Finding Meaning With A Hofner, Goldtop & Double Neck SG

By Mark Lowry

Why are we here? How did we get here? What does it mean anyway? Three mates living with chronic mental illness form a rock'n'roll band led by a mental health worker and find that their musical jouney brings them far more than sex, drugs and rock'n'roll!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Lowry
• Release date: Aug 2, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301838431

Book preview

Finding Meaning With A Hofner, Goldtop & Double Neck SG

Mark D Lowry

Copyright 2008-2013 by Mark Lowry

Smashwords Edition

This work is copyright. Apart from any use permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced by any process, nor may any other exclusive right be exercised, without the permission of Mark David Lowry.

This story was written for my children;

Molly Jennifer Lowry and Jack Coltrane Lowry.

Love Dad.

Contents

Chapter 1 Something has always got to happen ... you know? You can't have nothing happen ... it’s always got to be something.

Chapter 2 God is the greatest placebo of all time. God provides clarity, certainty, answers and meaning. Perfect!

Chapter 3 We have purchased 'snake oils' for centuries, and are consistently tempted by the latest in weight loss programs or money making schemes that are clearly too good to be true. Why?

Chapter 4 If there's no need, there's no relationship!

Chapter 5 It seems that many of us will jump queues, cut corners and shaft others if we think the rewards of doing so are worth the consequences.

Chapter 6 We're animals mate! Sophisticated animals!

Chapter 7 I think our problem is that we have first erroneously equated control with possession, ownership and domination. And second, we have erroneously equated possession, ownership and domination with meaning.

Chapter 8 The moment we realised we were free from the confines of Natural Selection we also realised that we were alone.

Chapter 9 If you want to 'sell' a religion or a spirituality your two biggest drawcards are one: a God that somehow exists outside of the evolutionary process, and two; the promise of some kind of post-death continuance.

Chapter 10 Self-awareness allows us to assign value judgements to behaviours, and these judgements determine what is good and what is bad.

Chapter 11 First, I'm going to assume that there is no God. A God, particularly a theistic God gets way too messy. And second, I'm going to assume that we are self-aware, temporary links in a biological chain that is promised neither continuation after death nor objective spiritual meaning!

Chapter 12 Trev will only talk to you if he thinks you are listening.

Chapter 13 The Count of Monty Christo!

Chapter 14 Many of us mistakenly believe that our thoughts are objective truths rather than subjective interpretations. They are not to be trusted! Thoughts are perceptions of reality, not reality itself.

Chapter 15 Thank God for Hendrix!

Chapter 16 He said that the only meaning is the meaning that we create ourselves by making beautiful things.

Chapter 17 An idiot’s guide to the meaning of life.

Chapter 18 Time flies when you're having fun, and when you're not.

About the Author

Chapter 1

"Something has always got to happen ... you know? You can't have nothing happen ... it’s always got to be something."

*

The wrath of God had certainly been felt at 76 Wingea Street, Logan City. Its wretched inhabitants had been struck down with a myriad of righteous divine punishments; mental and physical illnesses, poverty, social isolation, addictions, and even death. God had thrown so much wrath at this family that they were broken, certainly beyond the restorative powers of the local government and non-government health services, of which I was gainfully employed. Surely God had taught this family a lesson they would never forget. Surely He had inflicted enough damage to this family to force submissive redemption. Surely they had suffered sufficient punishment to finally admit their wrongfulness, to finally refute their secular disobedience, arrogance, pride and stubbornness. They had blatantly denied God, turned their backs on Him, and they alone were responsible for everything that had happened to them!

Or ... perhaps they were SO special that God needed to test this unfortunate family (or maybe I should say 'very fortunate' to be SO special?) with such harsh measures. Maybe their internal fortitude was such that they could not only handle such divine wrath, but actually benefit from it. Maybe they were SO special that God Himself recognised that only through such severe pressure could He facilitate the arduous transformation from 'flawed humans' to 'divinely forged diamonds'. Perhaps it is only the most special of us that are ready and lucky enough to be chosen to endure this very highest level of divine blessing?

