Perhaps, the main problem is the glut of media being consumed via the super television we carry around for breakfast. Therefore, there is less opportunity for deep thought or reflection or gazing into space – byproducts humans have subscribed to for thousands of years. These pastimes are almost certainly a strategy to monitor and manage the jet trail of our fleet-footed psyches. An adaptable, amorphous cauldron of old-world ideals…
…bombarded by the artificial new-world.
Humans need a certain amount of s p a c e to digest their own emotional discord. There’s a war raging for our attentions. Brains are not combat weapons. (They are squishy, really.) There is an intelligent jellyfish of neural pathways in your gut, bottling tiny lightning to power your dreams and juggle subconscious patterns into the wax-poetry blood-hologram of a serviceable, manageable human being.
Itās epic. There is still a lot scientists donāt understand about what goes into the ecosystem of a conscience. It’s sophisticated.
Light the newspaper on fire.
Run amok at high speed.
* Look at us!
Self-care is a smug joke for those rich enough to indulge in mystical cures for an existence that can feel cruel above all else for folks scrounging around the third drawer of opportunities for .Success .Based .Happiness sold to them as religion by the Wizards of Id editing out the grimmer elements of Grimms fairytales.
.ti od ot srehto eripsni nac uoy taht flesruoy erahs dna maerd a eveileb dna hguone drah kroW
For some reason lately, the hard work I notice is that of people mastering walking and scrolling.
āThat looks like hard work,ā I think. I am being polite.
Iām sure theyāre fine.
I imagine being fifteen again and having to carry a computer around. It would be cumbersome. I doubt it would fit in my backpack along with the walkie-talkie and fax to dial internet. š»
The human attention span is like the villain in Terminator 2. It consists of liquid mental that is self-aware and from a time and space so complex and perfect that our mammalian / reptilian primitiveness can be forgiven for lacking the capacity and discipline to reconcile and respect what god-grade technology we have at our disposal.
Who needs a clairvoyant when your aura is the colour that wakes you in the morning?
The liquid mental melts, pools and reforms into the shape of us. Lately, it has been exposed to starbursts of electro-magnetic carcinogenic compounds which cause it to freeze, distort and fracture. In this sunken state it is shot with bites of information from specially designed media canons. Aura piercing bullets. Sense shrapnel.
Drawn to alarm like insects to a bulb, the attention span shatters.
It is as if an electric witch had distilled the muscle-memories of a thousand life-threatening surges and distilled the slick into a smart-paint pantomime – a sizzling, radioactive shadow to accompany the new human on their segue into behavioural drone in the settled technotropolis – their fears steered and imaginations quelled by a humanoid menagerie of inflated instincts and masticated conversation.
Rather than reform, the isles seem to have factionalised lately. They pool together in smaller groups, perhaps adapting to the volume of information ammunition. In this defence, they can swiftly reform, albeit into smaller versions of their former selves.
I was about to do anything within my power to stop myself from writing this article as I figured it would be career self-harm to advertise potentially stigma-laden, conversationally icky, street-cred sapping factoids such as the inconvenient truth about my present emotional state ā but then I remembered Iāve already released the song ā Iām So Lonely ā as The Bedroom Philosopher. Well, when I say released I mean left a CD sitting on a bus shelter in Canberra and slowly tip-toed away with fingers crossed behind my back assuming there would be some miraculous, inevitable groundswell in exponential interest for my niche style of pseudo-earnest comedic folk-rock after some local ANU tastemaker pocketed the diffident second album and rushed home to burn copies for her mates.
In any event, the song pertains to themes of loneliness and doesnāt shy away from naming names and kicking concepts into high gears of truth and revelation ā as much as any largely pun-based alt-country song not played to a click-track can.
I think it does an okay job. A fan once wrote it was her favourite as it had āclever lyrics.ā Itās true. It does.
The other memory from the release of this 2008 era song is an unfortunate incident in my sharehouse kitchen. My best mate was crouched down, looking for some plastic bottles for the homebrew ginger beer we were ensconced with. I nudged upon the subject of some of my edgier new material for the forthcoming album Brown & Orange. He did something he was prone to doing every now and then. He ācalled me outā on my more self-indulgent artistic tendencies. He told it how it was, eye of the tiger / final countdown style, ensuring all terms would be free from any skerrick of uncertainty for the remainder of our days.
āNo one cares that youāre lonely.ā
To be fair, to my friendās credit, Iāll now muster every ounce of generosity that my twelve-odd years of distance can afford and extrapolate some context to give you an idea of what he meant by that. I’m compelled to include a sudden thought that he may have actually worded it as “we don’t care that you’re lonely” which isn’t exactly any less harsh.
