be viewed, interpreted and spat out as an intelligent thought at the right diner party. Hidden in peripheral plain site are lanes ways overflowing with graffiti art, culture, music and sweet espresso aromas. Ornate bookshops, filled with a thousand tales you will never know.


Perhaps you are one of the suited oblivious masses, guilty of saying "excuse me" as you bump into a bronze statue while playing with your latest iPhone application - iDistract, or iWaste, where you have to toss pieces of crumpled paper past a fan and into a bin, every point gained an insult to the beautiful surrounds you ignore.
I like to think that I am cultured and appreciate the art in my city. I know that Baggett is French for French stick, I don't order white coffees any more I order a "Cafe Latte" and when in a cafe I order a cwass-en not a cross-ont. When I am perusing the wears of the biggest shopping centres in the southern hemisphere, I always buy items "styled in Europe - manufactured in China." Soon all the first world economies will import a packet of HB Pencils a year and export three sheets of design paper. Unlike Megan Gale's career, this is not a sustainable model.



I am guilty of a few faux pars in my time, which may lead people to believe I do not have culture or style. I have ordered a short black while in a cafe named 'Espresso," I have worn a bright tie to a funeral, white socks with a black suit, worn blue and green, traveled and been an absolute tourist cliché. I missed Hailey’s comet last time round because "Its a Knock out" was on the TV, and let the recent Picasso exhibition slip past unattended, the cubic meters of regret will never fully be measured. I have decided I am going to make an investment and get to at least one cultural or artistic event every month for the next year and see what rewards come of it.


So remember as you enter the lobby on your way to work, wading through emails on your iPhone pilot, the financial review under arm, overflowing with numbers and letters all in black and white, none of them read. Stop and see the roses in the painting on the wall. Book into the latest show at the theatre, play chess bare foot in the park on your lunch break, even better, take up a life drawing class after work. Its time to choose, are you Venus or cup of Milo? Are you “Home and Away” and the Anatomy of Grey or the Sound of Music matinee in the theatre on that rainy day? My advice is to find that which engages you, seek out a piece of art that tickles your fancy, choose a favorite building in the city, find a painting that makes you laugh cry and sing all at once.

Jonathan Nolan

Friday, July 23, 2010

End of Fashion




Oscar Wilde, while wearing a pair of happy pants and a pork pie hat said that fashion is a form of ugliness so intolerable that we have to alter it every six months. I see this as a good thing, enabling new ideas, styles and designers to emerge and showcase their talents. So what is fashion? I need to be warm while I wait for the train, but I also want to find a fabric and colour that encapsulates who I am as a person. I want to adorn myself with garments and symbols that will show others which tribe I am from, my loves, and my beliefs. This may facilitate attraction, in a similar way to a peacock presenting coloured plumage for your viewing pleasure.


With all the millions of creative people in the world why, please tell me are huge numbers of people getting around in thin black "drain pipe" jeans and Ray Ban "Wayfarer" sunglasses. We have been there and done that! I am not getting that gear on again unless it is to reminisce, while watching Ferris Bueller’s day off, the first Star Wars, The Breakfast Club, and anything featuring a young Matthew Broderick.

Ok generation Y, you are probably on the train now reading this article, your fringe covering one eye, wayfarers tucked into your skinny jeans, get out your portable social media device and Google image search "1970's fashion" now have a good long hard look in the mirror sunshine. Get onto Skype with someone and discuss originality, load up eBay and bid for some creativity, shuffle your iPod to a song by End of Fashion, twitter that you have a clue to your five followers and put together a new and original outfit!




I am going to make a prediction now that the next violent fashion regurgitation is going to be the horrific pastel and sports jacket combination found on Don Johnson in any episode of Miami Vice, circa 1984. I can see the gaudy peach and lime green storm clouds off in the distance. You won't need to stand on the shoulder pads of giants to see the plethora of revived outfits at this years Spring Racing Carnival. This breaking news just in - retrospection is not creating a new fashion. So this is a call to all the young, the creative, the artists, to the youth of today. Get out and dye the colour, style and passion of your time into the fabrics and beads that adorn your body. Catch delicately in a butterfly net the energy, creation and discovery that lives only in this moment in time, the crest of this wave you ride, and weave the essence into an expression of self. I have a little tip this time - don't start your search for inspiration in an op shop.
Maybe there comes a time in every generation where the cutting edge is no longer appropriate and you feel silly and resent those wearing it. Perhaps my rant relates purely to the fact that my generation x, thirty-something ass is getting old and I can no longer fit into any of my drainpipes, stovepipes, cigarette pants, pencil pants, skinny pants or skinnies. Oh the tragedy!

