Max Davine's Blog, page 5

Inverted Crucifix

I want to bring up the point of the inverted crucifix. A lot of wannabe's out there wear it as a mark of anti-Christianity, or the anti-Christ. They're actually displaying quite a profound reverence for Christ and His disciples; according to Origen of Alexandria St. Peter was crucified upside-down, and the inverted cross is known as the Crucifix of St. Peter. Satanism, a pseudo-religion dating as far back as ancient 1963, uses the inverted Pentacle and visage of Baphomet of the Knights Templars. This is in reverence to the post-Christianity pagan beliefs which perpetuated across Europe up until the Inquisition, which much of their beliefs are based upon, combined with the Nietzsche philosophical work, "Thus Spoke Zarathustra".

Sex

Why do people complain about these girls not wearing much in music videos, or how sexualised they are? Seriously, how many times did Michael Jackson grab his balls and thrust his pelvis? Does anyone complain that you can see David Bowie's cock the whole way through Labyrinth? Or Robert Plant's weenie on display in every shot of every Led Zeppelin concert ever? Does anyone tell 50 cent to put his shirt on? No, they whinge about the girls with cleavage and short shorts dancing around behind him. Big fuck, if you're going to complain about music today, complain that it's shit, not that it's sexual, it's always been sexual, it's just never been so fucking awful.

Against the Institution.

The two primary instincts and motivations for all life on earth are survival and procreation. The emotions which make the spectrum are all influenced by these two sources. What the great deception of monotheism has taught us, is that lust is a sin. Yet it cannot be helped, the feeling of lust is simply the body's way of telling us we're in the company of a possible breeding partner. It is innate and reflexive, it is OUR CHOICE whether we act on it or not. All living things feel lust when in the company of suitors, subject to their species' courting ritual. Naturally, this is an adult of breeding age, to men, a woman who menstruates. What the churches have told us, is that these urges are wrong, and animal, and shameful. A woman on her menstrual cycle is "unclean" and that the woman's body is the "garden of sin" and a gateway to damnation. At the same time, and this is evidenced by the sheer volume of naked children in religious art and early photography, the churches preach that the immature body, or the body of a child, is the symbol innocence and immaculate perfection, and should be worshiped. It's uncomfortable, isn't it? It's disgusting. But it is Gospel doctrine, plain and simple. Now can you see the manipulation that could occur in weaker, developing minds? Depriving natural urges for those of a natural age, and channeling it, by according undue reverence, to what is simply a body and mind not yet old mature to be exposed to adult sexuality? Is it truly any wonder that humans, the only animals who believe in God, are also the only animals who will molest children? A dog will hump your leg, but not a puppy. Is it any wonder that the greatest concentrations of child abusers and pedophiles are in more puritanical, or deeply religious, countries or pockets within societies? Is it any wonder the sheer concentration of monsters within the religious institutions? Of course, I in no way intent to excuse or forgive paedophiles, as I stated, it is a CHOICE to act upon feelings, natural or hideous and unnatural. One would think a good person would suffer any indignity or self-torment before harming a child, the way they do.
The church CREATED this scourge, however inadvertently, perhaps. But THIS is why institutionalized religion, in all its forms, must be eradicated, for us to move forward as a species.

Pokemon Methanphetamine

What would you say if you heard that an app simulation had been created in which millennials grab their phones, use them to hunt down invisible, fictional animals, beat them into submission and capture them, and then meet up to have the creatures fight each other, using magical powers and the elements to rend their opponent within an inch of their lives? Would you predict a record-breaking success, surpassing all competing social media platforms from Facebook to Instagram? Would you imagine there'd be psychologists out there saying this CG savagery is good for people, and praising it for enhancing social interactions and getting young folks outside? Would you believe that there are actually people out there quitting their jobs to make a living off trading or training these fictional animals?

Nor would I, but that's why you and I are not billionaire app developers, and I, for one, never sought the high-energy social interaction and instant profitability of a good old-fashioned dog fight, back in the days when you had to get real, flesh and blood animals to do the ripping and tearing.

Pokemon Go has over a billion users, at last glance, and is being regarded fondly by many a concerned doctor of the mind for getting millennials out of the house and into the parks...and the streets, and the busy roads, and other people's backyards, and the biker's clubhouses...but I digress. It's bringing people together. All the better that technology saves many a helpless young rooster from being eviscerated by another, bigger rooster for the sake of a punt.

When video games were first created, it didn't take long for them to take the form of simulated killing, and that they were often done in a young person's bedroom, in absolute isolation, drew much criticism from the outside world. The criticism was about their "message", that is, looking down the sights of a firearm and shooting people-like avatars dead. It was considered desensitizing. A word seldom uttered these days.

