I never really saw myself as a cowboy, until recently.

It’s odd that I never connected the dots sooner, really.

So much of my personality is very much based around the individual spirit, a self-made man whose stoic nature hides some very real anger.

There is the classic rebellious spirit in me, as well as my perchance for dramatic clothing with plenty of masks and hats to spare.

I also grew up reading a lot of cowboy comics, in particular a series called Cheyenne which remains near and dear to my heart.

And I’ve always proclaimed that the ideal pet for me was a camel.

I suppose I never really linked every aspect of that into a lifestyle known as cowboy.

It’s strange, why I feel like I have such a strong connection with the idea of being a frontiersman only now.

I suppose I am romanticising the idea of freedom. Free to explore and wander to the heart’s content. The idea of every day being the same, but not quite, of always being busy but able to get away from work.

The lifestyle just seems so natural.

So what is it, about the cowboy lifestyle that appeals to me so much?

Let’s start with a deep dive into my rebellious nature.

In all great Westerns, there exists a triumvirate of forces pitched against each other for supremacy over the land.

Cowboys, “Indians” and Civilization.

Cowboys and Indians are opposed to each other, because of a long feud that has resulted in many a misunderstanding and even bond to each other. They both want the land for themselves, to live their way of life in peace.

This common theme, of “being left alone to live one’s life as one see fit” is why they will normally put aside their differences to fight Civilization or Modernity in all its complexity and dominating nature.

Civilization wishes to tame both the Cowboys and Indians. They believe both factions are savage, lawless and unprincipled. The idea of a world without strict rules, punishment and taxes is an aberration to them.

The key difference here is that Civilization wishes to dominate the land, instead of live beside it.

The tragedy of the West, is that with their more antiquated lifestyle and technology and in-fighting, eventually the Cowboys and Indians lose the battle, and the world becomes a bit less natural.

For me, that battle has always been a strange internal conflict.

A big part of why I wanted to join the military, was that I would become a better self-made man, I could learn skills to survive out in the wilderness and be self-sufficient.

But there was always this strange nagging feeling that I wouldn’t fit into the regimental nature of the Army. It’s why I promised myself, if I was to enlist, to get through basic training as quickly as possible and immediately apply for Special Forces, because I liked the idea of having a bit more autonomy.

It took me a while to realise, that I could just be my own made man, with the money I made and teach myself these skills. After all, there was no real reason why I couldn’t teach myself how to survive, how to shoot a gun or cook.

I just had to get out there and pursue it. I just wasn’t getting paid to do so by a government institution. All the money for training had to come out of my own pocket.

But I could keep my rebellious nature intact. I could still live my life the way I saw fit.

It’s why I think, despite holding a deep reverence and love for the military, I doubt I would ever enlist. I’ve put that passion and dream away. I’ve made peace with it and found a new love for a new type of lifestyle that doesn’t involve me yelling “YES SIR” to anyone.

Which is how I prefer it, in all honesty.

A big part of the cowboy etiquette that I love, is that there is a strong sense of respect and honour in hard work and loyalty. They are loyal to a fault to their friends and family, regardless of any wrong-doing that they might have incurred in their lifetime.

I’m very much the same way. I’m an arsehole to everyone. No matter what you’ve done, been through or how you view yourself, I’m the same stubborn sonvuabitch to you, as I am to the person next to you.

But if I see you work hard, I’ll give you my respect.

Respect from me, is something everyone earns. It’s not easily given out, nor is it easily recognisable. I don’t hand out compliments and I sure as shit, don’t like people quickly either.

To unlock the soft gooey part of me takes a certain character and a lot of people fail to get past my ruthless professional demeanour.

Naturally this arrogant attitude to respect, automatically annoys every single older person that I’ve met. Especially the Asian variety, where a huge part of the culture is paying that revverence to older people.

My argument to that is …. last I checked, it wasn’t fucking hard to age. All you have to do is be healthy and you’ll live another year. Hell, you can still be unhealthy and get to see another birthday cake.

So why the hell should I applaud you for doing the bare minimum in life?

Age doesn’t equate to wisdom, nor does it mean I got to salute you and treat you like a superior.

~

Another crucial aspect of being a cowboy is a reverence for the land. A deep, healthy respect for the environment and being aware of your impact on it.

One of the most interesting facts I learnt, is that when a person sees a dead animal near a fresh water source, you should automatically move it away and ensure the contamination doesn’t spread.

What if there is another one upstream or downstream?

It doesn’t matter. There is an obligation to you and the environment to move it. Thousands of animals and human beings rely on that water source and if it is within your power, you should preserve it.

For some reason, that lesson stuck with me, long after I finished reading the book. It perfectly illustrated the symbiotic relationship that mankind has always had with nature, how we can help the natural world, and co-exist together.

It inspired me, much to my chagrin sometimes, to constantly pick up rubbish when I see it. Bins aren’t normally far away, and I always feel better knowing that I’m doing something to help the environment.

Would I classify myself as a person, particularly passionate about animal rights and the natural world? Hardly.

I’m just very aware of what I can do and what I should do. I have a lot more personal things to worry about. I can’t solve the world’s pollution, nor its change, but I can do a little bit here and there.

I wouldn’t even necessarily say that I am overly fond of animals either. In many ways, unless my lifestyle truly dictate that I need a pet, I’m not in the mood to get one.

Perhaps that is a very workmanlike attitudes towards animals, but it is truly how I feel. I don’t need dogs, unless they help me to hunt or shepherd cattle, neither of which I am currently engaged in.

Nor do I need my ideal animal companions, a falcon and a horse, because I don’t have enough land to support them and I don’t hunt either. I will also say, as an aside to myself, a desire to go on a hunt, doesn’t mean I should invest in both, either.

