Chapter 1: The Inner Dialogue

Have you ever considered what thoughts occupy your mind at any given moment?

As the clock strikes 3:49 AM in May, the chill of approaching winter is palpable. A nagging urge pulls me towards the bathroom, a scene rarely depicted in films, but this is reality, not fiction.

These days, the majority of films seem to miss the mark for my tastes. Nevertheless, as I type, I’m aware that the entire world is my audience, yet the performance I craft is solely for my own reflection.

Trapped in my mind is what I refer to as the "purple machine," endlessly in motion. Should I applaud, criticize, or rate this mental performance? An external observer might describe it as: “An intriguing concept that soon spiraled into self-indulgence, causing Robert's focus to drift.” A modest 2.5 stars, as noted by Robert Gowty on Medium.

I'm engaged in a silent conversation with myself. If I keep it internal, no one will hear the ramblings.

Machines within machines—William Burroughs labeled us as "soft machines." Once, the brain was simply known as grey matter, yet its hue resembles more of a greyish-pink. In some discussions, it's referred to as the "pink bits," which leads me to think that purple feels like a suitable approximation.

Furthermore, "purple prose" signifies a sort of mental overflow, where thoughts run wild. A "purple patch" in Australian slang denotes a streak of extraordinary fortune. But can luck be attributed solely to the mind?

I've returned to bed, pondering whether my thoughts were merely a dream or if the relentless purple machine is spinning yet again. It's time to rise and take the dog for a walk.

The early morning dog stroll occurs in darkness, with the winter solstice still weeks away. This ritual serves as a mental reset. Upon reaching the elevated bridge road crossing the highway, I find that my reset deepens. Often, wallabies can be spotted on the flat ground beneath the ascent—sometimes one, occasionally two, and on rare occasions, even a small group. They vanish as dawn breaks.

The sight of kangaroos and wallabies upright on two legs lends them an air of anthropomorphism. Their curious gazes ask where the grass has gone, and what has caused the encroachment of fences.

Last night, one wallaby awaited us at the top of the rise. As we approached, it elegantly bounded down in graceful leaps—a dance for the everyday observer.

Though I have a fascination with dance, I am an unskilled dancer, hindered by a sense of self-consciousness. In contrast, while kangaroos are graceful, birds truly embody the essence of dance. Unlike most animals that traverse a flat plane, birds navigate three-dimensional space, creating a unique ballet. A hawk, wings spread wide, glides through the air with an elegance that feels ethereal.

In meditation, I often envision myself moving fluidly through this space—not merely flying, but weightless, spinning, and twisting in any direction. It feels reminiscent of something deep within my history—perhaps echoing the memories of our ancestral origins.

When did we diverge from the animal kingdom? Did we reach a pivotal moment of transformation, or do we merely perceive ourselves as different? I lean towards the latter perspective. When Captain Cook arrived on Australian shores, the only true distinction from the indigenous people was the gun he wielded, a tool of violence.

The Hawaiians demonstrated to Cook that guns do not dictate supremacy.

On Australian soil, narratives of Christian superiority have not resonated as strongly through time as the echoes of gunfire.

Why is coexistence so elusive? Perhaps the answer lies in the colors of our skin. We all originated as black Africans; our skin lightened as we migrated northward in search of new lands to provide for our families. This quest for survival, often marked by environmental challenges, incited violence. Yet, cultures like those in Scandinavia seem to have found a more peaceful existence.

The purple machine continues its relentless cycle. Regardless of the circumstances, it seeks understanding and justification for the devastation we have caused to our environment.

Our desires possess an internal logic, yet we cannot satisfy them through reason alone. Our survival instincts, deeply ingrained in our subconscious, evolve at a pace too slow to keep up with the mechanical world we have constructed over the last two centuries.

Perhaps the opposite is true. The age of machines has traumatized our survival instincts, transforming them into something far more desperate and insatiable.

As Rex and I cross the footbridge, cars whiz by below, each returning to homes equipped with modern conveniences like plumbing and electricity. I ponder what justifies the deprivation of basic needs—shelter, nourishment, compassion—from others.

From my perspective, not much at all.

Truth be told, the "Purple Machine" is the title of a song I penned ages ago. I should truly focus on producing a decent recording. Even as its creator, I’ve never fully grasped its meaning—perhaps I'm inching closer now.

As I sit in the cold morning air, the concluding lines of the song echo in my mind:

“I can’t make out just what’s on the horizon,

Might be sunset or it might be the sun rising.”

For the sake of my children and humanity, I sincerely hope it is the dawn of a new day. It feels as though we are currently confronting that very question.

Further reflections on my reality follow.

Chapter 2: Leakage

A narrative about the leaky faucet in my kitchen sink.

The first video titled "Purple Disco Machine - Bad Company (Official Video)" showcases a vibrant blend of music and visuals that encapsulate the essence of the song.

The second video titled "Purple Disco Machine, ÁSDÍS - Beat Of Your Heart (Official Video)" features captivating rhythms that resonate with the heart's beat, offering a unique auditory experience.