Pokemon Go, however, has caused a distinct one-eighty in the trend, and while it has been criticized for the possibility of its abuse at the risk of human lives, it's violent undertones have been duly ignored. There was once a time when we sought beyond the physical and immediate psychological effect of a video game to examine their merits to society, into the long-term moral and empathetic implications of their use, regarding what their stories conveyed.

So, has technology taken a turn for the better? Or have our attitudes become so complacent with regard to technology-driven hobbies that we now see only the immediate effect it has on the users, rather than that elusive, oft-misinterpreted "message"? Or are we just happy this generation is getting some fresh air? Is that perspective...desensitized?

After all, anything that's not crystal methamphetamine must be good, right?

New Book

I know, I am very, very inconsistent with my blog, and I duly apologize to you all. To be fair; not posting here does afford me greater time to write books, one of which is due for a very soon release. The series which began with angel Valence and continued with The Red Legion is receiving it's final installment. It took me a little longer to write than the others, because I had to rejig it completely; the original story centered around a airplane being downed by insurgents and, horrifically, that came quite true in real life. I don't want my work to be a direct commentary on the politics of now, I prefer human nature. An interviewer asked me about the tone of the series thus far, she described it as "pessimistic". I disagree, while the tone is dark and does not portray human nature in a very optimistic light, it is not necessarily pessimistic to show humanity how it is. As events would have it, I hit the nail on the head, unfortunately. Pessimism would be showing human nature for how it is and asserting that it cannot change. I don't do that. If my audience does, then that's unfortunate; we can always change, we can always better ourselves.

For Just One Day

Once upon a time, in the southeastern Australian countryside, there lived two young friends. Of course there were many friends, some large groups, some tight units, some just the pair, but this particular pair were special. A young boy, all of five, and a girl, only one year older. They were special, because while other friends saw each other now and then, when parents allowed for it or when circumstances were accommodating, these two forever sought each other. When one was taken away for the day on some outing with the family; a day at the markets, off fishing with their dad or a trip to town with their mum, the other would not play with anyone else, but just wait, and the two thought of little but each other whenever one or the other was not around. Even when their parents did not arrange the play, these two children would either pester their parents to arrange for it, or request to be left under the care of the other’s parents for time enough to spend with their friend.

Indeed the parents puzzled over the intense relationship between the two children, whose names were Peter and Sarah, but mostly everybody just stood back and appreciated for whatever they saw it as; puppy love, an innocent and therefore cute prelude to the intense romantic relationships each was bound for later in life; a convention defying friendship with no other connotations but the platonic love which usually is reserved only for those of the same gender, which still is not so often believed in by the common folk, and ignores, as usual, the possibility that anyone’s child will grow up to be homosexual; and of course, in mentioning that, there were some who simply figured that Peter would grow up to be a homosexual, because he always played with a girl, and none of the others could ever truly understand why this scenario was spoke of with such accusing tones and glares directed toward Peter’s mother. But as anybody can see, times have only truly progressed from the days when anyone unusual would be burned alive in the sense that they are no longer burned alive, and most prominently in country Australia, there are many who still secretly think they should be.

One of the above mentioned was correct, but for now it was, for the parents and invariably most empathetic toward Peter and Sarah and their cute friendship, it was just one happy screenshot amidst the great kaleidoscope of joy and sorrow, tragedy and triumph, days and hours and months and years which fly by over the course of life. Like stopping for a rest on an almighty road trip, and incidentally discovering that you’ve parked your car beside a gorgeous lake nobody else knows about, flanked by right, breathtaking forest, you stop and sigh at how sweet and how beautiful it is, and none of the opinions and options and preceding sights or details along the road ahead matter for that moment, because all you see is beauty, and though know there is mystery, you are happy for it to remain thus, for its just another layer in the serene and wonderful landscape. They just liked seeing their little ones happy to be with each other, and never mind the rest.

As for Peter and Sarah, they had no idea why their bond was so strong, or if it was unusual, or even if it was important to anyone but them, they just knew they like being around each other and they enjoyed it. They play in the backyard, prowling around the gardens, or they’d walk up and down the driveway after the rain, making ripples in the puddles with their heels, or they’d go to the park with one or the other’s parents, or parent, and they roll about in the grass or throw bread to ducks or watch the eels roll over each other for a morsel in the ponds. But they were just as happy sitting in the back of the car or in the living room, nothing else going on and not a word spoke between them, but just being together. Together in silence.

