Isn't it great when life surprises us, teaches us something about ourselves, about life itself, about others, humanity in general in a way that impacts us so strongly that we never forget it...

It is humbling and also uplifting. It smashes, or maybe melts away, disintegrates an existing, limiting world view and gives birth to a new one that is much more appropriate, informed, useful.

 For some reason, I just remembered one that I got while I was at art school in Sydney in the early eighties. 

One of the reasons that art school was great was that there were a lot of freaks and weirdos in attendance. Not in an extreme way (mostly) but everyone certainly had a quirkiness to them. The other really cool thing is that, at least in those days, at that school, it was all about doing stuff, making stuff, creating. So you got to know people through their work. We showed each other who we are through our expressions. Thinking about it now, it's a pretty damn awesome way of doing things. And the goal, the goal is not to be the best, the coolest or the most whatever... the goal is to be true to yourself. To cut through shit and put soul into it. Nobody was trying to outdo anyone else. There was heaps of support and encouragement but not too cheery or overt, certainly not put-on or motivated by anything artificial. Everyone was pretty chilled, just being themselves and through a natural order of things, things fell into place. 

Society these days is not like this enough. Too many are motivated by money, fame, attention, status. But really, all that is phooey!

Yes, you heard me. Phooey!

I have never used that word before and I like it. I like to believe that I have always wanted to and was just waiting for the right moment to present itself. And it has. Just now.

What really rocks, what actually is of substance, of lasting meaning, or enduring value is more real stuff, baby. Stuff like .... relationships, showing care, connecting, having adventures big and small, love, kindness.... you hear me, I know you do. All that stuff. It used to predominate, but it is being sounded out by the roar of media bullshit.

Of course, we don't really believe it, not fully, all that crap, but it's a pity to have so much INTERFERENCE happening, so much glitzy, shimmering, desire and craving creating CRAP bombarding us from all angles. It is distracting. And rather time wasting. Paper thin, though. Without substance.

Anyway... back in the day... (let the old codger speak)... I was lucky enough to spend three years in an institution that was fully into the dynamic and glorious pursuit of ART in all it's wonderful forms.... from printmaking to sculpture, to line drawing to B&W film photography, to painting and a little bit of art history. The people, mostly kids just like me in their late teens and early twenties, were the best part of it all. The teachers, too, back in those days, were all practicing, exhibiting artists. They didn't just talk the talk - in fact, some hardly spoke much at all - they lead by example. 

And, of course, we all learnt, grew, from watching and sharing classes and creations with each other.

So, there was this one guy called Sid. He was a little older. Maybe early thirties. He was a blue collar worker. Used to be a bricky. He was real Aussie; down to earth, kept it simple, straight forward. He was a gentle man and even seemed a bit simple at times. Although, he wasn't. He was lucid and passionate and devoted to art. He left behind his job and took a big chance by coming to art school. Even amongst a collection of not-fitter-inners, he didn't quite fit in. He was a nice guy, though, and was treated with respect but some of his early art attempts were.... I don't know... you know... I guess kind of immature and under-formed. So once in a while there were a few snickers. He didn't seem to be cut out for it. And yet, there he was plugging away. Enjoying himself.

He and I got on pretty well. We are both the type to get along with most anyway. But it was more of a mutual respect thing than a friendship. 

I have got to admit that I never expected that Sid's pursuit, as devoted and dedicated and invested as it was, would lead anywhere. He seemed to be missing a few of the essentials, some connectors. He was a bricklayer, after all. I did admire his guts to chuck that in and give the art a go, though. 

Year one ends and we each choose a major for second year. Sid chose painting. I chose photography. For some reason, in those days, though, photography was only two years, whereas painting was three. I hadn't properly realised this, so just before the end of year two, I put foward my case to the head of school and the painting group leader, that I switch over to painting and go into year three, effectively doing a double major. No one had ever tried it before, and I was very keen and the dudes were pretty mellow and not that interested in sticking to rules, so they said OK. I was elated, of course. Year three you get your own studio space, a few square meters each, in this big old building. There was hardly any instruction. We all just did our own practice. We painted. All day, every day, for a year. And it was awesome. The rest of the gang accepted me immediately, knew me from year one, and were happy to have some fresh flavour. I loved that year. We were young artists! It felt beautiful!

Anyway, here's the thing... Sid couldn't do year three, for some reason. A medical thing with his new wife or something. But he did complete year two in painting. 

At the end of year two there was a showing. Everyone got to chuck their works up for exhibition. All the buildings were bursting with fresh, zestful works. I recall walking through it all and being surprised, delighted and inspired. More specifically, I recall walking round a corner and seeing three large paintings on canvas. They were abstract. Big block shapes, rectangular. Textured, multicoloured pieces. I was impressed. They were truly magnificent paintings. Surely, these weren't done by a student! There was a confidence to them, a sure handedness, that extra special something that makes some artworks transformational, elevated. I was transfixed by them. As were many others. After a prolonged staring session, I moved in closer to little tag to the side. The name was familiar. It was him: Sid. 