Jonathan Nolan

Thursday, June 17, 2010

Collins Street 5:30pm



I take the last few steps two at a time and emerged from the underground station. The glare of the brilliant morning sun hurts my eyes momentarily. Eyes adjust and I inhale, bathed in the beautiful radiation beaming down and bouncing off concrete. A stream of golden fire which evaporates the night’s clumsy mistakes, moves along all the destitute, and absolves the world of all yesterday’s misgivings. A spring in the step of all, adorned in crisp suits, lined with ambition. The freshly ironed shirts of the morning seem to hold an intrinsic good. Cuff links and mini-skirts, palm pilots and brief cases, Herringbone and Manolo Blahnik. The day beckons to be explored and the masses oblige - cafe latte in hand.
I pass a man nearly every morning, he sits quietly near one of the few cracks in the pavement at the Paris end of Collins Street, verbally asking for nothing and rarely making eye contact. A small hat in front of him asks the question which leads to so many more. A collie sits with him quietly and greets the kindness of strangers. A number of people always stop and talk with the man, but I have never stopped.

On the corner of Collins St and Spring Street there is a small cafe hidden away, the only thing betraying its existence is the thick wafts of coffee beans being percolated and the sizzling bacon and eggs which pour from a vent, covering the streets like a sweet invisible treacle.

An angry shout gets my attention, ahead an infuriated man, actually he is more then infuriated, he is close to foaming at the mouth. And is attempting to walk against the stream of commuters, an angry salmon, swimming against the dark pin-stripe stream of suits and skirts. His rants increase to a point where the seas part in front of him, but what an eccentric performance. "Excuse me you dropped your crazy." The 80-20 rule applies (according to Jon), 80% of people are not aware they make up the weird 20% ...wait I may need to think about that one a bit more.

The elms on Collins Street spring out of the grey concrete squares they are designated, in a protest to the uniformity the roots branch out and celebrate their freedom in patterns that personify chaos theory. The two tone colours match well with the blue stone hue that is Collins.

Paris End Cafe makes the best coffee in the area, the barista is a beautiful woman who calls me "love" and "darling" and I always leave there with an increased heart rate and alert feeling. This helps fight the tendency to feel like a number or a small cog in the machinery of the city with all the grey, the charcoal, the bluestone, and not an angel headed hipster in sight.



In saying that, uniformity of appearance doesn’t suggest uniformity of mind, thought or expression. Brad Pitt in Fight Club told me I am not a beautiful and unique snow flake and that I need to hit bottom and be freed from clever art, but I love clever art and I want to start producing some. I love the painting Collins Street 5:30 by John Brack and want to produce a modern day copy. I am sure it has already been done but I don’t care, I am doing it again. I guess I just need to add a few iPhone headphones a couple more homeless people, a bumblebee tram and we are done. Vincent Van Gough did about fifteen copies of sunflowers, and when Paul Gauguin came to stay with him he put about five copies in his room. Yellow paint must have been on special that week.


Collins Street is a beautiful place at this point in time, an ever changing bustle and mortar. It only has two tones if you squint your eyes, but the detail is where the charm and beauty is concealed. It is a constant background to contrast people against. The cracks in the street like the rings of a tree, "Here I was born, and here I died, and you never noticed."

Next time you are there, stop and appreciate the architecture in the city. Sometimes we forget to look up. And like Oscar Wilde correctly states, "we are all in the gutter, just some of us are looking at the stars."

Jonathan Nolan

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Take your Internet Filter and [content blocked] because Elephants can't Dance

So usually you would crack your head open if my Blog was a pool and you were to dive in. A shallow flippant rant on a topic that has captured my attention, "look a shiny thing." Rarely enraged or motivated to protest, I have never been to a rally, signed a petition or followed someone with a cause. This of course excludes my catholic school upbringing. I shall say no more on that subject...except to say what comes after indoctraseven?
This Blog looks at the Internet Filter proposed, censorship, supply and demand, freedom and rights, some excerpts from Lady Chatterley’s lover and prohibition.
P.S That is Pyramid writing, where the first paragraph covers all topics to be discussed, neat hey, I learn new things more gooderer writer is.