Years rolled on and the innocence remained, and Sarah’s parents were the first to divorce, and she would spend a great deal of time at Peter’s until his parents divorced as well, and then it was just as normal, except that they’d now four houses at which they could meet, instead just the two. Whatever emotional trauma either event inflicted on the children, it was alleviated whenever they were with each other, and when they were seven and eight, Peter hugged Sarah as she’d cried about it.

It had happened when they were six and seven, and she’d not cried then, but she cried at eight, and he at seven had hugged her.

Sarah began to notice boys around that time, not in any profoundly physical way, but only that when the magazines or media displayed a pleasing picture of one, she found it pleasing in turn, and thus began to see a new use for these creatures, that being to look at them, but still never any comment as such was made for Peter. As well, Peter’s father was eager for him to start displaying some interest in girls, and began pointing out women of adult age who he’d obviously some interest in, and insisting Peter try to find some for himself, but seemed a heart reserved only for Sarah. He didn’t look at magazines, or the women who dance while syncing their lip movements to carefully mastered vocal tracks on television, or anything female. Anything female seemed only to remind him of Sarah, and he’d be off with his thoughts of her, and to his father’s delight would then mention her in relation to anything attractive, beautiful or exciting. Yet it was to his father’s dismay the way he seemed fixated only with her; at the tender age of seven, he’d yet to learn not to put all his eggs in one basket.

The boy will learn the hard way, Peter’s father thought.

It was never to be.

Sarah was the more extroverted of the two, and by the time she reached the age of thirteen she’d established a vast and loud circle of girlfriends, and even managed to enjoy the company of the odd boy, who’d hold her hand as they walked around at recess or lunch time, before dispensing of him in favor of another, more athletic, more outgoing boy the way her magazines were informing her she should. It’s called “keeping your options open”, they say, and a cavalier attitude awards she who has it with power and control. They told her that when she is desired, she has power and control. They, along with the gossiping circle of friends she was now frequently extending time with beyond school hours and, in the case of Friday nights, well into the Saturdays with, proved far more intoxicating a thrill than the mere comfort of having all the pieces in place the way they seemed to fall whenever Peter was around.

Why have the pieces in one place, when it’s far more exiting to gossip about someone and knock their pieces further agog than your own?

But Peter never gossiped. He seldom even spoke, unless there was some truly pressing matter, such as his father or mother pestering him to tell them how his day was. As Sarah faded from his life, he simply spent more and more time alone, drawing obscure pictures in his bedroom, or simply gazing at the cotton clouds of late August with his dog. One day, while walking alongside the main road, Peter’s dog, whose name was Frank, chased a tennis ball knock from a nearby court out onto the road. Peter chased Frank. The oncoming sedan never had time to stop.

Peter graced this world for all of eleven years, and never again was he to feel the cold misty rain against his face, nor the wind in his hair or sun kiss his skin. The warmth of hugs was enjoyed all it would be, and he’d never know the embrace of one who chose him, not any but Sarah, and by then even they were but a memory. All the growing he had to do, all the learning, all the experiencing, all the hardship and joy, all the triumph and defeat, all the pain and hope, all reduced one last image of a little white coffin being lowered into the ground.

Sarah witnessed it, and was never quite exactly the same.

She fell away from her friends, and turned her attention to her schoolwork. She studied, she grew, boys liked her but she often turned them away. Sometimes she’d be lost in a lonely moment and fall into their arms, but moments pass, and so too did they. One took her virginity, his allure too great to refuse, another took her heart that she’d creep through his bedroom window after dark, one so burned her that she felt she’d never recover, but ever she fell back on her school work, and managed a placement and university.

Those boys would become a blur, replaced instead by men. Complex men, men with experience and worldliness and things to talk about. She never lost sight of what she wanted to accomplish professionally; she was good with analysis, and so she studied it with obsessive abandon, but there was some nameless void left in her core that she sought to fill. Something which bubbled whenever she saw a couple together. Which ached as though it were aflame whenever she was alone and needing a soothing voice or loving touch to keep her together. Which roiled her insides whenever she considered the prospect of love, and the thought that she might never know it.

So she told herself she just needed an aside. Love would fill the void, she thought, that’s why people seek it.

When she moved out of home, it was with a man twenty-two years her senior. She saw a professional, and a gifted artist, a man with hope, dreams and aspirations of greatness which his iron will would forbid him to ever let go of. The world saw a failed musician intent on drinking a successful musician’s quantities of alcohol with a young son to a wife he abandoned.

She did her best, putting up with his boisterous housemates and being left to care for the dissatisfied child while he played his gigs and didn’t come home until the next day. Always at the bar whence she first met him, where she worked to survive while studying. Studies which were not adversely effected. So she had no reason to give in. No reason to walk away.

