I am frequently paralysed by 
    the choices of the modern world:
    from how to spend $50 
    to how to spend my own life
    which streaming service to keep?
    which show to binge next?
    Leaves me flailing
    on my back,    
        like a slater

Perhaps this has always been a problem        
on some level,
    no doubt exacerbated,
    by optical fibre
    but, how do you choose what you do 
    with these ticking hours? 
Mary Oliver phrased it beautifully; 
    ‘What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?’
But sometimes I want to say back to Mary
    ‘What is it you plan to do with this one wild
    selection of Netflix originals?’

Of course, 
    Mary Oliver,
    Saint that she was,
    probably wouldn’t have made the first choice
    to even entertain the notion 
    of the Netflix scroll
She was just choosing which flower        
to write her next poem about
    and would probably
    gently encourage me 
    towards the hum out the window
    of life pulsing electric
    through stardust and soil

Ghost Mary reminds me
    the choice was never just
    whether to rewatch the Matrix trilogy
    or try something new
The choice was (and is)
    to show up and write
    some words on this page
    or to distract myself,
    from myself    
    catching up to 
    myself.

Of course you can watch movies 
    and show up 
    to your creative life
    (arguably, it’s essential)
    but I know when my own scales
    are tipped.

So Mary, 
    here I am
    beneath a thumping fan in the kitchen 
    writing.
    I want to write the poems,
    like you. 
​

It is happening just like they said it would:
    they are growing up fast

I used to hold him like a football
Yesterday he kicked one over the fence

He used to know no words
Yesterday he told me he could see 
‘The soft-feathered wings of the day’
    6 and he already spins better poetry than me

His brother,
    dresses up like a pirate
    like a paramedic
    like an astronaut

And I’m still wondering
    is he dressing up as a 4 year old?
    or has that much time actually passed
    since we first met? 

They are growing up fast

And you find yourself uttering that phrase
    even though you know how cliche it sounds

And I wonder, 
    if it is just an easy-to-reach-for substitute 
    for things that are more difficult to say

If you pause too long to ponder
    the volumes you’ve already forgotten
    the mispronounced words
    the day before walking
    the night after coming home
    it’s dizzying to think about
    the rollercoaster tracks in the rearview

And when I say 
    they’re growing up fast
I think what I really want to say
    is that I’m horrified by how casually
    I am passing through this gift shop

And I know,
    it’s easy to be sentimental
    when the household is asleep
    and you are writing poems in the quiet hour

And I don’t want to romanticise
    the slog of it
    the shit of it
    the thousand little deaths of it

There are honestly days when I fantasise about
    going back to before
    back to morning sex
    and midday movies
    and deciding to go to the beach
    and then just going, straight away

And, maybe
    this is what horrifies me
    more than my kids growing up

It’s the curse of casually spending every season of your life
    wanting to space-jump
    backwards or forwards
    when the miracle, in all its bloody wonder
    is always and only ever happening
    where you are now. 

And you casually let it play 
    like background music. 

You are skim reading the body of your life
You are swallowing without chewing your life
You are driving on auto-pilot through the rich landscapes 
    of your one life, 

Sometimes I feel
    like every poem I write is the same
    I only really talk about
    trying to be present 
    trying to see the wonder
    trying to live and give
    from a deep well of gratitude

I write about it so often
    because it is 
    as important
    as it is difficult

And the best things are often so
    like raising these kids
    who are growing up
    at the pace of growing up

And maybe all you can show them
    is that none of it is casual
    none of it is granted    
    none of it is cheap

Every time oxygen fills those God-given tanks
Every beat that is thumped from that drum in your chest
    every blink, 
    every tear,
    every word, 
    every touch 

It is all more dazzlingly wondrous 
    than any Sci-Fi reality anyone’s ever dreamed of
    
It is nothing to be casual about.

This everyday miracle.

Last month I did something I don't often do. 

As in, I don't ever do. 

I read a poem I had written off my phone. In front of a crowd. And it was how I set the tone for the monthly spoken word night I host.