The recent Internet filter proposition has got my goat, where the hell did that saying come from? I know I live regionally and should probably know. If its purely a livestock stealing reference then fine, maybe I'll start a new one, "Yea he has really nabbed my alpaca, I'm not happy," see how people go with that one. Good intentions are one thing, and taking action also has merit, but going down a road clearly in opposition to the general consensus of the masses with a plan that has more problems then an Icelandic Air traffic controller and I predict will disappear quicker then a fart in a fan factory. The Government will never be able to effectively regulate a thing such as the Internet; elephants can’t dance, that is, big regulated organisations cannot keep up with a free and dynamic environment such as the Internet. Did you notice the capital I in Internet, it is a place, a borderless country with no rules, no boundaries. The Internet has characteristics of a living entity, new sites grow and die, content is added and becomes stale and dated, it has areas that are not published, as well as direct links to people's computers at home.

Internet Map:


(Source: Someone who likes Start trek and has too much time)

It has many aspects of the free market economy. Example, I want to purchase a bit of software that crops photographs, I can search Google, find any number of items, and download the best or cheapest. There are no barriers to entry and shipping is done over the Internet. This is a very exciting time, never has intellectual property had so much liquidity. It is improbable, yet possible for a homeless person to go to there local library and using free software, revolutionise the whole industry and become a millionaire with a piece of software they have written in notepad on windows 98.

The Internet filter, with the proposed structure, would add little benefit, as it doesn’t block Peer 2 Peer file sharing programs and doesn't block sites with a HTTPS as opposed t HTTP (The S is for Secure) sites and so is basically irrelevant. Lets say for a second that it did work, all of a sudden all the viewers of the discussing material will start looking for a new source. The demand wont stop, and so 1+1= the supply will shift. A similar style of black market supply and demand can be seen in the Prohibition in America from 1920 to 1933 where Alcohol was band, giving rise to an underground bootleg movement, providing an excellent platform for growth for organised crime. Amateur-hibition, that’s what I am dubbing it. So if we apply that Black market Business model to the illicit material the filter is trying to reduce, we may see a reduction in the amount downloaded over the Internet, but a huge increase in social groups meeting on a Tuesday night to...eh...build a boat and swap boat building DVD's, yea that’s what were doing. Ok I just got a shiver. So yea there is a pathway I don't think we have thought about enough.

Banning books, banning of ideas, the constricting of freedom, that is what it boils down to. The sign of an intelligent mind is to be able to receive an idea, chew it like bubble gum and then reject it. I think I may have paraphrased a brilliant writer and added bubble gum as my addition. I may go to writing hell for that one. I guess writing hell would be writing on season 42 of two and a half men, working with constantly blunt pencils on a team of 23 high level autistic people on work experience and finding out every episode is censored and doesn't make it to air.


The book Lady Chatterley’s Lover was banned in Australia due to the graphic nature of its content. The author dropped the F bomb four times and the C bomb 10 times, that Foxy Cat is crazy! If he had of used fiddlesticks and lady garden it would have been fine. I am sure as the censorship debate raged excerpts would have been read out sections of the book as part of question time. Brilliant, the mental image of these stale old men, grey wispy hair and tweed suits smelling of cigarettes and 70's sexism, still able to look down their big red noses as some young whipper-snapper read out sentences about sweaty bodies interlocked and firm bosoms heaving. There were a few hot members ...of parliament that day. "Order! Order me a copy of that saucy stuff. "The member for Kings Cross will remain dressed"

So stick censorship in your [content blocked] and put that into you mother's [content blocked] also. [Content blocked] the step on the way into Parliament and don't [content blocked] what the government does. The word that was blocked in the previous sentence was "mind." Go back and read the paragraph again swapping "content blocked" with "mind." To censor something is a very powerful action in itself, especially if people do not have the option to evaluate for themselves.