Other than the void. It may have shrunk or fallen numb amidst the blissful rush of intense physical partnership and burning admiration for a man, but it did not disappear. So with nothing but that for a reason, she left him. She moved in with girlfriends. She said she was strong and independent. She said she didn’t need any man. She finished her first year of study, and went on to the next with high accolades. On weekends she swallowed exciting pills with her girlfriends. She snared men whenever the moment took her, and released them just as quickly. Some she kept at arm’s length, just tempted enough, just hopeful enough, just in case she ever needed them.

It led to her next boyfriend.

She could never quite say what drew her in. Perhaps his perfect physical form. Perhaps his exciting charisma. Perhaps the fact that he could get them into all the best clubs and supply them with an inexhaustible selection of pills. He was a DJ, who packed boxes with home appliances by day. He was also barely articulate enough to formulate a sentence.

But when they lay together, she felt physical sensations she never dreamed of, and when she looked into his eyes, she felt them rising and tingling inside her again. He was her new drug.

As though to save her, the void ached more than ever. But she wouldn’t leave. She was convinced that only love could make touch so intensely perfect. She saw it as kismet. But the void was powerful, and it was angry, like an infected wound, and it made her short-tempered and violent with him. He cheated, so did she, and eventually it was he who cast her out.

Back to living with girlfriends, these ones more bookish than the last gaggle, and she finished her course and got a job as a data analyst. There she started with one other newcomer, a mild-mannered young man who had no particular interests of any great intensity, no overruling aspirations, no extreme opinions of anything one way or the other, and no exciting stories to tell.

For a woman who fancied herself as she did, having undergone a great shift in the focus of loving oneself and serving oneself, he was perfect. They were living together before the year was out. Their families combined.

It was a bliss like a calm ocean after a tempest. He was nothing like the others. He would never stir the peaceful waters she wished to idle in. He would never press for conversation, because he had nothing much to say of anything, and he would allow her to carry the baton for the house and work fronts, happy in the background.

It sat, though, like a hot stone in her heart; discontent. A longing for excitement. The thrill of something more. Heartbreaking though it was, there was something altogether more numbing in her previous years. Yes, they anesthetized her, the pills and the heartbreaks and the losses and the fights and the madness, and amidst all the neon traffic, she forgot that void in her heart.

With the shores so peaceful now, she had nothing to hide behind. No noise to drown it out. No turmoil to keep her from the heavy, twisting, swathe-like chasm of bleakness and sorrow that scarred her heart. But what was it?

By then, she’d had it so long she almost loved it. She wanted to hug it. Stop it from crying all the time. She wanted to nurse and care for it like it was a child. But it was just a nameless pain that would never, ever relent.

She did not know that while she was growing, and leaning, and making mistakes, and hurting so many, including herself, that eyes watched from whence they could not be seen. Though no heart that could beat, one loved her as limitlessly as any heart ever longed to. For every one of her sorrows, there was someone aching and crushing beneath the weight of her tears.

Little Peter was growing and learning with her. He’d grown to love her completely. Such that he could never rest, not while she destroyed herself. Such that his soul could never let go.

So it came to be that he was given this chance; one single day.

It was not a gift given lightly, but since two spirits would never rest but for one cause, it was decided by the rider of the pale horse to grant him one magical consideration in order to alleviate the burden placed on both by poor circumstance. It would not be perfect, but it should be enough. He would inhabit Sarah’s boyfriend for one whole day. The boyfriend would feel as though he were sleeping, as though it were all a dream. Sarah would never know it was Peter, if Peter blew his cover, he would spend eternity in the same painful limbo he’d been in all these years.

He woke up beside her in the daylight. The first living encounter with her since his death. There she was, eyes closed, little nose whistling with each deep breath. Perfect face serene in deep rest. Her body warming the place beside him. Already his heart unlocked a great flood of dreams unfulfilled, and he made her breakfast in bed.

Sarah only thought her boyfriend had decided to turn over a new leaf. Such was the man’s complacency in life that he failed note that she didn’t always enjoy going to the same places he did, that liked to discover new things while he didn’t, and though she went along with his plans, she did so begrudgingly, and longed for spontaneity. This was the first spontaneous thing she remembers him ever doing. Even the manner in which they got together had been underwhelming; she asking, he shrugging. To have him anew was such a joy that she forgot the ache in her heart.

They talked then. On matters of the world. He was curious. He looked deep into her eyes, and penetrated her mind, and absorbed every word she spoke. She couldn’t believe it; her boyfriend was not swayed to any particular thing, and as a consequence, this included whatever she had to say. But here he was, lost in her, rejoicing in her beliefs and opinions, taking in her insights and asking for more.

The ache in her heart shrunk. The void began to close.