He had broken through! He had found his way. He made it work. He expressed his true self with paint. They were giant bricks!! OMG. I will never forget it. It was close to a miracle. Who would have thought he had it in him. A true artist. Sid. Good on ya, Sid. Wherever you are. You inspired me, mate. Awesome. You broke through. Bravo!

Sometimes it's best if I just start writing here, as soon as I get home. The moment I sit at my computer. Because if I start to read emails or check out facebook, I will often get distracted. My head will get filled with things not of my choosing. That is fine sometimes but it is important, too, to empty your head. To throw a bucket attached to a rope, throw it in, let it fall deep down. Let it splash on the bottom. See what you bring up from the well of your subconscious. 

Writing is as easy as that sometimes. It's just about doing it. Getting started. Hopping on the bull or the horse, or the bike, or whatever imaginary mode of transport you wish. Just get started and keep going. Whether what you write will be any good or not, of interest, of merit - well, that is a separate issue. But at least you will end up with something. Something that you can work with. Something that you can later edit, craft, into something better. 

It is sometimes called 'automatic writing' and it's a technique used by many. I used to employ it, prodigiously, in the creative writing workshops I ran. It was interesting the way some would take to it immediately, like runaway trains, and others would balk, resist, be their own worst enemy. The trick is to let the right side of your brain take over. That's the creative, expressive side. Hush the left side, tell it to sit quietly, go to sleep, it's time to be critical, to judge, to impart it's need for order and perfectionism will come after. It will get it's chance at the editing stage. Right now it's all about non-judgement, flow, release. 

When a writer (or an artist of any sort, for that matter), is able to get out of their own way and do it with ease, that's when the good stuff is allowed to come out, that's when the magic appears. It's the sweet spot, the zone, satori. Like everything worthwhile, it takes practice, lots of it, but it's worth it. You find yourself as a conduit, the voice, the hands of a higher power. You no longer even have to really think after a while. You just do your job, your duty; you just keep on writing whatever is there.

And because it is so smooth and easy, there is a great pleasure in the act itself. You are no longer questioning or judging - you are just as much enjoying the natural thrill of riding a wave as any surfer, relishing the free fall as much as any sky diver and getting lost in the moment of complete focus as any athlete of calibre. It is a thrill, it is a magical experience - available to all, I might add. I've had people come to my classes who started out stilted and clumsy and uncertain and left with a new outlook, a fresh confidence, a love of the play of the mind using just teensy letter and words sprayed out in sequence. I witnessed some amazing transformations in just a short period, when students where coaxed into dropping their guards and letting their minds dance, freestyle and ungainly at first, with their pens, only to eventually find that within them was insight and intelligence, poetry and lyricism, well beyond what they ever imagined. 

I believe there is no, should be no, separation between good writers and bad. There are only those who do and those who choose not to. My job was to encourage the 'um, maybes' into walking to the edge of the plank and just diving in. It's an addictive thrill.

Of course, some people have natural talent, some are more practiced, inclined, and that is why we have great books. But everyone, has the opportunity, the talent, to at least record something of merit, surprise, meaning, joy, if they want to. Some of the most amazing pieces came from the least likely candidates in those workshops. After a few hours of exercises, we'd do twenty minutes of free writing, with minimal direction and guidance - just a few starting words. Some were reading out jaw droppingly good short essays and stories. Or provocative. Like the masseuse and artist, in her late twenties, who wrote about her sexual encounters. Boy, did she wake everyone up during the readings. It wasn't so much the sex that invoked attention, it was the HONESTY. (And the sex.)

Like the bike courier, who had never written before, who wrote with such gorgeous flow and cadence in such a free and enriching style that the whole class felt like they were witnessing the reincarnation of Dickens or Poe. Like the old fella, what was his name? He shocked everyone. Had he really done that? The story he just read out - it sounded real. Too real to be fiction almost? Him? Wild and crazed urban adventures like he said? And he never let on. Was it him or his imagination? It didn't matter. We all just want to escape. We all want to believe. Writing transports us. And when you are the writer, you are driving the vehicle.

In some ways, it's the freest you'll ever be. Am I trying to turn you on to it? Yes. Why? Because it's a delicious drug. Somewhat addictive. Is it harmful? Fuck no, it's good for you! Too good to be true? Yes. Just like the stories that are in you, waiting to come out.

 It was by no means a planned thing, in the way that most of the good things that happen to you are not.