Censorship and protection are interesting concepts. I believe Australia is a very heavily regulated society. Honestly I never noticed until I went over seas. Being fined by a police officer for not wearing a bicycle helmet is ridiculous and here is where the argument is applied "but it saves lives" yes it does, but it is a sacrifice of freedom and choice. It is situations where I can park my common sense as the warm blanket of legislation protect me. Of course it saves lives and people should be educated in the dangers, the risk, and born of that education, make an informed decision. Who knows, the cause, effect, decision triangle may sink in as a habit that could flow on into other aspects of life.
I read a survey recently looking at behavior and risk, the survey measured the speed people drove across a level crossing when there were no warning lights as trains potentially approached. The cars had an average, with some people going faster, accepting more risk. As the trees were gradually felled on the side of the crossing, and visibility increased, the average speed increased. People have a level of acceptable risk.

Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day, teach a man to fish and the next thing you know your fishing company is being bought out in a hostile takeover, which seriously undervalues the assets. Damn Bastard, "I taught you how to fish, and this is the thanks I get!" The power of stopping someone accessing content is nothing compared with the power of empathy. "Teach your children well." Cat Stevens just sat down beside me. "Teach them empathy." He has his acoustic guitar out and has started into Father and Son. "Let them understand the beauty they possess inside, and the underlying problems that drive the behaviors that we would ban." I am standing up on a soapbox gesticulating wildly as Cat hammers out that sweet acoustic melody. "Bestow the knowledge that with great freedom comes great responsibility!" A little bit of spit came out as I yelled; I may be getting too emotional. In a frenzy of acoustic harmony and nonconformist rage the world is changed and freedom is restored."



The other option is Cat Stevens and I are black-flagged as dissidents, woken in the middle of the night by homeland security and disappeared for questioning for a period of up to 48 hours without a warrant or reason supplied. Liberties are never taken in bounds; they are chiseled away with quiet scratches, careful to keep from stirring the complacent masses chewing their bubble gum. Now back to the television. Again with the paraphrasing the quotes and simply adding bubble gum, what is with that?

Jonathan Nolan

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Spare Change

People don't change, that is the way the saying goes, perhaps along the way our perceptions change and that is all. It is a depressing thought, I have read that the human psyche is formed by the age of five, from that point the windows or filter in which we view the world has hardened, the dye cast, the concrete foundations never to be further molded before setting. The band "The Doors" is based on a book that looks at this very concept, The Doors of Perception by Aldus Huxley "If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things through narrow chinks of his cavern." I suggest all people read this book prior to age five while tripping on acid and listening to break on through to the other side, being played in reverse on a turntable.



If you are older then five, then stop reading and give up, it is too late for you. I would like to read the following books in my life, but accompanied by a dash of vodka with a twist of context. I want to read Robinson Caruso while lost on an Island, read Dracula while traveling through Eastern Europe in winter with a hot sadist gothic chic. I want to give away everything I own and live on the streets of London, my companion a pit bull with a black spot over his eye with a copy of Oliver Twist in me pocket. I want to take "Love in the time of Cholera" and adapt if for the present day.” Love in the time of H1N1." Whenever I travel on public transport I cover my books with "The Idiots Guide to Windows 98," to see the looks of amazement and the odd offer of help from people who work in I.T and cannot handle it.


The definition of a decision is to cut off from all other options, similar to incise. I am not going to get into Latin, except to say "Carpe Dium" which is "Eat fish." Why decision when I am speaking of change? A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step, or an apology RSVP saying, "I would love to come to your thing, but it is a thousand miles. Maybe next year you'll have your thing a bit closer if you want people to come you selfish bastard." As Tony Robbins said at a recent seminar, "When life gives you lemons...say fuck it and ditch."
Decision is the first step in change, the spark to ignite the fuel, which must burn bright enough to buckle the existing structures of habit. Wow! I love my metaphors, like a fat kid loves cake; to 50 cent coin a phrase. If there was an automatic metaphor writing application I would buy it, Meta4, and coming soon Meta5, the Rolls Royce of Writing.