It was then to a vineyard out of town for lunch. A beautiful, open gorge left from an old copper mine, with green rows stretching as far as the hills rolled, until they met the clear blue sky. Peter had been there as a child. It was out of the way, Sarah delightfully puzzled over how her boyfriend, who never felt much need to fly from the nest, could have found such a place.

Then they walked through the gardens, holding hands, and Peter felt her warm, soft skin against his, and they kissed, and Peter tested the delicate sweetness and caressed the smooth softness he’d only been able to dream of.

As sun set they went home, and settled to watch a movie. But Peter found an old DVD they’d watch as children, and insisted upon it. Sarah glowed as she agreed; her boyfriend only took an interest in her past when he wished to abate his own paranoia about her past lovers; how many, where are they, will they hurt him, etcetera. He didn’t seem to ever care about her history.

The void healed over.

That night they made love, and Peter felt her body with his, and he revealed himself to her, and she to him, and they saw each other and every line and every curve and Peter forgot that he had someone else’s body, and Sarah felt as though she was loving this man for the first time. They experienced each other’s heat, felt their skin and sweat against each other, they felt each other’s warmth, each other’s pulsing life, heard each other’s deepest moans expressed into each other, and felt the pleasure which each entered and nurtured and swelled inside each other, until they finally exploded as one and collapsed in each other’s arms, stopping for one final deep taste of each other’s life before the night took them.

He’d never touched her like that before; so deeply, so lovingly, as though his grip on her was all that kept him from floating off into space.

The void was gone. The memory of it faded as quickly. Though she would remember some strange discontent having existed, she would never be able to recall it as it was, and before long, she could never have imagined such a burden ever was.

Sarah woke the next day, and her boyfriend was back to normal. But something was new, something in her. She’d experienced something, she was never sure what, but it seemed the key to a door which had blocked her from standing in the light of now. An experience due to her but which had somehow alluded her, and suddenly her boyfriend was as lovable as she had always though he should be. It was not an experience she could have enjoyed forever, for while that intense and attentive love might have suited her once, it was not the person she was now. She was able to love what he gave her, instead of what she wanted. She was free. Freedom. Serenity. Nothing hurt. Nothing wanted. Nothing ached.

Such was the perfect healing that she forgot it was ever there.

THE END.

Animal

Spiritualists believe that a cockroach has a soul, just like a human, and is therefore every bit as worthy of life and love. I reject that idea entirely, but respect the cockroach, and every animal on the spectrum of appreciation between us, not because it has a soul, but because you, human, do not have a soul either, and are every bit as pointless, mindless and in the great scheme of things worthless as the cockroach. The only difference is that you choose to veil your tyranny, your obsession, your anger, your loneliness and your bestiality beneath a vague fantasy you call "love" to protect your frail belief in your own divinity. Only when the lights are off, or when protected by the sanctity of cute romances or adorable titles such as "mother" and "father" do you show how hideous you truly are. Wake up, animal, chaos is the only God.

If I were the devil

If I were the devil…
If I were the devil I would hide in plain sight.
If I were the devil I would build my temples in every city in every country in the world.
If I were the devil I would take many forms and names, that humankind is divided by their beliefs.
If I were the devil I would divide humans from animals by asserting the latter has no soul, while the former is created in my Divine image.
If I were the devil I would promise eternal life, that humankind never live to their full potential for want of comfort in eternity.
If I were the devil, I would divide humankind from each other with borders and nations and I would sanctify killing by calling it an act of patriotism, righteousness or civil duty.
If I were the devil, I would vilify the animal kingdom as ugly and soulless and I would promote chastity and purity and ignorance in my name with the promise of eternal paradise.
If I were the devil, I would divide man from woman by shaming her as a temptress to the animal and bestial and therefore ugly in my Divine eyes and judgement, that man creates systems to silence his own sister and mother.
If I were the devil I would forever promise my return to earth to judge the world by fire and purify the souls of humanity and I would tell my followers that my plan is final and ultimately for the betterment of my children, that humankind does not see the need to act in order to aid those who are needy, for they will be saved in my own Divine time.
If I were the devil, I would send prophets to earth to heal the sick and feed the hungry, and I would tell their stories in scriptures which promise their glorious return to earth, that humankind believes that flesh and soil are temporary and do not need to be protected or preserved.
If I were the devil, I would make humankind ashamed and afraid of their own desires and needs, and I would offer to take upon myself their suffering by way of prayer, and abandon them to stifle their own urges and wants that they are under my control and can be turned against each other.
If I were the devil, my followers would abuse children and they would not answer for their crimes, because I would control the justice system by unifying my follows with the ordinance of the state.
If I were the devil, I would imprint my names on all of the human lexicon, that I am the one they call for when all hope is exhausted and they in their greatest time of despair.
If I were the devil, I would neuter the free thinkers and atheists by way of my church-sanctioned state controlling censorship and freedom of speech.
If I were the devil, I would ask that my followers howl my name and curse those who speak against me that they are browbeat and bludgeoned into the darkest corners of society.
If I were the devil, I would tell humankind to be ashamed of their bodies and functions, and demand that they hide and fear all that is feminine and sexual, that I control their basic instincts and I can stifle their will.
If I were the devil, my glory would shine in the eyes of those who believe and have faith, for if I were the devil, you would call me God.