Being attuned to the needs of the natural world has always been something I’ve longed admired. If asked on which spiritual, quasi religious ideology I would pick, if I had to chose one, my first instinct would undoubtedly be the Native American philosophy.

I’ve always loved the stories about how the natural world came to be, with references to animals and a “Great Spirit” which was always more nebulous and mysterious than the Christian variant. There is something more eerie and wondrous about stories being passed down from elder to elder, knowing that some are more embellished than others, but retaining the same moral and spirit of the tale.

The power of a common “story” is infinitely more believable and touching than a doctrinal, regulated and sanitised tale that has resulted in the most published book in the world. The reason why, is because the human story-teller adds their own humanity to the story, to the myth of creation, instead of a committee than decrees “God” must have created the world in 7 days, to match a work week.

Even as a child, reading and learning through fictional cowboy stories, I felt that sense of wonder and awe for the natural world in those books, which was far more than anything I got out of reading the bible.

In creating a great mystery, you learn to be humble before it, and understand your place better in the world. Man wasn’t put here to control nature, we were designed to help the natural world and be quiet, humble shepherds.

~

In today’s world, there isn’t really a proper need for a violent man.

We are beyond that now. Less soldier, more warrior-poet.

I can see how much more mentally healthy current soldiers are now. So many of them seem more adjusted to the rigours of warfare. They’re eloquent, philosophical and incredible teachers, especially from the ones I see on social media.

They’re are now more adjusted to civilian life than ever before.

But the possibility of violence is always within everyone.

Which is why I sometimes believe in the power of a fist-fight.

The life of a cowboy is inherently quite masculine. It breeds tough people, for tough times. There’s a practicality and innate roughness to the lifestyle.

Doing such hard work and dealing with the same people day in and out, will bring out emotions that will test anyone, no matter how long their history with the other.

Tempers flare and emotions will run hot.

Violence is just another expression of that.

It’s a language in of itself. Perhaps that is what separates civilized folks and frontiersmen.

Frontier people understand that life is fleeting, that at any time, lighting itself could come down and strike you dead. It’s why they let emotions rule them a bit more.

But the way how they express that emotion is more complex. They can say a lot with a nod, a shared pipe, a quiet moment by the camp-fire or through terse words and grunts. Frontier people can afford this short hand style because almost every interaction they have with other people, is more intimate. Strangers can quickly become friends or enemies, and the group you run with, are your family.

Which is why, for some, violence is just another form of communicating.

Sometimes, you need to beat someone to make them understand.

There’s a strange logic behind it, that I can almost empathize with. Sometimes words aren’t strong enough. There will always be a simmering tension between two men. This friction can quickly boil over to resentment and other bitter emotions.

Especially considering if both parties consider themselves the alpha, and are stubborn and intractable men with difficulty expressing their emotions.

Thus the only recourse to settle differences is with fists.

There have only been 3 occasions in my life where I’ve thrown punches in anger. The first one was exhilarating. The second one was an ass-whopping that I definitely had coming. The latest one was out of fear.

But I’ve never really thrown down in a competitive way, a way to assert dominance over the other. To really show the other man that I’m the boss.

Well, actually … as I am writing this, I remember coming close.

This story I am about to tell you, isn’t really a reference to how much of a cowboy I am, but more an intriguing test of my character that showcases just how much control I have over myself, to not resort to violence.

It is the final hours of the festival. A festival that I’ve suffered through and put together for 6 months.

I’ve been put through the wringer for approximately 96 hours now. My inner rage is what put one foot in front of the other, what fuels my hoarse voice as I bark orders and haul tables with my team. I’m tense but still able to crack foul jokes and maintain a certain light-hearted banter.

After all, the festival is largely a success, but this year, there has been a lot of … incidents that have made me furious that everything did not go perfectly.

Case study 1: Some stupid kid, heartbroken over his breakup at the festival tried to jump 6 metres to the ground. In front of the first aid room. At a height that will only give him a broken leg.

Resolution 1: Security talked him off the ledge and when I got the report, all I could was give a derisive snort. No sympathy, just an exasperated sigh of frustration at the stupidity I have to deal with at this festival.

Case study 2: A ride operator makes a mistake, and a kid falls out of a Zorb ball, into 30 cm high water. He is a bit upset, but is overall fine. The parent however is incensed and starts making a fuss. I’m called over to deal with the situation. I offer the kid a towel, but he’s fine. Just wet. But no, in his father’s eyes, his child nearly drowned, is suffering from hypothermia and threatens legal action. His friend agrees and starts making threats about calling Work Safe down to the festival and shutting the whole thing down.

Resolution 2: I had to spend 1.5 hours with this irate, stubborn moron and his dense chatterbox of a friend, missing the fireworks and my team’s celebration of the new year. In the end, we agree to do absolutely fucking nothing, cos he has no case. He doesn’t thank me, is still rude, is unable to see beyond his own small personality, steals my personal towel because he’s a self-righteous prick and I’m close to punching him in the throat.

Case study 3: An actual pervert somehow manages to slip past security. Now, keep in mind, I’m paying security an extremely hefty fee to look after my festival, so you can imagine my displeasure when I’m the first one to spot this creep in the children’s area. He’s wearing a long coat, with nothing underneath but a pair of speedos and running shoes. The reason why I can spot him, is because he’s holding the coat shut with his hand, but his bare legs keep coming through. And he just got this disturbing look. His hair is greasy, he’s sweating slightly and his movement is erratic. So I follow him, constantly keeping eye contact with him, almost encouraging him to do something, because if he does … I’m going to crash tackle him to the ground and beat the shit out of him.

Resolution 3: It takes security more than 10 minutes to respond to my call and I let them and the police escort the creep out. I’m not particularly happy, because security took way too long to respond and I don’t understand how they let the weirdo in, in the first place.

