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MAX
ARTICLES
*.Sleeping
Beauties
'Did sleeping beauty wake up with bags
under her eyes?í
Descending into
dissent. Here I am landing in LA again. The plane is taxiing to a stop
and I feel like I'm being wheeled, on a stretcher, into the biggest
operating theater of all time. I thought I could be done with this
place - at least for a longer stretch of time than this.
It's only been 7 months since I was released from its greedy grip and
finally safe in the sane embrace of Manhattan, where - I was able to
recover my sense of self. I know LA will never have that hold over me
again.
In the same way
that a woman knows who she will marry, I always knew New York = Home,
the place where I would finally 'settle'. My frivolous meanderings
would meet their end. But knowing that only fed my fear of commitment
and facilitated my meaningless relationship with the town of big cars
and strip malls - a city that could never own my heart. I was safe. At
least I thought so - to come and go as I please - and so continued this
mostly unfulfilling affair. Until the everyday ordinary weather of Los
Angeles, the passive drone and fumes from the boundless freeways and
the wearisome uniformity gradually lulled me into a semi-comatose
state. I fell asleep in the hard bed of a city with which I shared very
little affection. That's what happens there. And one day you wake up
and realize that everyone is simulating sex from a porn movie and ten
years have gone by.
It was Woody Allen
who was my unlikely prince charming. A short old, Jewish, duck of a
man. Not the tall dark alpha male that I'm genetically drawn to.
An opportunity to meet this pasty skinned icon was what it took to
motivate my move. Saved from slipping into an even deeper sleep in LA
-whereon one day I would wake with nothing to show for the lost years
but sagging breasts and droopy eyelids. Though - to a prisoner in these
city walls - already anesthetized by time, LA could be seen as the hero
and savior, armed with scalpel, ready to set you free. Ready to buy
back your youth by fixing your every physical flaw, the enemy becomes
your only friend.
To consider
altering one's natural state comes with the territory. Gradually over
time as time changes you, you inevitably change. Time pacifies you.
Your staunch views on things - like driving the 8 cylinder Land Cruiser
to the gym five doors down or plastic surgery, gradually become 'lax'.
It's all there at your fingertips and your resistance slowly wears
down. I may have without any conscience - if I had have stayed in LA
any longer - perhaps in the same way that a recreational 'user'
may become dependent, slowly surrendered - going from a simple
injection of Botox to a full-blown Face Cut and Paste. From Duck to
Swan overnight - on the outside at least.
No wonder Woody
rejects all LA stands for. He is Duck through and through. And we
all celebrate it. And in New York, the city that never sleeps, these
sleeping beauties stand out like sore toes; their overly plump lips,
their oversized breasts. And we, Aliens and New Yorkers alike scowl and
furrow our brows and screw up our noses at these magazine cutouts,
these Stepford Wives. We know that though they've voluntarily had their
face muscles paralyzed, and paid big bucks for their botox and facial
surgeries, that deep down they are struggling to express themselves.
This sleeping
beauty woke up and the bags under her eyes were packed.
©Max
Sharam
*.Fling
*.Alive
In My Own Shoes
*.The Luminary And The Luddite.
*.Big
Sur, CA
'Oxygen' - I
cried.
We drove thru the hills -
high altitudes then came upon the coast
a blanket of clouds stretched out at our feet
and waves tossed and rolled a stones throw below
.. out there under the blanket of clouds was the sea
We wound down windows wound down through fields
we wound down
to our little wooden hut among the trees on the banks of a clear stream
and slept off the long day in peace
'oxygen' - I cried.
Then the next day we hiked for an hour to a secluded beach
a sacred, spiritual place
littered with driftwood -
logs, strays, adrift from the lumber yard
washed up on the beach,
driftwood blocking and barricading the mouth of the river like teeth
stumps and limbs from trees
- the ones that got away-
from the logging plant in Oregon
only to find themselves crippled
washed up
cast aways
upon a deserted sandy shore
to bleach and rot beautiful yet tragic
like bleached beached wooden whales
someone had built a humpy.
I added, piece after piece
log after smoothly
and oddly shaped log -
it became a wooden igloo
we slept in it
the waves crashed in my ears all night
we cooked
deaf I swam
I ran
naked along the shores
I think I got more freckles.
'Oxygen' - I
cried.
©Max
Sharam
*.SOAPBOX
- Pull The Plug On TV
I think I could quite comfortably say
that I'm one of 'the other half' of the Australian community that, for
a good slab of the year, is deprived of the right to watch television
on weekends.
This disturbs me because sport on every channel (allow me a slight
exaggeration for arguments sake) doesn't only imply - "hey we're a
sports mad culture!", but sends the message that 'the blokes' - (being
the sole bacon bearers during the week !?) have earned the right
to all 5 channels of the television and the remote control for the whole weekend (Mum's too busy mowing
the lawns to watch the footy anyway). Maybe what is shown on our televisions
says a lot more about our cultural consciousness than we realise. Or do
the programmers enjoy insulting us young ladies?
My opinion of
sport is irrelevant, I do wonder, however, is television
following the status quo or driving us into the brick wall of
submission? How different
would Australia be if the News/Weather/latest is
Sport became News/Weather/latest in Music?
If
it's the spell of the almighty 'ratings' God that
they are under then "Dear God please can Australian
Arts/Music get a free plug every News segment!?" At least
then we may have a chance of playing in this competitive game.
©Max Sharam
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