Or ...... maybe there is no God, no divine wrath, no divine specialness, no divine forging. Perhaps Clive and his family were just unlucky. Perhaps they were merely in the wrong place at the wrong time. Perhaps evolution, genetics and environment had simply conspired with unconscious, uncaring 'cruelty' to make life an unrelenting hell. Maybe they hadn't done anything wrong, hadn't turned their backs on anyone, and hadn’t been special. Maybe they were just unlucky?

*

The rumours were true. The house looked as though no human life had inhabited it for some time. The mid-green weatherboards were patchily discoloured. And those that hadn't dislodged (like disillusioned sailors deserting a sinking ship), seemed to collectively slump on the old hardwood frame reflecting an exhaustion that only the passage of time and lack of maintenance could bring. I imagined how fascinating it would be to see footage from one of those time-lapse cameras recording the life of this 'old girl', not only capturing the evolution (or de-evolution) of the house itself, but on the comings and goings of its small but faithful crew.

I remember David initially remarking with surprise and astonishment; What ... you've been in the house? ... Not many people are allowed in there! David had been Clive's case manager for quite a number of years before I had started working with him, and due to the overlap in our work responsibilities, he and I had since become colleagues and friends. He was well aware of the logistical difficulties that frequently surfaced as a result of paranoid schizophrenia. I had come to know one of these; Clive’s over-zealous gate-keeping, not only as a result of schizophrenia, but also as a result of society's treatment of him, and everybody like him. Clive was a nuisance, an odd-ball, who at best, unsettled the rank and file of civilised society, and at worse - in conjunction with his decaying hovel - impacted negatively on surrounding property values.

I'll be back in a tick guys, I yelled as I pulled up outside of Clive's front gate. No worries, acknowledged Big Trev who sat motionless in the back seat of the mini-bus like a six-foot-five stone sentinel What did ya say mate? apologised Chris from the front passenger seat while he turned down Van Halen's 5150 on the wagon's stereo. Back in a minute, I repeated. Hold on mate, wait, wait, listen to this bit, he pleaded like I was about to step over a pot of gold without noticing. In the one motion - like some sort of super-hero – Chris tweaked the stereo's volume knob clockwise to maximise the impact, and assumed one of his well-rehearsed air-guitar stances while he eagerly anticipated the recorded moment of magic. Rapidly wiggling all ten fingers in perfect sync to one of Eddie Van Halen's molten guitar licks Chris didn’t move another muscle. Staring at me imploringly he exclaimed, Killer mate, killer! This performance was quickly followed by a loud whooping laugh and some head-shaking wonderment as he alighted to stretch his legs along the footpath. Luckily, I agreed with Chris, the freshness of Eddie's playing and the pioneering spirit of his musical endeavour had long since converted me as a fan.

Chris had already packed away his imaginary axe and was contentedly chewing away on a fresh stick of gum before I even had a chance to acknowledge the magic. Two years ago this stick of gum would have been a tailor-made cigarette. However following a sudden stroke, Chris was told by his doctors that he had to quit. He had done this cold-turkey and without complaint. His resolve to give up this habit (that had been such an integral part of his difficult life for 19 of his 32 years) was nothing short of inspirational. Fantastic Chris, I belatedly acknowledged as I crossed the footpath and entered the dilapidated gate that leaned wearily against the accompanying fence.

Despite its appearance there was a warmth and serenity about this place as well as a profound vulnerability. This relationship was similar to that found in a rainforest where the ever-changing canopy beautifully protects the extraordinarily vulnerable flora and fauna below. Of course, I could alternatively describe it as an environment desperately trying to hide an exhausted dwelling and strange inhabitants, but I prefer my first analogy.

Clive and his mum had lived in this house for many years together until her death two or three years ago. In fact, Clive had lived in this house for most of his life. From memory, I think he said that his family had relocated here from Sydney when he was four or five. After forty or so years the only way I could ever imagine Clive leaving this house voluntarily involved the very unlikely recognition of his belief (or delusion to be more accurate) that he was English aristocracy and the rightful Lord to a very large English estate (the details of which I have long since forgotten). I'll just unlock the door for you, called Clive from a balcony that had so many rotten and missing floorboards that it resembled a disused rope bridge in the middle of the Congo. I rounded the corner of the house and started climbing a rickety set of stairs that increasingly rocked back and forth the higher I got.

How are you Clive? I asked as I entered the house. "Oh, I've