Why In Memorium?

As many of my fellow "successful" creatives do, but don't often admit, I spend a portion of my day working a "normal" job, with people who, while appreciative of the creative arts, do not share my compulsion to be professional creatives themselves, which is understandable. However, with the recent death of David Bowie, I've found the not inconsiderable divide between us a lot more than usual, the common question, to the point of frustration, being why am I so personally effected by the death of a person I didn't know? Did I not know about all the soldiers dying in wars, or the father who killed his own children, isn't that more sad?
Of course there are those who are rattled by the news of the great man's passing, fans and avid musicals who grieve for a future folio that will never be. But among my creative colleagues, and to a degree in myself, I'm noticing a level of grief that equates to, if not approximates, the level of grief one would feel over the loss of a friend. I feel I can explain to those who don't understand, on behalf of those who deeply do.
We're not mourning the loss of a man. We didn't know the man. It has nothing to do with whether we know him, or if he'd turn us away or invite us in or tea and biscuits were we to knock on his door, that's irrelevant. What might be similar is the connection and gratitude my supervisor feels when she looks at a photograph of a soldier. She feels they died fighting for her freedom. I see only someone who went overseas to shoot someone, and got shot themselves. Likewise, when it comes to sporting heroes and so on, the viewing and fandom competitive sport was the elitist inclination of those who cast us creatives out, thus our bitterness and lack of interest in them.
That's where it comes from; being cast out. It's one of the most obvious examples of the cruelty of life; when someone chooses to develop their creative mind from an early age, they develop a great emotional investment in stories. Stories are human beings, every single one of us is a story, and so our devotion and love filters into all of humanity. Even animals, any soul. The more our creative skills develop, the more we see and so the more we care about the world and everything in it. The cruelty is much the same as that girl or boy you devote yourself far too much to as a romantic interest; you are invariably cast out. It is your love for all things sentient that causes you to be an unacceptable social element in the great masses of human life. We become lonely, insular and melancholy people, because the life we love so much is barring us. We don't get to enjoy romances the way everyone else does, if at all. We don't get to play with friends like everyone else. We're outsiders. Not because we don't like everyone, but because we feel and care for them too much.
Enter the truly great artist. Music, literature, painting and film can all reach us, and make us feel connected to that life which we stand on the outside of. They plug us back in to the norm, and by doing so make us feel like our dreams of creating all our lives, like yours of being the best accountant or CEO or chef are not wild fantasies but accessible and attainable prophecies, we feel like our fantasies are possible too. Because of them giving what they do to the great annuls of creativity expressed throughout human existence. There are many thousands of such creatives, but David Bowie was truly one who stood out.
His voice, his words and his sounds penetrated and validated more than just other outsiders, and by that I mean creatives as well as homosexuals, transgenders, those considered not physically fit or pretty enough for the acceptance of the crowds, but touched everyone, in some way. Beyond fandom, he made it clear that we all are acceptable, we are all possible, we can all be part of something, if not the general definition of life. That does more than just make people happy; that saves lives. The freedom and sense of liberty given to outsiders by the work of him and his like is far greater and far more tangible and immediate than anything that can be traded for death by bombs or guns. It's societal freedom, and it can save lives.
So it's not a skinny, talented Englishman we're mourning, it's what he stood out for, simply by being himself. The specter of him, the message. Yes, it will live forever. But we are entitled to feel the loss and rejoice in the gift of the man who issued it.