I was living in Byron Bay. My first place was a share with my best friend (from Sydney) and her new husband (a monk from Queensland) and their new baby (my dearly loved godson). We hung out for a few years and then the house got sold. They found a cool spot pretty quickly but it was a smaller place (as in no room for me), so I had to find a share elsewhere. It came as a surprise and I had to scramble. I found a place in Lilli Pilli. The bedroom was tiny but I got full use of the garage and made it my den, workspace, think space, man cave. The woman I was sharing with was a published, celebrated writer and a member of Mensa (IQ around 140). It was her place and her rules but we got along just fine. Two quirky people, each into their own thing, their own worlds, making light contact on the reality plane every once in a while. There was mutual respect and appreciation with the tiniest hint of attraction. But we both knew the consequences of letting that grow, so we kept the space between us steady. I mean, she was in Mensa, she could work that much out. Sleeping with a flatmate. Er, no. She was too big a personality, too grand and refined a mind, too much someone who is the master of her own universe, I believed, to entertain the notion of a intimate union. It would have been gloriously wonderful. Until the first disagreement. You know? One of those kinds of chemistries. So, after a year or so, I moved out. Again, the place got sold. I enjoyed the time there, made the best of an unusual arrangement and dynamic and I think she did, too. If we had been ten years younger (we were early forties) or perhaps had gotten really drunk one night, things may likely have been different. And not better. So leaving with respect and a mild affection for each other was the optimum result. But I wasn't sure where to go next. 

My friend, the monk, told me there was a small room - a bit like a cabin - attached to the main residence. It had jsut enough space for my bed and my desk. It was vacant at the time and was offered to me as a temporary solution. It was part of a Buddhist temple and Zen Do (pronounced 'doe'). The head monk, from Japan, lived in the main house. There was also a room in there for a monk in training/his assistant and a meditation hall that was used by the monks twice a day as well as occasional visiting practitioners. 

I fit in easily. I grew up in Japan and speak Japanese and, more importantly, know how the Japanese behave. It's all about respect, politeness, deferment, consideration. And from my experience, this is true on every level in Japanese life. Their society is highly evolved and their social behaviour is elegant and refined. Much of my connection with the head monk was on this unspoken level. It's a way of being that is deeply ingrained in the Japanese and it makes for fluid interaction. Of course, on top of that, the master was a man of highly evolved consciousness. I was very much aware that I was in the presence of a special person. What was so special? Nothing out of the ordinary. But after time and observation it became clear that his very ordinariness, his humility, his love for humour and levity, his dedication to his practice... all these added up to a being who had successfully transcended most of the trappings, the entanglements of 'normal' life and was someone to truly admire and learn from. 

I met and spent time with many of the monks. Some would stay for a few days, others weeks, a few for months. I got to know them all. All very different, different backgrounds, different stories, ways of being, reasons for practicing Zen. I got on well with almost all of them, became close with a few. 

Because I remained an outsider - I was the only one there not in training or already ordained - I was able to benefit from their teachings, their learnings and their struggles without being fully immersed or attached. This also allowed them to enjoy my company in a fresh way; I was just a long haired, mellow, artist dude hanging out there for an unspecified time (and reason). 

I have always enjoyed this role. Being part of something but at the same time, not. Being just on the outside of the circle. A free agent. 

Yes, it does mean that the final commitment is not there - which, in many cases - means that full integration, absolute engagement is not possible, which is sometimes risky and potentially unfulfilling - but it's a position I am comfortable with. In some funky, personal way, I find it fits. I like to go 98% there, then stop. It can be excruciating, infuriating (for others), frustrating, limiting. But at the same time, it can be highly rewarding. And in this case, my time at the Zen Do, it was. 

I did sit sometimes, I did consider becoming a monk, I did study and learn some of the ways. But, I knew, it wasn't my path. And beautifully, wonderfully, so did the master and most of the other monks. And still, they allowed me to live with them, eat with them, come and go as I pleased. It was truly a position of honour. 

Eventually, after three years, quite out of the blue, I was offered a chance to travel to the US to create and perform a comedic monologue in a festival in New York. My flight over was covered and a months accommodation. It was an invitation to change tack, a new path to follow. I decided to move over there, do the performance, then go and live in LA and follow one of my dreams and work as a screenwriter. It seemed right.

For the last two years while living at the Zen Do, I had my own comedy radio show at the local station. It involved twenty hours of writing per week for each show. Then, practice with a band of voice actors and ten or more original skits performed live each week. I was into developing and presenting comedic scenes and characters. My time at the Zen Do had given me peace and a place to focus on one of my passions. This gave me the confidence to accept the new challenge of America and to pack up (what little I had) and head West, er, Northeast. 

So, what did I learn there? What gems can I share, nuggets of wisdom that were garnered from living in such a special place as a lucky guest?

I learnt about simplicity, respect, humility, patience and focus. I learnt from watching, listening and thinking. Many of the monks, no, all of the monks, were flawed characters. But what set them apart was their dedication and devotion to something greater than themselves. A kind of reverence for life itself. Manifested in a practice of stillness and acceptance. 

Of course, you never 'get there'. Nobody was anything other than a humble being, struggling and suffering in their own way, with their own destiny. But, at times, there was great reward to be found in scuttling around the peripheries of nothingness. There was a quiet, delightful salvation within sight on a few occasions while sitting silently with these most admirable practitioners, these dignified, humble and humbling beings.