So with all those case studies in mind, (there were other incidents too), be aware that my mental state isn’t exactly in the mood for any more bullshit.

So imagine to my surprise when I see a complete stranger, a festival attendee just start helping out with the pack-down. At first, I’m too busy coordinating with the food stalls to ensure a safe release. So I don’t pay him any attention. I don’t really think anything of it. It’s almost nice to have random people help us pack up.

But the alarms bell start ringing when I finally catch a breather, and can coordinate my team of volunteers, who number now in the 30s. Keep in mind, that everyone who has worked at the festival, know that I am the event manager. This festival is my baby and mine alone. This is my kingdom and no one will de-throne me. But to the outside world, no-one knows who I am. No-one is aware of my true power over this domain.

I like to keep it that way. I don’t do this sort of work for recognition or fame. I do it, because it’s fun, and I get to have more experiences with my friends.

By now, the team is well aware that during event hours, I am a tense human being. I’m unnecessarily harsh, stressed over the stupidity that surrounds me and am barely holding myself together, tottering on the edge of exhaustion and far too many Red Bulls.

It doesn’t help that when I walk over to my team, I’m holding a crowbar, and scowling.

As I am walking over, I see this stranger bossing my team around. I frown and glare. Who the FUCK is this guy? I walk over to one of my closest friends and ask who is this stranger and why is he barking orders? My friend says he doesn’t know, but he’s an arrogant guy.

I ask a couple more members of my team. They all agree that he’s a bit of a douche, he’s bossy and they doesn’t know where he came from.

The stranger is loading trestle tables into the truck, when I decide to walk up to him. I tell my team that I want the tables placed in a certain way. The stranger disagree with my orders. He tells them to do it his way.

Something inside me snaps. This is the final straw. I’ve had this simmering anger inside of me, raging for the past 48 hours.

“I’m sorry, but who are you?” I ask testily

“Me?” says the stranger incredulously. “I’m the boss.”

Everyone has stopped working. They’re all staring at me and the stranger. They can’t really believe what is going on.

You can picture the scene, I’m on the left, dripping in tactical gear, my Formula 1 Red Bull shirt, barely covering the thigh rig that is decked out with knives, cable ties, tape and a radio. My right hand is tightly gripping a crowbar and I’m leaning in close, to make sure I’m hearing everything correctly.

On stage right, the stranger is all casual, a loose white t-shirt, cream shorts and sneakers that are too expensive to work in. He’s defensive, psyching himself up for this argument with me. He’s not going to back down.

Everyone, I can tell, is eager for this showdown. They want me to put this upstart in his place. I’m not going to disappoint.

“You’re the boss?” I repeat. “You’re the boss?” The stranger smiles at me cockily. Without realising, my grip on the crowbar tightens.

“No.” I smile tersely. “I’m the boss.”

“No, you’re not.” exclaims the stranger indignantly. “I’m the boss! You can’t tell me what to do!”

“No. I am. If you don’t start backing down,” I threaten, “I’m going to call security and have you escorted off the premises.”

“You can’t be the boss.” says the stranger incredulously. He looks over at the crowd for support but sees none is forthcoming. “I know people! I’ve been working here all weekend!”

I merely raise an eyebrow. “You know people. You’ve been working here all weekend.” I repeat with a smirk.

“Yes! I know P—-! He will vouch for me.”

“No, he won’t.” I coldly reply. “He’ll say the exact same thing. I’m the boss here.”

“What the hell? No! I know him. He’ll vouch for me. He’ll say I’ve been working here for ages. I don’t know who you are, but you’re in trouble if I get him over here.”

I feel the urge to laugh. This little shit has no idea who I am. Who he is fucking with. The man in question is my own father. He has no clue who I am.

“Go ahead. He’s just going to say the same thing I’ve been saying. I’m the one in charge here.”

The stranger runs off and in search of my father. I just shake my head and place the crowbar down in the truck bed. I reach for my radio, exasperated and sick of the shit.

“Security? Hey, I got a festival goer who refuses to leave. Please escort him off the premises.”

“You got it. On my way to you now.”

The stranger comes over, my father in tow. He has a smug smirk on his face. I’m coldly amused.

“This is the guy P—-! He says he’s the boss and that he wants it done his way.”

“Damocles?” asks my father confused. “Yes, he is the boss. Whatever he says, you have to do it his way”

I look at the little twerp with a cold glare and cock my head.

“But … I … who is he to …” stammers the stranger.

“Look, I don’t really know what is going on,” says my father, “but Damocles is the event manager. He is the one in charge here. If you have any issues, you have to talk to him.”

My father walks away and we look at each other.

“Get your gear and leave the premises. Now, or I will have security escort you off.”

The stranger walks away forlornly. He tried to play his shitty hand, but I owed every single fucking card in the deck. He tries to strike up a conversation with my team, but everyone ignores him.

Security arrives and I motion them to the stranger, who waves at us, cockily, whilst I shake my head in disgust.

“What an asshole” I exclaim, before getting the team back into gear again. Moments later, security, reading my body language and tone, call back with news; they’ve deposited his dumb ass in the middle of nowhere, with a long walk to any available public transport.

All I could do was smile and laugh.

Looking back, I am quite surprised that I didn’t thump the bastard. He was cocky, arrogant, rude and incredibly disrespectful. He had the temerity to boss around my team, people who had been on site for 96 hours or more and somehow expected to get treated as one of the squad?

But I knew deep down it wasn’t worth it. People like that, just weren’t worth the jail time or bruised knuckles. The biggest disrespect I could dish out to a guy like that, was to not give him any more of my time.

Despite it all, the huge amount of stress and problems that the festival had thrown my way, this final problem still proved that I wasn’t ready to unleash my inner violent nomad.