Bang! I write bang when I am happy with myself, looking around the VLine carriage tempted to stand up, "Excuse me if I could have everyone’s attention, I have just written an extremely witty phrase and I would like to share it with you all." There is a group of professionals that commute and some seem interesting. There of course is a minority, the 80-20 that exists everywhere. Shazza and Kimmy will get on the train, flanked by any number of toddlers; an atmosphere of chaos, noise and conflict fills every serene crack with in a 30-foot radius. There is always an issue too, a lost ticket, the wrong train, a distressed phone call, the child falls and takes three massive shocked inhalations in a row before a cacophony screaming ensues. A mixture of tears and mothers consoling hand make a clean spot on the child. It is the comments that get me, "Yea she's sixteen now, but I don't let her smoke at the table in front of her kids." What the? It is just like on Leave it to Beaver or the Wonder Years... no wait, it is not at all. So how does change relate to this situation? It doesn't at all, I just needed to get that out there in order to maintain my serine outward appearance as the unruly rabble run back and forth to the drink fountain, high pitched yelps emitted at random intervals, like some kind of an advanced sonar which enables the mother to monitor them subconsciously, leaving her free to focus the entire caliber and capacity of the creative mind on the cold fusion reactor designs she is working on, hidden in the pages of the Glam magazine.

I guess everyone aspires to be better, to grow, for knowledge, for wealth (or the freedom wealth brings), a better car, a longer holiday. Some people are happy with the cave and a curtain, simply aiming for a dwelling and privacy. I would like to be 'never have to work again' sort of rich, but currently the only item in my life with the capacity to take me there is my Friday lotto ticket, a sobering thought, some times I write things and then realise their truth, a laceration with my subconscious pen. When I refer to capacity I am looking at the ability, no matter how slight, that your occupation or the side project could be the next big thing and make you a million. Google was started in a garage with a dream and a little sweat. My grandfather always told me, "Genius is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration." Hey that sweaty guy working in his mum’s garage has a great idea, give him a Ferrari.
The 1978 Microsoft team...


I sometimes fear the challenge and discomfort I find in change. Deep down I know change is good, it pushes boundaries, moves us out of our comfort zone, forces growth, until you don’t even recognize the place you were. You look back at the photographs of yourself and letters you have written and see the flaws and naivety only in the places you have grown. I work in health and wonder, will we look back on medicine today in a hundred years the way we look back on medicine from the start of the 20th century? Surgeons will talk of the dark days of the 21st century when patients were actually opened up on the table, and where secondary infections killed people.

I tried Rock Climbing two days ago, amazing. I got about 20 feet up and then did not want to fall backwards into my secure rope and harness, why? The same reason I don't like to fly all that much, I hate when things are out of my control or when I rely on the untested with my precious mortality. One day I will let go, it’s all a state of mind, although "they” did link a hormone, which is in excess in bullfighters and is almost non-existent in people who fear leaving their house. So how do I normally change this? I commit, “I am going to touch the 60 ft roof and then jump off backwards the next time I climb!” Done, I make those commitments sometimes in a puff of motivation, which I regret immensely when I am hanging off a wall 21 feet off the ground sometime next week. "Damn damn stupid goal setting self, look what you’ve got us into, look how high the roof is. Sitting there on the train all motivated and now look what we have to do!" I will only worry when the conversation becomes two sided. "Jonathan, it is your therapist here, I would like to speak to personality number 34 please." I wonder if split personality disorders have to pay a group rate for a therapy session… these are all good questions.

I like the use of the Phoenix as an analogy for change as well as rebirth. The phoenix is a mythical creature rising from the ashes, reborn from flames.


I have been off cigarettes now for five weeks (ashes reminded me) It is an interesting change, you become aware of all the triggers in life that link old habits and inhibit change, and there are hundreds, the end of dinner, a movie, a car, train, bus ride, a beer basically everything is a well worn path we seem to want to walk, like a homing Gauloises. Ahh that smooth Laramie taste, sweet dark nipple, I will always miss you. (What? it's very addictive)



More coffee discussions, deliberations, chewing of the fat are needed, but maybe no more coffee for me today, in fact I have made a decision, I have cut off all other options.


Jonathan

Saturday, April 10, 2010

Death, Taxes and Pear Juice



No one knows when the end will come, I am sure that throughout history some very poignant last words have been uttered moments before an untimely end, such as “ we are safe, bears are asleep this time of year,” or “Is the electricity more dangerous because we’re standing in water?” and “I wonder what this red button does?” My personal favourites of course would be “I don’t think its flammable,” and “I have made a change, try it now.”