I have so many mental reasons why I tell myself I don't do this. 'You're a professional! Real performance poets memorise everything! People expect a certain standard from you!'

And I'm not chucking the baby out with the bathwater. There are good reasons I memorise my poems. I want to wear them like skin for the audiences I share with. I want to know I can look into people's eyes while I share what I have carved out with care. I want to be able to breathe the full life I intended into the phrases I crafted.

But, in all of those reasons, what am I saying about others? 

What am I role modelling to the student I urged to share,
even if it was just one shakey line from a phone,
even if it was just saying their name,
​even if was just sharing their breath on a stage?

I am saying I am past that. That I am bigger than that. Above that. Beyond that.

But, here and now, I am calling myself out. 

I am the student, who sometimes needs to urge myself to share,
even if it's just one shakey line from a phone,
even if it's just saying my name,
​even if it's just sharing my breath on a stage.

I'm a learner. I'm small. I'm a work in progress.

So, I did this. I took my own advice. I became vulnerable. 

I made a confession.

So, I haven't written a blog entry for a couple weeks. 

But a little over a year ago I recorded some of my poetry in a little EP called 'Things I Don't Understand'. I've still got a few copies, and I'll post you one if you'd like (click here)! 

Anyway, I thought in lieu of written words this week I'd share one of those recorded poems - I wrote this a while ago now (2009) but it seems more relevant than ever as I watch my little boy learning about the world, surely forming a million questions just waiting for the language he can wrap them in.

This poem is for the child in us,
and the 'grown-up' in us,
that continue to have conversations
​in the depths of us. 

It’s ironic 
- even a little idiotic - 
but I think,
the most religious person I know 
is an atheist

And I can already hear the objections to that sentiment
The crowd switch-off, the flare-up of ‘faith vs. evidence’!
But try to stay with me - this may be relevant
whether you’re a ‘right-wing evangelical’
a ‘progressive intellectual’
or a ‘lefty vegan’ smoking the botanical

I’m not a fan of the labels - trust me; I try to avoid them
(Can’t we just agree we’re all human, and we’re all kind of annoying?)

But I do find it funny that my friend, a Facebook activist
atheistic strategist, trying to save the world
with surprisingly violent words for a pacifist
loves to remind me how backwards my passion is

He’s a university student; he’s doing an arts degree
(So we’ve got something in common; I’ve got an arts degree)
But if you’re asking me - doesn’t matter if you’ve got an arts degree
or a PhD in some form of scientific mastery
Either way, you can still a bastard, be. 

Don’t take that as an accusation
I just have some simple observations
the same temptation for self-righteous proclamation
and broad, sweeping condemnation 
can be wielded by every variation 
of information interpretation

We all want to be right, right? 

We all want to lift our hands
or fall to our knees
sing, pray, preach, proselytise, lecture
gather in conferences, forums, theatres
rejoice and lament
about the wonder and the agony
and the mystery, of it all.
about Higgs Bosons, protons, photons, 
the complex language of DNA 
the injustice of all the pain
the hope of a tomorrow better than today!

Surely these impulses are as human 
as believing you’re the ant the universe revolves around?

But religion is a funny concept with myriad meanings
Did you know Jesus seemed to only fight with religious leaders?
Did you know every university textbook was written by someone, or some crew
as grand and flawed as me and you? 
Did you know first-class academics have been in favour of eugenics
and beautiful work has been done by ‘uneducated peasants’?

Did you not know that all the boxes break? 

We’re all a little messy,
a little religious
a little pretentious
a little evangelical
a little lost
a little in need of comfort
a little in need of restraint

I’m not a fan of the labels - trust me, I try to avoid them
Can we just agree we’re all human, and we’re all kind of annoying? 

Beautiful, frustrating, growing children asking question after question
thinking with our stomach, our scratches, our exhaustion
trying to sneak in a bite when we get in a fight
crying for a parent to intervene
because our knees are bruised.

So, how about we 
put ourselves aside for a moment
dress each other’s wounds
make some fairy-bread
and play in the streets
again.