Dealing in violence is easy, living with violence isn’t.

Would I ever get into a fight with my friends?

It’s highly unlikely. We’re too gentle. Too reflective and in all honesty, too soft. We don’t have the hard-edge that comes naturally to people who were raised on the frontier.

I mean, my own inclination to fight, is always superseded by my flight instinct. I do my best to prepare for a fight, but really, my first instinct is to slap some cardio on pavement and don’t look back.

I can trust my inner cornered tiger though, to fight incredibly dirty. It’s all I ever known, dirty fighting, which makes violence, as a language to me, difficult to express on a friend or colleague.

Perhaps one day, I’ll actually let my fists to the talking. It’s just hard to comprehend in the context of my own life. I’ve never fought, as a adult, for the joy of fighting. I’ve done a combat sport, but that was still civilised and involved swords, so I don’t really count that.

Perhaps, it’s high time I really invested in Krav Maga classes ….

~

The final element that I want to talk about is self-reliance and EDC.

EDC (Every Day Carry) is a self-defence and prep philosophy that stemmed from first responders and serving military members, who found themselves in risky situations when out of uniform.

Granted, Melbourne isn’t known for its high crime rate or home to a vast majority of organised crime, but I still engage in EDC anyway.

As you are probably aware, before I walk out of the house, I always perpetually have on my hip, a Pelican torch, a Leatherman Skeletool, a tourniquet and my latest acquisition, a Leatherman Raptor Medical Shears.

I am First Aid trained, and regularly brush up on my knowledge. At first, like every military obsessed fanatic, I saw my tools as a way to defend myself.

I would practice de-escalation techniques, with clear eye contact, open hands and a gentle but firm tone of voice. If things went bad, my right hand would drop to my hip and draw my torch out, blinding them, before sprinting away.

If somehow flight wasn’t an option, I would use the torch in a two high combo. I would activate the strobe effect, before delivering a uppercut with the torch.

And if somehow combat was now the only way out, the Leatherman Skeletool would come out as a last resort, and the knife would be slashing at any tendon it could find.

A torn Achilles’ tendon would make for a difficult pursuit.

But in reality, whilst I have rehearsed many of these moves, practiced and prepared myself mentally for these occasions thousands of times, my tools are just that … tools that I actually use every day.

With the small arsenal on my belt, I can help people find items they’ve lost, scan my surroundings, fix screws that have come loose, cut paper or simply hammer down an annoying item.

And it’s that self reliance, that ability to problem solve whenever the occasion arises that make me think of a cowboy attitude to life. No matter the obstacle, with the resources at hand, you can get by with ease.

You’re always ready, because you never know what might pop up. It could be a small problem like taking apart a light with your Skeletool or facing down a drug-addled lunatic who is shouting paranoid nonsense at you.

Either way, it pays to have certain items on hand at all time, and it pays to always be situationally aware.

~

I don’t want to rattle anyone bones here. I’m not making some bold claim, that I’m a genuine cowboy, that I can ride, lasso, shoot and punch my way out of anything.

In fact, I’m pretty certain, I look quite naff with a cowboy hat on, despite buying one. After all, try as I might, I can’t disguise the fact that I have never ridden a horse and that is enough to sink me.

So Damocles, I hear you ask, what was the point of this ridiculous 4000 word blog post?

The point is that I am identifying elements behind the mythological cowboy that I wish to emulate, adopt or merely note the similarities between myself and the idea of a frontiersman.

After all, even after all this time writing, I am still not quite sure what type of man I want to be.

I have so many ideas about what it means to be a man, that even just one of those, needs this ridiculous 4000 word diatribe about how I identify with the tenets of it.

I suppose, at the end of the day, I admire the idea behind the cowboy, but I’ll never really become one, despite my desire to dress, behave and act like one.

I’m too busy trying to work out my other passions into the whole persona of Damocles.

Because at the end of the day, even I don’t know the full extent of myself.

I’m still searching like everyone else.

This cowboy phase will soon be regulated next to the ranks of racer, fencer, reader, urbex explorer, event manager, shooter, and all round trouble-shooter.

God, I really need to rein myself in.

~ Damocles.

When the world is collapsing around me, I like to go to the mirror and stare at myself.

What am I looking for?

Signs of damage of course.

I’m tracing my cheekbones and noting how sharp or blunt they look. I’m recording in my mind; the sallowness of my skin tone, the weary bags under my brown eyes and even the way how I look at myself.

Am I standing straight, are my shoulders back? Can I see how much the world weighs on me? How often do I sigh … how often do I break eye contact with myself? Am I healthy or overweight again?

Am I breathing evenly or am I on the verge of some panic attack?

I take note of everything, from the length of my chin hairs, to the way how my jaw clenches when I’m frustrated, angry and determined.

But it is my eyes that I study the most.

Are they still burning brightly or have they been dulled?

Am I still the man I strive to be?

Do I still have what it takes to rise above it all?

If my eyes glare back, my jaw clenches tightly and I am breathing heavily, then yes. I still have what it takes.

I’m not downtrodden, disappointed or defeated.

I can still fight and win.

I can think myself out of this situation, slay the dragon and get home safely.

I still have more life to give, more willpower to spare, more energy to release.

I’m still me.

I’ve mentioned it before, but mirrors aren’t really mirrors in my eyes. They’re a crucial mental health tool for me and a portal to something darker inside.

I’ve always had a bit of a strange fear of mirrors. I’m terrified of the day when one day my reflection might move without my permission, or that one day it’ll talk to me.

But like any fear, you find yourself consumed slightly by your obsession with it. I’ve had long staring contests with myself at night, when there is only moonlight coming from the window to illuminate my face.