To grow old gracefully, that is a goal most hold. There is a point in time, very difficult to identify when exactly, where instead of tripping you have a fall, instead of going in for an operation you now have a procedure and instead of impulse buying $35 dollar socks from Herringbone on Collins Street, while on the way back from a power lunch, you now get up at 6:00am to miss the rush on the travel support, winter warm thermal socks which are on (whistle through your teeth as you say) special for two days only at Big-W.

Some people remove themselves gracefully from the gene pool, The Darwin Awards celebrate the crème de la crème of the idiotically deceased including a French man who decided to change the bathroom light bulb - while in the bath. A truly shocking story, he was always so light-hearted, but did always swim against the current and had a short fuse. This is shining a light on my dark humour, ok I’ll stop…. I am flicking the switch off now, pulling out the plug on my puns.

At least if you stupidly electrocute yourself you will never tasty the sickly sweet Pear Juice that heralds the end of your days. Pear juice you ask, yes pear juice. Nursing homes dish out pear juice to residents to keep them regular, to keep you moving along so to speak. I visited a number of Nursing homes for a period a few years ago, some days being pleasantly surprised, other times finding a frustrating mad house that would make you afraid of birthdays.
I entered one day to find about fifteen residents sitting around a TV attempting to watch the Edinborough Tattoo Scottish bagpipe concert, sweet Jesus kill me now! It gets worse, not only was the picture bad, the sound to high and the content rubbish, but there was a mentally disturbed woman deliberately blocking the view. And there it was, a window to a possible future where I could potentially spend my last days IF I was well off, as this was a relatively nice place, the smell of cleaning products, opp shops and damp cardigans veiled in extra strength tropical rose or evening primrose.

So when weighing business ethics and morals and asking yourself if you should hand in the bag of money you found at the train station, don’t forget, money is freedom, it can’t buy happiness, but you can buy a yacht and anchor next to it. You may have either Inga the Swedish nurse massaging you in heat of the Tahitian summer, “ya you would enjoy the sponge bath now?” verses Sharyn and Gail telling you “drink your pear juice luv and we'll set you up in front of the tele for your favorite bagpipe show which we are playing again today.”

I would like to leave this world in a flurry of fireworks, like the 80 year old who’s family got him a sky diving jump for a birthday present, OUTSTANDING! He dropped dead on the way down from a massive heart attack, but that’s not the point, he went out in style, with the wind in his two strands of silver hair, not slowly shaking off a rusty mortal coil, lubricated badly with pear juice and incontinence to the sound of bagpipes.
Maybe it will be bliss? maybe I will start playing along with the pipers on my colostomy bag as conscious thought drifts into a haze I would liken to trying to find your cars keys, but being applied to all parts of life. The tender joins which are the memories of your life, crossed with the threads of time, criss-cross to show you the fabric of a big picture, the conscious mind. Eventually becoming frayed to single focus in time, without context, history or meaning.

So I tell my self, as I read bumper stickers on the highway of life, know thyself and to thine self be true, the time is now, suck every ounce of marrow from the bones of life, stay the course of your moral compass and then only regret the things you did not do.

I am off to make a pear juice Mojito, with cheers to chance and luck, a salute to my inevitable demise and mortality and an Irish slancha to all the good times I have been fortunate enough to experience. I hold no regrets and will fight my fears and comfort to keep it that way.



Jonathan Nolan

Sunday, March 14, 2010

Tri to Keep Up



Tri to keep up...

The honeymoon, and now summer is over, although Byron Bay will be revisited.

I am now writing my blog on the train, another cog in the corporate machinery of night, trekking my way across regional Victoria strait and true, the shortest path to my cubicle, an interesting cubism with all the depth, complexity and dimensions of a Dali painting but lacking the colour, the oxygenated blood to creativity. A bit of back to work blues there, and also the Boom Town Rats are on my carriage playing an acoustic version of "I don't like Mondays." It may be time to book a day off to get in touch with my inner mid-day television-watching, slipper wearing self.

The last Triathlon of the season was held recently. Having missed almost all events I signed up in haste and begun training. In what seemed like minutes later, I was standing on the beach at Port Arlington, nervously looking at the rest of the extremely fit competitors, all decked out in expensive wet suits. The marshal calls out different swim cap colour for the heats, and from the multicolored array people emerges a single dominant colour moving towards the starting line, a temporary order in primary chaos.

