One sentence each

Here is what happens when you write a story one sentence each with your brother... I thought it was a handshake, but she was giving me a piece of paper folded into four. I licked the side of her face, she responded with hostility. A sharp elbow with just enough spice to convey her excitement and trepidation caught my ribs. The sharp edges of the note held an intimate curiosity. There is something seductive, alluring, forbidden about the passing of a note. The open secret that longs to wrap you in lust and curiously make your heart flutter and falter. I didn't open it instantly but rather, in self-indulgent torment, turned half away and make a remark about some triviality. After an instant and an eternity I cracked and read the note: "I wish you had less body hair. Stay off the coke or I'm moving to Canada and taking Jo-Jo". I wasn't disappointed. Jo-Jo was our pet monkey. I could not live without him. She always came out with shit like that, the crazy bitch new where every single one of my buttons was located, and how to push them. Including the one six inches up my ass. They say kinky is using a feather and perverted is using the whole chicken...She was a poultry farmer. It was a bluff. She'd never convince that monkey to go anywhere near Canada. He was racist. His disregard even extended to things with a foreign prefix. French sticks were forbidden, French fries, the food of the devil. French horns he was surprisingly supportive of. That monkey was a paradox, an enigma inside a flea-bitten riddle. But he loved German porn and Ice Skating, what monkey doesn't. He was a fan of the old seven-minute cinema, and Torvel and Dean. Good times, good times. Enough daydreaming, I wanted her. I needed her. My blood sang to her and it took all of my willing to keep it hidden. The pleat of my pants, however, was unforgiving and the massive erection silhouetted my enthusiasm, awkward with a capital D. She calmed me with a gentle hand to my face and a nuzzle without touching, she had a tender way about her which always left me speechless and dumbstruck and warm in a blanket of security. "Why do you put up with me and all my weird shit?" I asked, still a little crimson. "Normality is mediocrity". She was always blunt but never rudely so. Her shortness was so much of her nature, her charm. She continued "I couldn't give two shits for all those mediocre, normal mid week TV watching boring fucks, I like the way your mind works. I love your crazy, you know that." She was a tapestry, a Venus de Milo to my cup of milo, the Shiva to my Brahma-Vishnu, the guy that wore a Lucretian suit and mask and paid to watch. Ah, Tuesdays were much better now than the dark days of game shows and emotive, tear jerking, low budget, shite pseudo reality numbing entertainment. It was better when we were so bored that we were forced to create. Look at all the lovely things that were made up - Romeo and Juliet, the magic flute, God. She was so much better then me, she pushed boundaries and did things I would never do. The first to push the red button, the foot to the floor, caution and piss to the wind, a god amongst mortals who wonders why all around her are all so boring. They broke the mould when they made her, and maybe on purpose. "Welcome to earth, for the safety of others we have broken the mould in which you were made, please enjoy your stay and obey the rules."

Lost and Found

She loved him. He towered and fumbled.
Calloused hands and soft heart,
Sawdust and a eucalyptus ebbed into every jacket
He had never changed style or cut of hair, twice a year whether I need it or not

She changed him to the core, tenderness and love he longed to explore
Like eagles and wolves they had paired for life, irrespective of social ceremony
She, an inelegant ballerina, letting nothing through a protective veil,
Fumbling into each other with awkward intensity,
The time to inseparability could be measured in seconds

His calloused hands were tanned, worn and rough, leather saddles and old tables
Her face pale and smooth, porcelain doll in a harsh unrelenting riddle of a world
The fit true, the join reuniting those whom always belonged
He would be her Romeo, dependable and tender
She would embrace his Juliet, whatever that may be,

A firm embrace as life’s persistent torrent hurtles towards the next corner
Together in solace they would find a corner, a pool aside the torrent,
Solace to bear children and watch the season’s shift, quicker now with love in hand
 Lonely winters and cold feet still a close memory

Flowers bloom and life springs anew
Father’s eyes, mother’s hair, and the suns energy
In him they would find themselves, reflections of the other, and a new love,
Stronger, selfless, like nothing they could have imagined previously