It’s truly eerie to stare at yourself in the dark. But I’m transfixed. Because the fear that I might start moving without realising it is too strong.

Mirrors don’t serve as a vanity item to me. They’re a check-up tool, to examine how healthy I am, a reminder that I can always be doing more exercise, performing better or engaging in daily skincare routines.

They help me remember important tasks and to live life more effectively without compromises to my hobbies and extracurricular activities.

I’ve always found it bizarre that the only time we can see ourselves is when we stare at a mirror.

We live our lives, knowing what everyone else looks like at all time, but only infrequently see ourselves.

It’s no wonder that people spend so much time staring at themselves. We can’t help it. It’s a constant source of curiosity, as if we almost forget what we look like.

Perhaps this is why narcissism is on the rise. A selfie camera allows you to see yourself almost instantaneously. We fret over ourselves a lot more than we normally would in the yesteryear. We look inwards and thank our genes that we are better looking than other people.

But such insecure fragility isn’t something I recommend.

Mirrors aren’t meant to help you look your best at all times.

They’re there to remind you of who you are, from every flaw to every beautiful line. From each imperfection all the way to each wonderfully unique element of you.

You’ll never look the same, when you stare at a mirror again.

Every time you look at yourself, something subtle would have changed.

It’s why I fear the mirror. It’s a powerful tool that should only be used sparingly, to remind me of who I am, what I am capable of and to reflect deeply upon the choices I’ve made that has created such change on my body and face.

When I look at myself in the mirror, I’m not just staring at face.

I’m seeing the sum of a man, who is a bit haggard, rough around the edges but is still capable.

I don’t see a particularly good looking man either.

I won’t be gracing magazine covers or turning heads on the streets.

I see symmetry, a decent jaw-line that does a good job of clenching and emphasizing my moods.

The barest hint of cheekbones, that when hit with a decent light, showcases how long my face is.

A permanent frown, that can be lit up into a smile that hurts my jaw when held too long.

Tanned skin, that is getting paler in the winter, marred by too many beauty marks, especially around my eyes.

Dark brown hair that lightens up considerably near my forehead and is perpetually sweeping right.

Dark brown eyes that would look better if my eyebrows were more defined.

Posture wise, I see a guy who is bizarrely confident in himself, constantly squared on to people, unafraid of making eye contact and always stretching his shoulders.

A relatively lean figure that could be improved with at least a 2-3 kilogram loss to ensure a more fit & trim physique.

To sum up what I see in the mirror … I’m an average male, not handsome nor ugly, with no real particularly stand out features, beyond my eyes which express a whole lot more than my facial features.

I think I have introspective and focused eyes, eyes that are constantly scanning my surroundings and looking into the past to try and prevent mistakes in the future.

But as I’ve mentioned, before this descriptive literary self-portrait …. I am not just a face.

I’m the sum of a man, plagued and blessed by good and bad choices, tired of his workplace, proud of his hobbies and working damn hard to remain interesting and … in need of some sleep or Red Bull.

I could use a walk away from my reflection though.

When I do finally break eye contact with my mirror self … I’m always haunted slightly by the idea, that somewhere else, in an alternate dimension, another Damocles is having a more successful time than I am.

And I can’t stand that thought.

~ Damocles.

I still can’t fucking believe the weekend I had at the Australian Grand Prix.

My first ever volunteer gig for the sport I love with every fibre of my being and I saw all my legends up close. I experienced so much, that even now, when I look back at it, I can’t believe it.

To do a quick summary, I have collected over 4 days:

• An AUSGP Officials Key Chain
• An AUSGP Officials Patch for the 2022 AUSGP
• An AUSGP Officials Pin
• An AUSGP Officials Cap
• An AUSGP Marshal Minute-By-Minute Handbook
• An AUSGP Program
• A FIA AUSGP Tabard – SPECTATOR CONTROL MARSHAL
• An AUSGP Officials Bag
• An AUSGP Officials Pen
• An AUSGP RACE OFFICIAL ID Tag
• An AUSGP Officials Lanyard
• An AUSGP Officials T-Shirt
• 4 Sets of Earplugs
• 149 Photos
• But most exciting of all ….
  • A piece of PORSCHE 922 GT3 CARBON FIBRE
  • A piece of ASTON MARTIN AMR22 SV5 CARBON FIBRE
  • A SCUDERIA FERRARI WIN IN MELBOURNE WITH CHARLES LECLERC #16

It’s hard to sum up the crazy weekend I had, but I will try to list facts instead of trying to put them in any sort of order.

My role as a Spectator Control Marshal was simple. I was to patrol the “moat”, the no-man-land area between spectators and the track itself. If things went to shit, I was to assist the Intervention Marshals on track, clean up debris or help remove tyre barriers. But my main purpose was to guard any “beached” cars (the term coined form the fact that a lot of cars will be stuck in the gravel trap at Turn 10) from spectators and be a deterrent for unwanted behaviour spilling out onto track.

The best part of it all, is that I get the absolute best view of the on-track action. I can press myself right up against the crash barriers and look through photographer’s slots. I also have the freedom of movement to view the action from different angles and really immerse myself in motorsport sounds, sensations and thrills.

My spot was the newly configured Turn 10, in which I commanded an incredible view of Turn 9 exit, and the fourth DRS zone that was introduced for the Albert Park track. This was a fast left/right combination that would test the driver’s accuracy in nailing Turn 10’s apex and set themselves up for an overtake in the subsequent DRS zone.

Make one mistake and you would end up in the large gravel trap, where my team of marshals would be waiting with a crane, 2 fireys (firefighters) and a VEHICLE INTERDICTION Marshal, eager to put his hands on your expensive car.

Which is EXACTLY what happened to Sebastian Vettel in his first weekend back for the F1 2022 World Championship.