'SpeakUP' is one of the things I am most excited about for 2015. I'm absolutely frothing for it.

I've been to a lot of Poetry Slams and Spoken Word nights in the past - and a lot of these events have had a significant influence on my approach to poetry and my continued pursuit of spoken word opportunities. The poetry scene in Australia is amazing, and it just continues to increase in depth and quality, as great events and performers pop up all over the place. 

But as I've said to people in the past, I used to struggle with feeling a little too 'hip-hop' at poetry events and a little too 'poetic' at hip-hop events. This wasn't because of anything that anyone said or did - it was just my own insecurity and self-consciousness as someone who didn't feel like I fit cleanly into a specific category. In the last year or two I've embraced my distinct style and felt more confident being someone with influences in both categories. I'm not strictly hip-hop, but as a spoken word artist I can't separate myself from hip-hop. I'm drawn to complex rhyme schemes, fast-paced rhythmic delivery and melodic, hypnotic flows. Hip-hop is the culture and music that has shaped me most significantly as an artist. 

So part of the reason I'm particularly excited about SpeakUP is that it represents what I used to crave. As a High School student I would spend my hours on YouTube watching Def Poetry Jam. To see some of my favourite rappers step away from the beat and come out on a stage looking so raw and vulnerable was a powerful thing to behold. I love the openness of spoken word and the myriad of styles that it brings to the table. 
But, I really LOVE this particular place 
where the VALUES of hip-hop (flippin' something out of nothin', keeping it real, confronting power imbalances), 
and the STYLE of hip-hop
meet the SIMPLICITY of spoken word 
and the BEAUTY of poetry.

That's unique. That's fresh. That's a place that resonates with my soul.

SpeakUP is an attempt to develop a place and space that is distinctively hip-hop influenced, whilst remaining a very open, welcoming spoken word night. It's likely that the critical mass of performers at these events will generally have a hip-hop background. And yet, having said that I don't want anyone to have the opposite experience I used to feel - I don't want any poets who don't have a hip-hop background to feel like they need to imitate or conform to that style just because the event has a distinctive flavour that is different to their own. I want every writer who steps up to the mic to walk away feeling energized, encouraged and affirmed. The great draw of spoken word has always been (and will always be) its openness and ability to bring together very diverse stories and styles.

So, this is an open event, with a lot of room for the unexpected. 

But, should you choose to find yourself at The Lounge Room in Gosford on the 14th of March at 7pm, there are a few things you CAN expect.

Fresh coffee beans, friendly baristas, home-baked treats.
Hip-hop beats and smooth melodies.
Emcees, poets and people who have never performed spoken word before, getting vulnerable on a mic. 
A creative community representing some of the best the Central Coast has to offer.

Sounds good, right? I'm frothing.

See you there.

https://www.facebook.com/speakupnight

Ben Procter and I used to sit in our year 7 classroom and chat about things we wanted to do in the future. Our list included travelling overseas together, living together, working together and buying a lifetime's supply of Starburst Squirts (not even sure they make those anymore?)

We've ticked off the most important ones in that list - and apart from our sugar cravings our year 7 dreams were fairly aligned with where we are at in our lives today. It always excited me having any opportunity to do something creative with my best mate, who all bias aside, is incredibly talented in all areas of film and media. Do yourself a favour and peruse through his website and see what I mean. We've both recently decided to take the plunge and dedicate ourselves to having a serious attempt at developing our artistic passions and profiles. This video represents a new season for us. It's a very simple, one-shot video, but for Ben it was a chance to try out some new equipment (a gimbal) and for myself this was a poem I wrote to launch 'SpeakUP', a monthly spoken word gathering on the Central Coast which kicked off with a bang in February.

So, simple as it may be this is representative of the season ahead and the projects it will bring. 

And at the heart of it is the simple thought that our lives are cluttered, chaotic and complex - and maybe things would be a little less off-balance in this world if we all took a moment to breathe....

Grace and peace to you.