Jonathan Nolan

Start-up Ventures – Young Entrepreneurial Professionals Burning Candles

There is a new generation; a group of young professionals in there twenties and early thirties who have seen Google and Facebook grow from garage to gargantuan. From the birth of Arpanet 1976, the PC, the laptop, and smart phones and social media have paved a path to a world where a concept, an idea can make you billions. Intellectual property has never had as much liquidity as it does today, and this generation wants to capitalize on it. Some of these entrepreneurs work ‘normal’ jobs. You can see them leaving office buildings at 5:30pm like everyone else, it is only after hours when they burn the candle. They invest their time, developing applications, trying to grow an online business, trying to bring the next Google or Amazon to life. One finger on the pulse of advancements in technology and the other reading the zeitgeist, trying to predict shift in the new generation, like a prospector trying to follow a vein of gold to IT start-up riches. Holding a stethoscope, listening intently for the heartbeat of the digital society. Try desperately to ‘Prophet to Profit,’ to prophesize the future to generate revenue from that vision. A conversation between two of these young, tech nouveau can often sound like a foreign language, throwing around terms like; traction, critical mass, bootstrapping, burn rate, hacking a startup, angel investment and seed funds. You may be thinking ‘wank words’ but these people are often in uncharted waters and band together for strength and support, and in the process a new tongue has formed.   

Fazzam [http://Fazzam.com.au] is one of these enterprises. I recently interviewed Co-founder Robert Petrovic who, with his two business partners has developed a location based application that allow people to 'virtually' knock on your neighbors doors and ask them for just about anything based on post-code. Fazzam allows people to advertise services such as language classes, essentially a digital notice board for the community. Robert started the business with friends who have the diversity of skill them amongst to bring a company and concepts kicking and screaming into the world.  

I recently attended a MeetUp group, [http://Meetup.com.au] called Melbourne Silicon Beach the group comprises around 1,200 members and includes; entrepreneurs, developers, investors and people with an idea. Melbourne Silicon Beach introduces the different groups and gives people a place to get feedback, and some times to receive invaluable tough love that can potentially change the course of their development. Concepts are born and turned to rubble a hundred times over as the tribe of techies pitch and listen.    

Like all the stereotypical Hollywood writers working in a bar or café, their screenplay tucked firmly under one arm, hoping that Spielberg comes in for lunch, reads their script and whisks them away to fame and fortune. All entrepreneurs have their ‘elevator pitch’ ready to deliver at a moments notice. The elevator pitch is a concise, well-planned and thoroughly practiced description of your business that your mother could understand; delivered in the time it takes to ride an elevator. You never know when you will jump into an elevator and be face-to-face with James Packer and Rupert Murdock, both looking for the next fiscally sound investment opportunity or game changer to throw some money at to see if its got legs.    

The York Butter Factory is a temple for this religion of innovation. The Factory is the co-working space for Melbourne's high-potential digital and web entrepreneurs. A Mecca for Start-ups, and for the brave who believe they can shake the shackles of corporate cubicles, those with the faith in a concept and their ability to bring that idea to a place where it pays the mortgage, keeps the lights on, and lets you take your partner out for dinner and champagne at that place with the French name in the city that overlooks the water (A universal success measure). The theme of the place is very much inception, iterative design with constant feedback and course corrections. The hash tag is #GST, or ‘Get Stuff Done’, and people aren’t afraid to tell you if there is a problem with your design.

I love the idea of playing table tennis while working out an approach to tackling a tough problem, being my own boss, never wearing polished black shoes in summer, occasionally starting work at 10:30am, and never again being constrained by governance or the corporate policy machine.  

So for those with an idea that is accompanied by a level of frustration with working for ‘the man,’ it is worth investigating the other avenues out there. The energy, creativity and changes occurring in this sector are phenomenal, you can strike sparks off anything, and nothing is impossible.  

Jonathan Nolan

9-5: Office worker

5-9 : Dreamer / Entrepreneur / Innovator / Developer / CEO, CTO, CIO, CFO /