Free Practice Session 3 saw one of my favourite drivers on the grid, smash his AMR22 into the barriers in front of me, creating a huge cloud of gravel and smoke and my humble fabulousness was the first open-mouthed, official on the scene.

ARE YOU OK SEB? I remember yelling once or twice. But he ignored me and instead hopped out of his car and walked to the other side of the track in disappointment at himself and his accident. It didn’t help that yesterday his car broke down just 100 metres up the track from Turn 10 and I saw his grand theft moped in all its hilarity.

Minutes later, came the other AMR22 of Lance Stroll, after his accident with Latifi. He was parked around the corner, and I remember dashing down to greet him as he got out of his car, to the jeers and cheers of the Australian crowd and being astonished at how tall he was.

But the most memorable element of Aston Martin Aramco Cognizant F1 Team’s misfortune was my quick investigation into Vettel’s crash site and managing to score a tiny piece of carbon fibre that once belonged on his car.

A tiny, jagged, fibrous, criss-crossed piece of an multi-million dollar Formula 1 car in my hand.

I was ecstatic.

Then came the race day itself, where on Lap 2, Carlos Sainz Jr. misjudged the temperatures in his harder compound tyres, misjudged his braking points and flew across the grass, nearly collecting Mick Schumacher’s VF22 in the process and found himself and his F1-75 beached on the gravel at Turn 10, vainly spinning his wheels to get back into the race.

For the next 56 laps, I was tasked with babysitting the F1-75, my absolute favourite machine on the grid, marvelling at every curve on the precious Ferrari and admiring the sheer elegance of the red prancing horse.

What struck me, was how small these cars were up close. For some reason, when they’re blasting around on track at 300km/h, they seem larger than life, faster and blurrier than what you imagine, but up close, they’re actually quite compact vehicles, with millions of tiny details that will catch your eye.

Perhaps it is the sidepod design, but I remember being particularly shocked at how tiny the AMR22 was, and being much more in love with the F1-75. To me, the Ferrari is a much nicer looking car, with its striking crimson colour and black accents, as well as its more traditional sidepods and design aesthetic.

For 56 laps, I was a neighbour to a legendary Ferrari and I knew that my passion for this sport and the legendary team only increased with every look at the car.

It was the finale of the race that got me worried though.

Track invasions are a common phenomenon at Grand Prix, and with every lap ticking down, I knew it was only a matter of time. After all, this crowd was like me, starved of Formula 1 for two years and eager to celebrate an awesome event. What better way than to jump onto the track and take photos with a captive Ferrari?

The crowd was only building in anticipation and I remember asking the Police Sergeant nearby for more officers. Soon there was a huge gaggle of police officers, guarding a Ferrari, and a crowd eager to touch or break something off of it.

But thankfully, everything went smoothly. We kept the crowd under control by creating a barrier between us and the car, and despite my sheer nervousness at seeing over 3 thousand people crowding all around me, we kept our cool and was able to load the precious car onto a tow truck and get it back to the Pit Lane safely.

As I watched the Ferrari set off, I was struck by the realisation that I have literally spent sunrise to sunset with cars for 4 days straight. As a marshal, our start time was 0600HRS every morning, which necessitated me getting up at 0445HRS in the morning, taking a shower and then hopping into my car for my 35 minute commute to the track.

The drive to the track was an absolute blast too, with completely empty streets, minimal traffic cameras and the sounds of my tiny Toyota Corolla roaring through suburban streets at 20km/h over the speed limit.

The soundtrack to those morning drives were always sourced from F1 itself with its’ incredible theme song, Gran Turismo’s Castle Over the Moon or Initial D’s ridiculous Eurobeat melodies, which was only fitting as I was following in Takumi’s footsteps, waking ridiculously early in the morning to prepare for work.

I loved those drives as much as I did, hanging out in Chapel Street post event, seeing all the fans enjoying themselves and finally breathing some life back into my home town. It made me so happy, seeing the streets bustle with activity and chatter again, and giving me hope that events would soon return life back to normal after the trials of COVID.

One of the most amusing asides at the event was the fact that I made friends with a lot of people there. I loved working for my boss, a typical, non-nonsense, gruff guy with a big body and even bigger heart. I did everything I could to learn from the more experienced team, from what every single flag meant, to chatting with the firefighters about their experiences in another life as a paramedic.

The whole weekend, I was so happy to be working with like-minded people, people who understood, breathed and lived racing. Folks who volunteered so much of their time and sleep to motorsport and would do it every single year without question. Without the 1000-strong marshal team at the AUSGP, Formula 1 simply would not be able to operate safely and efficiently.

I felt like such an imposter when the announcers were thanking the marshals and the grandstand in front of me pointed at me and clapped raucously. This was my first event and I honestly hadn’t done much, except stop spectators from walking into the moat (which none did) and gawk at the cars going past.

Perhaps the most difficult thing was moving a tyre barrier to and from the track, as some of the support races required them (Supercars Championship & Porsche Carrera Cup) and being called upon to help clean up the track when it was time to race for F1.

That was easily the biggest thrill for me, picking up debris and cleaning the track. I had seen so many brave marshals on screen before, doing exactly the same thing and to hear the crowd cheer as I did my duties was such an adrenaline rush. I loved it. For sure, next year, my goal is to be an INTERVENTION MARSHAL and do that job for 96 hours.

Another incredible moment was actually on the very day, where I was one of the first marshals to jump into the bus, that would drop us off at our Sector (Turn). I was yelling and laughing with glee as I urged the bus driver to gun it down the track and seeing the START/FINISH LINE in person, through the glass of this slow bus, still sent shivers through my body. I couldn’t believe that I was in some type of car and careening down past the line at 100 km/h.

Experiencing the bus ride in the morning was so much fun, really recreating the feel I was so familiar with, due to endless laps at Albert Park on my racing simulators.