With a bang it begins. All surge forward, released like so much adrenalin. The summer waters are warm and inviting, despite the overcast day. I take a few steps and dive, repeating until the sandy bottom drops away beneath me. I have 700 meters to go and below me the bottom turns to rocks and moves further away until only a blurry dark haze remains. I am not the strongest of swimmers and the field moves ahead of me about 300 meters in, all except for one person who I pass, floundering and looking like a fish out of water, in water. Lets all take a moment to appreciate the complexities of English as a language. Imagine immigrating to Australia with basic English, getting a job in a lumberyard and being told on the first day "First we will chop it down, and then we will chop it up, OK got it?

Anyway back to the fish out of water, he mustn't have trained at all to be flailing like a washing machine one-third the way in. All of a sudden he yells, "Help!" My first thought, which I am not proud of, was, "Yes! I am not going to finish last in the swim leg.” and proves beyond a doubt that I am a bad person who is going to hell. The ever vigilant and somewhat bored volunteer lifesavers, spattered around the course grab the struggling weekend warriors and untrained businessmen by the scruff and haul them to embarrassment.... I mean safety. Olympian wanna bes happy to pay the prize money for the chance to run out of the water to the sound of applause, and for a fleeting second, forgetting its only your family clapping you, feel the thrill of simulated athletic greatness. The shadow of your life long athletic mediocrity falling seconds behind your personal best time. Anyone reading this who just started crying I am very sorry and you are very special, a great achievement.

I emerge from the water, having removed my bright red swim cap, a dead giveaway that I was well behind my group. People go to so much effort to hide and to compensate for small things. The cold truth is that no one actually cares about you enough to notice where you are placed or what you are wearing, or if your actually on fire...unless they love you. It took me years too long to learn that lesson. I guess if people realized all at once how little people actually noticed them the world would come to a standstill. Fashion houses would crumble, the Armani Empire would fall like the fall of the Roman Empire. Another GFC would ensue, no longer a global Financial Crises but now a Global Fashion Crises. The only industries that would profit would be tracksuit and slipper manufacturers who would thrive with the new comfortable range. "Practichic - The practical chic alterative."

I mount my bicycle coughing and spluttering salt water, and head out to the 26km circuit. I pass a number of competitors on the first hill. Each bike better then the next, Pinnerello, Felt, Specialized, Cervello, space aged carbon fiber, hand woven, pressed, tested, the pinnacle of human engineering, a ratio of strength to weight only dreamed of ... all strapped to the chubby ass of a lazy business man, part time athlete. Excuse my ranting on this one, but it drives me crazy. Why would you pay thousands extra to attain the Excalibur ninja deluxe Euro professional light saber 3000, the lightest bike ever made if you have a lazy 4kg spare on your ass. Nothing brings me more pleasure then passing the of fore mentioned "athlete" on my reasonably priced bike, and adding insult to injury by saying hello to prove you are not out of breath. Ha! Ok. Ok, secretly I want the Pinnerello - Prince of Spain signature series carbon fiber deluxe Yellow and fire engine red beautifully sexy deluxe, trade in your car for it, sell your first born child for it, engineers standing on the shoulders of engineering giants, ride it till you pass out...push-bike.





Coming to the end of the ride I lower the gears and pedal faster, a trick aimed at increasing circulation and flushing the lactic acids from your leg muscles prior to the run leg. I don't know how well it worked, because it felt like running through honey up to my knees when I first started. There is a rush from the challenge, and more so from the atmosphere itself, the combined will power, determination and competition electrifies the air to the point where you can strike sparks on anything. There is great competition and you will often see a person sprinting for the finish line, closely pursued by a brother, two seconds behind and two years younger, legs on fire from exhaustion, extinguished and overwritten by a drive to win. This is one of the main reasons people compete and the reason a community forms around the Triathlon series. Also it gives you a point in time in the future, which helps get your pizza lovin ass off the sofa and do a little exercise.

So you are now no doubt about to head out for a run. Don't forget to bring the words of wisdom from the sporting greats, Lance Armstrong "Live Strong," and Tiger Woods, "come on finish this last two KM's and we will hit the strip clubs."

Jonathan Nolan