Build It And They Will Come

There are more than a few movie producers out there toting Geelong as a perfect place to shoot local films for all the world to see, but as a prime, picturesque location with plenty to offer, the regional town could be so much more…

So it has often been quoted, and Australia has enjoyed a brief but profitable history of being a favorite place for international production companies to shoot their next big blockbusters. But what happened? How did the interest suddenly slide? The state of Victoria has hosted many an international production, from Ghost Rider to Killer Elite, it seemed, for a while anyway, that the Garden State would build a long standing and favorable repertoire with the filmic capitol of the world, that fabled land of Hollywood. But the moguls across the Pacific have recently turned their eyes elsewhere, and having had the opportunity to work on the set of some of these international productions has given me an invaluable insight as to why.
Around the catering truck or the coffee machine, I overheard a multitude of complaints about filming in Melbourne, either inner city locations or in the vast Melbourne Central Studios in the Docklands. American stunt performers, actors, cinematographers and directors all had their grievances, and they were always the same; not the weather, not the Australian film crews, not the catering and not the distance from home. The source of the filmmaker’s woes orbited around the very issue that many commuters and employees from all walks of industrial life begrudgingly withstand every day in Melbourne: Infrastructure.
As a commuter myself, I understood their every point of contention; Melbourne Central Studios is frustratingly difficult to get to and from. Accessible only by navigating the maze of thin roads and “No Right Turn” signs, one finds oneself then having haul a convoy of film trucks down a long, narrow street, encumbered with monolithic speed bumps to the gates. Then there’s getting to the exterior locations from there; Footscray was a favorite, but you try getting there from the Docklands in less than sixty minutes, on a tight budget and schedule, and when whichever route you choose must also accommodate several large trucks and RV’s full of delicate equipment and actors. The nearest picturesque beach is well over an hour’s drive, while suburbs or city streets which can substitute for Pairs, Bel Air of Morocco are difficult to negotiate and perilously close to heavy traffic and the intrusive hordes of photographers such films tend to attract. Getting anywhere, setting up and keeping these buzzards and their cameras out of the way, delays expensive day’s filming and often causes the cinematographers to miss the most important few hours of shooting; that precious window known as the “golden hour” between six and nine AM. Added to that the cost of booking out Melbourne streets long enough to decorate them, film in them and then clear off, the price of accommodation for key international personnel and their transit from Tullamarine Airport and the inconvenience of filtering the Melbourne populous out of the way, and suddenly it wasn’t worth the trip. Production companies might just as well have forked out the immense bills for shooting in the scripted locations.
One thing strikes me about all these valid issues, and at this junction it may be important to note that at the time, I was not yet a Geelong resident; there is a place that could, potentially, be the solution to their gripes. All that is required is one educated leap of tactical faith, and Geelong could be the perfect accommodation to big budget, international motion picture productions.
There are, of course, a number of notable Australian filmmakers out there who lord Geelong as a wonderfully accommodating location for a movie; ex member for Corio Gavan O’Conner has accurately detailed Geelong’s unique infrastructure and locality being perfect for the job of shooting Australian films and the plethora of job opportunities such an undertaking would create absolutely would provide the much-needed stimulus for both the local economy and outside tourism, while Melbourne based film producer Bobby Gallinsky has also pointed out the excellent variety of geography, readily available and easily accessed.
They’re right! No more than thirty minutes from the Geelong CBD are the location scout’s choice of industrial areas, beautiful golden beaches, desolate outback-style environs, slums, Beverly-Hills style estates and rich, lush forests. Take your pick. I have personally seen Spring Street in Melbourne turned into a bustling street in 1980’s Paris. Spring Street! If they can do that with a small corner in Melbourne, amid the glaring, flashing lights of photographers and much to the chagrin of locals, then they can far more easily do it in Geelong’s cultural precinct, where foot traffic is minimal and a single street being closed off for locals will have a mere and negligible impact on the day-to-day running of the town.
It’s a fantastic idea, and lest we forget that while most see a movie as being made by a director, camera guy and a bunch of actors, there is, in fact, far more to it than that. A single film requires a legion of widely varying capacities; drivers, couriers, accountants, photographers, graphics designers, grips, safety personnel, costume and make-up, catering, extras, AD’s (who’s tasks vary from wrangling the extras to making sure there’s a coffee machine about), assistants, secretaries, security personnel, the list goes on, depending on the budget.
That brings me to the one prickle in turning Geelong away from the brink by way of a fully functioning motion picture industry; only a fraction of any film is shot on location. There lies the one benefit Melbourne has over Geelong: Melbourne Central Studios. It may be hard to get to, it may be difficult to find, it may not, in contrast to Geelong’s wide, welcoming and largely flat roads, be surrounded by the most hospitable of artificial terrains, but it’s there.