But I saved the best for last. On Sunday, I got there extra early, packed my overalls away and only wore my gym clothes, with the FIA Tabard over my hoodie to keep some semblance of officialdom. Setting the clock on my Garmin Instinct, I then proceeded to run the entire 5.278km of the 14 turn, Albert Park circuit, clocking it in at a miserably slow time of 26.57 minutes.

A very far cry from Leclerc’s pole of 1.17.868 minutes.

I felt proud though and to see and experience the entire track on foot, on a quiet morning was so much fun. I was definitely helped along by the cheerful encouragement of the other track marshals at their turn, with one guy even humming the Rocky theme for me.

It was the Saturday that I was looking forwards to the most. As a reward for our services, we were allowed to do a PIT LANE WALK, an experience that people normally have to pay thousands of dollars for. That evening, I walked up and down the Pit Lane, soaking in the house music that was blasting from the Oracle Red Bull Racing garage (I mean, who else encapsulate that cool vibe?) and staring at all the cars on display.

I greeted the AMR22 again, stared at the Haas’ VF22 front wings, marvelled at the beauty of the Ferrari garage, scowled at the Mercedes team, grinned how the Scuderia Alphatauri ATO3 looked under the lights and shook my head admiringly at the colours of Alfa Romeo F1 Team Orlen’s C22.

And naturally I took a selfie with the FIA Safety Car, the bespoke and gorgeously green Aston Martin V8 Vantage and DBX Medical Car. I loved seeing it on track, so to literally get so close I could touch it and take a knee next to it, was fun.

I even bumped into an old friend there, a fellow event manager who I had worked under briefly and offered me a job at the AO, which I longed to take, but couldn’t due to retail commitments.

Speaking of friends, I actually made a few at the event, the chief of them being an incredibly sunny young woman, who originally hails from Atlanta, Georgia (an American in Australia? I know!) and ended up being commended for providing the best customer service at the Australian Grand Prix, with an interview to boot, an on-field promotion to second in command of the team at Sector 10 and a “COMPLAINT LETTER” being scratched out into a “COMPLIMENT LETTER” by a stranger for her disposition and desire to go above and beyond to help people.

Due to Turn 10 having a disability platform, I helped her police the platform, whenever I could, and ensure that people who had no business being there, would kindly fuck off. As the days went by, I felt more and more protective, as these people, whose lives were already difficult enough, should enjoy their superior view without idiots trying to take advantage of the limited space and with Turn 10 offering such spectacular incidents and views of the race, there were so many damn people trying to crowd them, that the young woman and I had to do a lot of reminding.

What also surprised me, was a young patron with a huge camera and lens with a monopod, who snuck into this gap that I had originally reserved for my friends. Seeing as to how he was alone with just his father, I ended up sticking up for him and pleasantly received a nice photo of me (below) patrolling the grandstands. In addition, he gave the best quote to describe Lewis Hamilton #44, delivered with all the confidence of a 17 year old teenager: “he is the gayest straight man I’ve ever seen. His clothes are just so wack, man.”

I spent the rest of the afternoon laughing my ass off and giving him free bottles of water as a reward.

And I had plenty to spare, because the logistics of the event were incredibly precise and on a scale I’ve never seen at an event before. Between races there were buses that took photographers from point to point, motorcycle riders constantly patrolled the track, delivering and collecting incident reports and a ute would blast along the track, unloading bags of ice and boxes of spring water for us. Hell, in the morning, there was a caravan of utes, just unloading bins for our drinks, fire extinguishers, SC (Safety Car) poles. flag pole stands and other necessities for our turn.

Medical and course cars constantly inspected the track in excess of 150 km/h and I couldn’t help but admire the sheer management that was on display. RACE CONTROL were constantly providing updates and opening and closing the track, and in all honestly, from 0700HRS onwards, there was always something happening on track.

Something to clean, something to inspect, something to update … the work was constant and intriguing, as was the colourful commentary from a very frustrated SECTOR CHIEF MARSHAL.

Were there any downsides to being a Marshal? Well, I couldn’t leave my sector and thus do all the fun stuff I would normally do at the AUSGP, like tickle the brains of ADF members on their toys, or practice a pit stop tyre change. Nor could I really find opportunities to sneak away and buy merchandise or get better food for that matter, because the lunches that were provided were some of the blandest food I’ve ever tasted in a long time.

But beyond those minor gripes, I would never trade my view for a more “fan-friendly” experience. It was completely worth it to get a super-close up view of the drivers, during the Driver’s Parade, in which all 20 drivers were driven slowly around on Shelby Cobras and greeted the ecstatic crowd and us, standing on the track. Nor would I ever want anything else now, having pressed my face right up against the fence and felt and heard the cars roaring past me, metres away.

To sum up, having spent all day in the sun, from dusk to dawn, watching motorcars blast around a track for 96 hours, I can rightfully say that this was the best weekend of my life so far. My girlfriend came down for race day, I protected two of my favourite brands of cars, an Aston Martin and a Ferrari, and I got to see my personal heroes, Sebastian Vettel #5 and Charles Leclerc #16 up close.

To cap it all off, Leclerc got a pole position and won the race.

I don’t think anything will ever top the high I had this weekend.

I can’t wait to go again in 2023.

See you soon Albert Park!

~ Damocles.

P.S. Due to the number of incidents and our teamwork, SECTOR 10 was nominated and was the runner up for best Marshal team at the Australian GP. Not bad for a bunch of rookies.

For all of my strengths and weaknesses, there is none I value more than my temperance.

Life has a habit of taking away as much as it provides. I experienced such a transaction rather cruelly on Monday straight after the huge highs of Formula 1.

