Dan Djurdjevic

Introduction It never ceases to amaze me how some people think they can prove the existence of a God – any God, never mind a particular kind (Christian, Muslim, Jewish etc.) – through the mere shuffling of some words on a piece of paper. It's as if the incessant buzz of indifferent life, the imperceptible creak of tectonic movement, the whirling of the planet through space, the furious solar storms on our sun, the vast spans of silent emptiness between trillions upon trillions of isolated worlds, the birth and death of stars and galaxies – all of it is somehow expected to stop, bend on one knee and acknowledge a trivial (frankly, pathetic) gesture by some transient life-form on a rocky planet tucked away in a rather nondescript corner of the universe. It's as if such a gesture could somehow elevate just one of many hundreds of thousands of unsubstantiated, pre-scientific cosmologies that have, and will continue to be, believed on our little world; a planet where life h...

Many, many years ago I got into a debate with the manager of a different division at work. It concerned at technical/operational matter. I felt strongly that a particular rule was too inflexible and was causing inefficiencies. The manger disagreed. The debate became quite heated, particularly on his part. Afterwards I went back to my desk and reflected on what had gone wrong and my part in the fracas. Yes, I felt I was right in my arguments. But I could see that I had upset him, and this troubled me. I realised that I had, inadvertently, made him lose face in front of his subordinates. I also realised that, regardless of the merits of my argument, the issue was his to resolve, and his alone. So I went back to him and, in front of astonished onlookers, apologised. I said that I was wrong to have argued with him - that the call was his and that I would respect it. When I got back to my desk, 3 or 4 of his subordinates (who disliked his managerial style, to put it mildly) a...

Here is the clip of my latest song - filmed at Mt Hawthorn by Ben Wilson last Saturday. It is off my forthcoming album "Ways that won't mend". I'm grateful to Jed for all his help in recording this song and the other songs on my album - cheers mate, you're a legend. Your creative genius and skill is beyond the ken of mere mortals. Ben, what can I say... the video speaks for itself; pure art! Thanks for making my vision come true. To the 2 drunks who heckled the shoot: this is what we were trying to do. And to the one who said: "Listen mate, you should start singing about things that you actually know something about; I've been in the Sydney to Hobart race and I can tell you don't know shit about sailing," I have this to say: the song isn't about sailing, you moron. Music and lyrics copyright © 2011 Dejan Djurdjevic.

It occurs to me that there are probably relatively few instances of songwriting where there is a “trail” left behind, revealing exactly how the song came to be. My latest song “ Limping to the moon ” is one such rare instance. I must preface my remarks by saying that I am, at best, a “reluctant songwriter”. In other words, I don’t really want to write songs; I have no special interest nor skill in music and poetry. Yet somehow I continue to write songs despite this (perhaps to the chagrin of my friends and family, I've written over 50 songs and recorded 22 of these). Why? Every now and again I get a song idea that seems too good to “let go”. And sometimes I think it might just be. My song “Limping to the moon” is one of these. It’s safe to say that I don’t really care if I never write another song again. Nenad said to me the other night (while listening to it in the car) “this could well be the best thing you’ve ever done”. I think he was right. Leaving aside the merits of th...

I’m climbing, over the hills that turn to sheer cliffs in my mind And I’m sailing, over the seas made up of tears that I’ve cried But when all my water has dried hope seems to have died I see you by my side And I’m drowning, deep in a well dug out of my own despair And I’m burning, in fires from hell but nobody else is aware But when all my water has dried hope seems to have died I see you by my side I limp to the moon while you are busy planning things to do when we get there There’s never any “if” with you Take all my cares and stow my baggage out of view We’re limping to the moon And I’m grieving, my past’s in an urn heart’s broke in ways that won’t mend And I’m dying, nowhere to turn waiting for my time to end But when all my water has dried hope seems to have died I see you by my side I limp to the moon while you are busy planning things to do when we get there You always say “we’ll be there soon” Take all my cares and stow my baggage out of view We’re limping to the moon Take all...

I was walking along the deathly quiet streets of Lancefield, Victoria in early hours of the morning, unable to sleep. I remember feeling totally engulfed by the darkness - street lamps and car headlights flickering like candles in the distance, the moonless sky showering me with the milky way, the chill, still air cramping my lungs, the gravel cracking underfoot like someone's knuckles. It was September 2007 and I was staying in a local motel near James' place. Except it wasn't a motel. It was the town's former hospital, converted into an eerie "B 'n B". I remembered how, the previous morning, I'd sat having breakfast at the former nurses' station with a bemused Hege and Lucia (who were sharing a room down the corridor), our spoons clinking against the chipped porcelain bowls on a mottled-green vinyl bench top, the musty smell still hinting at sterility, old people, dying people, isolation. No amount of jarring '50s decor, fake pot plant...

The sun has set behind the Kaohsiung skyline as our bus rattles along in the congested rush-hour traffic. I lie back against the head-rest, feeling the vibration on my scalp through the velour, and try to doze. Every now and again a jolt throws me back into the real world and I see flashes: flashes of the faux wood-panelled interior of our vehicle, the slumped, silent silhouettes of my fellow Chen Pan Ling practitioners, chaos passing in every direction, the smoky-red stain on the horizon and the neon glow of the pea-soup sky. We’re travelling from the Fo Guang Shan monastery into the city centre for our respective appointments with blind masseurs/masseuses. “Go on!” James had said to me in 2009. “Do it. You’ll feel like a new man.” But for whatever reason I declined – a decision I’d come to regret deeply. In fact, the moment I saw them arriving at the Kingship Hotel (each on the back of a scooter) and being escorted in through the foyer to the elevator (aided by the directions ...