As it is, Geelong is indeed a perfect location for local films. But Australian films are world-renowned for how lean their budgets are. That’s a good thing, it’s an excellent way to train the blockbuster directors of tomorrow; see what they can do with a little, before Hollywood gives them a lot. If only Geelong’s council could promote this beautiful city and its neighboring wonderlands, we’d have a lot more local productions being shot here, but for the international productions, the real money-spinners, Geelong quite simply does not have the facilities that would make the expense of the trip worth it.
There is, already in motion, a foundation upon which Geelong could support an excellent, fully functioning local film industry, but it could be more. We could host the major leaguers.
Once you’re through the labyrinth and have gained access to Melbourne Central Studios, there isn’t much you can really say about it; there’s the office buildings, and an assortment of warehouses in whish sound stages are built to become, say, Henry the Eighth’s throne room or the bad guy’s secret futuristic lair. To become an all-purpose, super-profitable production studio, in league with Britain’s Pinewood (notable for Star Wars and Batman), or Hollywood’s Universal, a studio needs a lot more than a few monotone warehouses in which half-pipe subways or the inside of an airplane can be constructed; it also needs a fairly sparse exterior backlot. A place where our gratuitous friends in Hollywood can blow things up, build and destroy miniatures the size of city blocks or build spaceships the size of tankers to drop on them.
Melbourne is built on a wharf, it can’t really do that. But Geelong can.
There’s nothing worse, for a city council, than having abandoned buildings on your map. Geelong has many, and most notable of them is the Ford Factory, soon to be an utterly functionless eyesore. A complex network of large, sparse factory buildings surrounded by vast grassland can’t exactly be converted into something else easily…except a movie studio with a fully functioning backlot.
Sure, it could be another government housing estate, but the ambition of many a local is, sadly, to move away from Geelong, not deeper into it, and being that it occupies an immediately visible area on the main arterial into the town, that might not bode well for those coming down for their summer vacation.
We could have ourselves a studio to rival anything in Hollywood or England, simply by knocking down a few walls and reinforcing a few foundations. Unlike Melbourne’s hidden gem, we could have ours right there, front and center, greeting everyone suddenly compelled to visit our town. Not that’s something I’d like to drive by. Why would people suddenly be compelled? Well, now they can come down to a gorgeous bayside hotel and stay in the suite Jennifer Laurence picked out while filming her next great adventure film at Geelong’s movie studios. They could stay only minutes away from Barwon Heads or Bremlea, featured location in the next Swept Away style love scene. They could explore the fern and pine forests on a day trip, which they last saw in Jurassic Park Fifteen: We Cloned John Hammond.
At the moment, key personnel wanting to shoot in Melbourne have to land at Tullamarine and be ferried, at a not inconsiderable expense, nearly an hour down the freeway to Melbourne, where they stay at Crown Plaza. In Geelong, they could land at Avalon, via Sydney, and be whisked in ten easy minutes to any of the inner city or Torquay based resorts. That, in turn, boosts commercial interest. “Sorry, ma’am, our penthouse suite is currently occupied by Ryan Gosling…” not a bad marketing tool, don’t you agree?
Yes, we must support and do all we can for local filmmakers to use Geelong in as many ways as possible, but a one million dollar Australian film, every five years or so, is one thing; a ten to hundred million dollar American film is quite something else.
The best thing about a studio backlot, however, is that they tend to build themselves, at no cost to the locals. Say, for example, Roland Emmerich needs a lagoon with a green screen background to sink a miniature ocean liner seven or eight times in; the backers in Hollywood front the bill, and employ dozens of local construction workers to make that lagoon happen, and then it’s there, ready accommodate whatever production needs it next. The engine room of the Starship Enterprise, commissioned by the last blockbuster, need only a few key alterations to become Wimberley Stadium in a Led Zeppelin biopic. Those suburbs we built a fraction of, painting in the rest with local special effects wizards, for Tim Burton’s next fairytale suburbia can be repainted before James Cameron carpet bombs them in his next World War Two picture. Facilities, lights, generators and trucks could be sourced on the cheap in the early days, shipped down from Melbourne while they’re not in use there, and given the inconvenience of Melbourne, that’s quite often, until Geelong has turned enough profit to purchase new equipment. A special effects studio, basically a computer lab with room enough to make a few life-size models of a giant shark here and there, would mean that the production never has to leave Geelong until the shoot is completed. A few shots of Highton can sell the image of Mullholland Drive, itself an expensive and inconvenient place to shoot, or Norlane Compton, but the computers which flesh out the picture, turning the Shell Refinery into downtown Detroit, could be situated here as well, and employ our own technicians.
That, in turn, generates not only clientele for local caterers, restaurants, hotels and bars, but the best kind of clientele; the clientele which attracts other clientele. Attractive job opportunities, many of which require little or no academic skills, and an assortment which do, Geelong is ready for this step, and can easily afford it.
In fact it reminds me a great deal of another picturesque, regional town as it was a hundred years ago, an undiscovered gem which perfectly accommodated the motion picture industry, but sadly doesn’t anymore: Hollywood.