I won’t go into the details, but needless to say, it was of great personal cost, and involved the loss of personal property of which I have come to define a lot of my personality around.

Even now, as I am reliving the memory, I can’t help but sense a strange, surreal hollowness around it all. I know I am capable of processing huge emotional loads, but to continue working and be professional about it all, is surprising even for me.

I like to think that I am a very coldly angry person all the time. Some would call it passionate, but in reality, I know that I’m just venting excess emotion all the time.

To maintain a certain “calm”, I’m constantly fighting emotional build-up and letting it loose occasionally through things I like to talk about or my passions. I seem animated all the time, because I like create a controllable storm, so that my centre is calm, like the eye of an hurricane.

I think that is what has enabled me to move on so quickly, from losing something so precious to me. The years I’ve spent collecting, the money I’ve wasted on these items … they’ve been removed from my grasp in less than a hour. There’s nothing I can do to get them back, nothing I can control or really do.

There isn’t even the option of emotional catharsis through revenge.

It didn’t help that, ever since that day, there has been a slew of small shittiness that has marred every day of this cursed week.

Forgetting birthday presents, buying the wrong wedding card (it’s meant to be Mr. & Mrs., not Mr. & Mr.), book price stickers ripping off pieces of the book cover, struggles to find parking, travelling further than necessary because idiots forgot to tell me about a change in time to the rendezvous and dealing with irate customers at work … it seems that all my good karma has left and it is time to repent.

All of which I’ve deal with a cold, dispassionate amusement at how Lady Luck has seemingly abandoned me.

In these trying times, all I can do is really grasp a hold of my emotional state and try to wrestle it into a manageable state, which oddly, only took an hour after the incident, because I immediately entered a meeting for a project I was working on soon after, without any emotional outbursts.

That said, I am somewhat still reeling from the emotional whiplash I experienced in an 24 hour cycle. To come from such a high, then plummet down to such a low, is something I haven’t really been tested on before.

I can still see the after-effects of it all. I’m still sad, mourning the loss of them and I can see how my muscle memory is missing the feel of them. My usual energy is dampened somewhat, and I can definitely tell that I think too much about the question “How are you?” and struggle to answer it with my usual sarcastic attitude.

My bravado and cockiness has been taken down a peg.

96 Hours of high energy.

96 Hours of low energy.

That has been the week characterised for me so far. Incredible good luck, followed by calamitous misfortune.

Life giveth and life taketh.

Equilibrium.

Isn’t it amusing how philosophical one becomes after a great victory and loss?

I still hate philosophy, but I can’t deny that my personal unshakable belief in equilibrium is probably what allows me to move on quickly from sentiment and big emotional shocks.

The very next day, I was binning all useless items related to my hobby and collection, trashing a lot of stuff that have now become irrelevant without the key components.

In a lot of ways, I guess that speaks a lot about my ruthless and unsentimental nature. The moment something becomes useless, I bin it without hesitation. I retain a strong memory, but it is emotionally void, a black hole in which I don’t try to romanticise or look too fondly on them.

It happened, move on and find something else.

Don’t repeat the mistakes that led up to this moment and explore new ways to engage in the hobby or simply … drop it altogether.

I will say, that a psychologist would find me strange, mixing a somewhat spiritual belief in “balance”, with a cold professional pragmatism to every variant of sentiment and a ruthless attitude to emotional imbalance.

But that is how I deal with life for all its up and down. It is no secret that I ruthlessly purge my social media of extraneous friendships, because I like to know that the people I see, are people worthy of my time and investment.

Friends, like any relationship, need time, effort and money to last. Otherwise, they just become acquaintances.

It is that attitude that drives so much of my emotional control. The moment something becomes no longer worthy of time, effort and money, why hang onto it? Dismiss and move on.

Life is too short to get depressed over loss.

There are a lot of reason why I don’t have a lot of emotional baggage compared to everyone else I know. I just jettison a lot stuff in general. Rubbish can clutter the mind just as quickly as stress, if you aren’t careful.

I like to think that I empty my “trash can” quickly and efficiently before it builds up in my mind.

And in the case of this loss, I’ve purged it rather quickly, to ensure that I can still function in society and life, without any real detriment to my health.

Is it psychotic to think this way?

Perhaps there is a bit of that. I wonder if I am too quick to process difficult emotions, too emotionally detached, but then I always remember how my body language acts up around things I enjoy; how my heart-rate speeds up around exotic machines, or how the hairs on my arms stand up at the melody of a haunting song.

And I’m reassured that I am still capable of being moved, feeling and experiencing all the highs and lows of life.

I’m just quick to slam the visor down, and focus on my personal race, and ignore all the elements that don’t matter.

It’s hasn’t even been a year since I last experienced something relatively shocking. I wonder how many people would bounce back the way I have? Sometimes, even I have to question whether I’ve dealt with everything properly.

I do want to apologise for being mysterious. A lot of people read this blog and will be wondering what the hell I am talking about. What was taken from me? Why am I in such a state over the loss?

If you desire more context, I will simply say, it is a private matter, but is related to one my key interests and there is quite a lot of furore over them.

How much of a furore, remains to be seen, as of the writing of this post.

I may have had absolutely rotten misfortune in the past 96 hours, but I doubt the venerable goddess known as Lady Luck has abandoned me completely.

Even in time of crises, I know she’s always helped me escape with relative ease, even if I get a little singed in the process.

After all, life is a constant balance. Sooner or later, things will be fine again and I’ll be mourning the lack of excitement in my life once more.

It’s just a shame that the wonderful memory of my first volunteer gig Formula 1 is now bittersweet.

The happiness of your life, depends upon the quality of your thoughts. – Marcus Aurelius.

Good thing I don’t have that many in a day.

I hear you can lose yourself from overthinking.

~ Damocles.