Things that go "That's ASSAULT!" in the night.

So Saturday night was a concert night. My studio. That’s kids 3-16 and their families, primarily parents. Classical music in a local church, bring a plate for a little social time afterwards.

It was mostly good. Mostly.

Maybe because it’s a long term, or because this was our second concert of the term or it’s cold or there were only a couple of ensemble pieces or, or, or… 

I could keep making excuses, but truthfully I was reasonably devastated by the lack of turnout and the lack of flawless performances. Anyway.

We progress, me looking anxiously (and surreptitiously) at my watch every few seconds to see if we’re on track to stay within an hour running time. Child gets up, plays, stumbles, carries on valiantly, bows, receives applause, I make (positive) comment, etc, so forth. Fine. About to launch into most advanced solo piece of night (actually, can’t remember WHAT I was saying), but I suddenly become aware of a smell.

It’s the smell you whiff when you walk past a sheltered Melbourne laneway, and know that the people sleeping under cardboard beg to drink. They don’t get showers or prescription medicine, and their relatives don’t know when they’ll next turn up. The local cops know them by name, and their trolleys clatter along suburban streets as they bunk up for the night under the eaves of a church or hospital.

There’s a man three feet away from me, gesticulating wildly and shouting that he’s been assaulted. 

He wants us to call the police, he’s not leaving until we do.

A hundred people are looking at him, wondering if this moment is really happening.

I know I went toward him, told him there was a phone in the foyer and that we’d make the call out there. More shouting. “

Sir,- ” 

“Don’t TOUCH me!” and fathers, rising from the seats to cajole, repress, no-one quite sure what law prevails when dealing with madmen inside a church.

Nothing is easy with an audience, so I chose to shoo them out while my indomitable pianist decided to play a little light music. The men did manly things, like calling the police and making sure our intruder did leave the building. We returned and absolved our concert with a Veracini Gigue and a spook-busting Twinkle.

In the days following and subsequent lessons with students, I’ve found myself trying to force the situation into a humorous anecdote. We don’t actually know the truth of it.

He may have been assaulted. He may have been mentally unbalanced, or drunk. Perhaps all three. 

He could have been armed, or more violent, and the shadow of what might have occurred freaks me out more than I’d like to admit.

We’ll have to lock the front doors from now on. 

Live where?

The weekend is thankfully over, and with it Frankston Council’s Festival of Lights (or, as the traders call it, Festival of Fights). I love my hometown and all, but it’s a little distressing to respond to heavy rain with “Well, that’ll keep all the drinkers at home.” Sad? True.

This is a weird place. People at one end say they actually live in a subsidiary of Mt Eliza, or North Frankston. Multi-million dollar residences litter the cliff face and there are lots of nice cars. Lots of yummy mummies sporting ghd-ironed hair and the kind of fake tan that involves a paper g-string and a home visit, not just a home application. Ten minutes down the road is everyone’s favorite game: Spot the unmarked cop car. If there’s only one, it’s a slow day.

Frankston’s main street: Friday: 3 pm. A car is pulled over and the driver fined for driving an unroadworthy vehicle. The four inhabitants bicker about the ownership of the slab (no, I’m not talking about a piece of rock) in the back, while the cop pries the license plates off with a standard police-issue screwdriver. Presumably this is so the moustachioed driver (I have a feeling that’s not a Movember mo) can’t continue to drive the bomb. Lucky his passengers all have recourse to the famous beer taxi.

Depressed? Already? Don’t go near the station, then. Frankston station is possibly the most written-about station in Australian history. Once it was the train you hopped to bum on the beach for a day.  Now… I’m sure you can all hear the next bit coming. Work it out for yourself.  Across the road it’s like walking through one of those miserable glass boxes they keep airport smokers in, except the smokers at the airport are better dressed and don’t usually have small children with them.

Let's not even mention the number of pharmacies that operate primarily as methadone clinics. Lots of small children there, too.

One block over, the bus stop is an unofficial meeting point for freshly tattooed and pierced adolescents, a kind of “Who wants to be an Unemployable Lout?!” without the relief of ad-breaks and absolutely no suspense whatsoever, because the whole lot are going to win if they have to knock all their own teef – sorry, teeth – out to do so.

I’m sure part of Australia’s charm was our claim on classlessness. Lovable larrikinism, rough camaraderie, having a few beers on the back deck as the sun went down.

Mind the gap.

Kirtan.

Possibly not the best idea in the world; my cold is getting worse instead of better and tonight has been a night of loud.  Interesting fact: when you blow your nose too hard and too often you can burst blood vessels. THAT's a whole load of disgusting right there, thanks. 

What in the name of all that is weird is kirtan? Essentially it’s a sung meditation in call-and-response style; the kirtanist plays harmonium (or guitar, or whatever) and sings the mantra, the participants sing it back, following tempo and dynamic. In the yogic tradition, the mantras are sung in Sanskrit, but kirtan can be practised in many ways and is a major part of Satyananda philosophy, which holds music and mantra to be a stepping stone to higher consciousness.

We skyped another kirtan group in Darwin tonight; one of ‘our’ teachers moved up there with her family last year and is trying to get a regular kirtan going. She led a kirtan and then R. led a kirtan on our end. Sadly our connection fell out before we were quite done, but c’est la vie. 

Concert tomorrow. I think I'm turning into my mother (this is the crucial moment at which my darling spouse (who is presently reading over my shoulder as I type) should interject with "No, of course you're not!" Hmmm. Doesn't count when you read it off the screen. 

I'm a little stressed about this concert tomorrow. I've had a HEAP of "Sorry!" statements in the last few days and I'm getting a little narky about it. If I kept a grudge book I'd be beginning Volume 2. Easily. 

Ah well, should stay focused on the good. There seem to be a few random people coming (i.e. NOT parents or directly related to students) and a few of our good friends might come along to see what who can do now.... so dinner afterward and some alcoholic therapy.

Oh, and in the name of all things funny (or just another example of the universe's current disregard for little ole me, Extranjera has very politely informed me that google reader and Blogger are pretending this blog doesn't exist.
Since I update every damn day with something approaching OCD, I consider this VERY rude. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE visit http://thewayitgoestoday.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/full and switch your subscription over. 
PLEASE?