To him, like several other serious kinda snooty male art friends ā The Bedroom Philosopher project was executed by a comedian who happened to play music. To me, it was the other way around. I was a songwriter who took advantage of the fact I could be lyrically amusing, to compensate for any shortcomings in skill while drawing as much attention towards my craft and arming myself with a tractor beam of charisma to win over live audiences in slumped universities and dodgy bar situations.
Please note that when I receorded this song I was still making endearingly naive syntax errors. For example, I actually thought it was ‘euphanism’ for some reason, and committed the error to tape. (If you want to really drill down, I was also corrected for using ‘excrete’ instead of ‘secrete’ on Swan Song when referring to ‘mothers milk’ – in this case the lifegiving fluid my dream partner was producing to nourish our newly sprung swan offspring. as you do. (as you were)
To me, Iām So Lonely was a perfectly good song that did have a bunch of jokes in it already (especially compared to What About Me.) I suppose what threw those closest to me was the eroding line between my in-song persona being serious and (wink-wink) funny. Jeepers, from certain angles a dude could construe I might be l i t e r a l l y trying to convey something quite heavy to the audience ā or worse, revealing something deep and personal, trudging along the broken cobbles of thousands of troubadours before me. In this instance it seems I could be interpreted as being in some kind of genuine emotional (*vom*) anguish ā the kind that couldnāt possibly be expressed, except via the economical goldrush of three-chords-and-the-troof.
How insipid.
Thing is, it was true. I was doing this. I was writing a song no other musical comedian would go near. Because, well, I wasnāt like any other musical comedians. I wasnāt (in this instance) parodying earnest folk musicians crying woebegotten tales (that would have made more sense and been a bit more above the belt) ā no ā I was ā (for some reason) ā genuinely delivering a serious statement, albeit wrapped up in more glib, darkly comic wordplays than I knew what to do with.
The results were, well, at best commendable, on average, confusing and at worstā¦.according to my best friend and comedy partner in crime since weād bonded at universityā¦.kind ofā¦(as far as my interpretation of what his vibe was at the time)…pitiful. Srsly chocoblock with PIT.
Jusā, Mate. What are ya doing?
āNo one cares that youāre lonely.ā
By that Iām quite certain he meant: āPeople only like The Bedroom Philosopher because heās funny and we come to listen to the jokes and that is what you need to give the people and while it seems that you are trying to circumvent this transactional relationship with an offering of deeply personal, authentic sentiment, the unfortunate fact of the matter is that as a currency it doesnāt really have any value whatsoever compared to the skyrocketing arrow of your predetermined hilarity.ā
Gee thanks. I could have gotten that advice from my Nan. How surreal when it comes from those closest to you; fellow edge-meisters and taste balloons with your favourite face drawn on.
The face that sent the stripey shirted indie nerd babes wild in 2007 – the same couldn’t be said for my best mate matt who was all like ‘why so serious?’ As an aside I hung out with Sarah Blasko in 2007 after she sidled up to me at Purple Sneakers – (this was in response to me scuttling up to her and giving her a copy of my album ‘In Bed With my Doona’ backstage at Falls Festival Marion Bay – she was on her way out but was gracious on all fronts. We ended up having a drink and a chat for half an hour and then she went off. I’m glad I didn’t go on about the column I’d written about the big crush I had on her which was published in street press, to which her PR team at the time wrote to say ‘we don’t normally encourage stalking, but we think you’re pretty funny.‘
This wasnāt the first time we had softly butted heads over my creative philosophy. When my promo photo came out the year before featuring me in a cardigan, western shirt and tie doing a smouldering pout to camera (which I dubbed āmy best Sarah Blasko impressionā) my friend was quietly appalled. āHow are people going to know youāre a comedy act?ā
You might say my friend was in a conservative place when it came to what my act was. It was funny or it was nothing.
Meanwhile, I was in a psychedelic, experimental, warcraft of wildness, trying to make art that was nothing like my last offering. I wanted my next album to be an over-the-top magical mystery tour. Lots of emotions ā angst ā self-reflection ā trumpets and, well, you know…sitar.
Mattās ( ā oh yeah ā thereās his name ā and chill out everyone concerned heās not even the only problematic friend called Matt I had at the time) comment was presented as a piece of constructive criticism about my art. The problem was that as an only child who took most things deeply personally ā he had (surely, purposefully, on a subconscious level if not conscious) managed to assemble a verbal fuselage that made it impossible for me to localise it purely as feedback on my songwriting and/or relationship with my audience and not as a general attack on my personality at a most fundamental level that would almost certainly reverberate through several semesters of forthcoming counsellor subroutines.
A shrapnel bomb, delivered like a packed lunch.
There were the ego injuries sustained at the initial point of impact, but, more insidious, was the cryptic, below the radar spread of nano-damage as the loaded sentence slashed its way through the protective shell of my cocoon and nestled its needles amongst the membrane of my supple, unformed wings.
You have the right to remain informed. Any action you choose to make in future of this message shall only reflect directly upon your ability to interpret its core structure as a warning. You present yourself as someone at risk of committing serious damage to your social rapport within the community. Should you continue down this course of wantonly self-aggrandizing, emotionally manipulative time-wasting we will no longer be able to offer you the protection that our goodwill currently affords. There are very few people who can generate and sustain as much humour as you. To cannibalise this for garden-variety navel-gazing, even if it is presented in a self-knowing or light-hearted way, strikes us as a flagrant violation of the social codes for which much of our affirmation and support for your career is conducted (in the good faith you will abide). How else can we trust that as a performer you have our best interests at heart? How else can we spare you from the wrath of our pass-angst as we try you for the greatest of all Australian blue collar crimes – self pity.
A message from the universal Australian populous to one sole citizen Justin Marcus H
Well, I did what anyone else would in that situation. I took it to heart and quietly stewed for ten years.
Iām kidding ā as if for a hyper second I could entertain the notion that any element of this is even remotely transferable. Gadzooks, it seems I had shimmied, crab-walked, tip-toed and side-swiped my way into an absolute evolutionary cross-roads for the artistic and personal development of myself as a whole.
Again.
I was 28. I was Saturn returns.
I was 20 years overdue counselling. I was heavily in debt.
I was unstable. I was growing darker by the month. I was drifting as an artist. I was wobbling as a boyfriend. Crucially, most emasculatingly, it appeared that in the petty court of sharehouse kitchens, I was now tanking as a bloke. Alienating my fellow Aussie larrikins with my sheer-bloody-minded outlook, deference and resolve.
I went on to record Iām So Lonely. (Part of the I’m So quadrilogy: post modern, over girls & hungover). Look it up. Borrow it from Blockbuster on laser disc.
I’m So Lonely gained positive comment among some serious music journalists. It felt like a comforting addition to my newfound repositioning from comedy rooms to music venues. But how the song was received by industry isnāt really the point, is it reader?
I know loneliness. I feel it in the ashes of my past lives.
I can be lonely in a crowd ā I can by lonely on my own.
I can be lonely in a relationship.
Now I sound like a cancelled Dr Seuss.
Loneliness doesnāt discriminate based on how well you are doing or how talented you are. Amazingly, neither is it particularly concerned with how many people you have around. (Or is that melancholy? I get them mixed up.)
Itās just, well, there. Along with oxygen and water and sun and reality tv and biscuits and time-stretched songs on youtube. Loneliness isnāt a special occasion. Itās not a pamphlet in the doctors waiting room. It isnāt a capital āL.ā word. It isnāt any word. Not one in our language. Loneliness doesnāt get said aloud. It isnāt part of conversation. Loneliness is a secret. One you donāt even know youāre keeping
youāve been keeping it so long.
So whateth the deal?
Iām lo*ely. So wha? ( l o v e l y )
I was lonely then. Iām lovely now. Most of the time itās comfortable, enough. An itch you scratch with a kind, furious thought. A beautiful familiar longing, as your child self gazes out to sea – transmitting a conversation with the clouds only an ocean can answer.
Is there a crime being committed? Have I trespassed upon any of your personal freedoms? Will my frank admission contribute to shortcomings in your day?
Have I enormously fucked everything up by not only experiencing this foible but also having the deranged audacity to share it with my social peers? Surely I am not already aware that such unsavoury, ungainly, corrupt and corrupting truth-sabre-rattling should be done only under the close supervision of professionals in a secluded setting.
I n c o n c l u s i o n
Loneliness isnāt a world that gets shared often (enough).
Itās a fantastic, desolate, magical mixed bag of thought coma and silent dance.
Itās not a house built with a door. Only an escape slide and a half-roof to park the occasional rocket ship. But itās there and itās real and itās yours to warm your spine on if you wish to nestle for a second in the curvature of my beanbag.
Thereās a loneliness epidemic, you know. Itās interesting to see it on the public agenda along with depression and anxiety. Itās like watching your favourite punk bands sign with major labels and have chart-topping hits. Iām not sure if itās liberating or alienating. Isnāt it ironic? ZOMBIE ZOMBIE ZOMBIE
j u s t i n h e a z l e w o o d ' s fuzzy logic 