​I've been reading for a long time now. Avidly, devotedly, constantly. It's an activity that I truly love. It's an experience had in silence (or, at least, total focus, blocking out distracting audio). You get supplied little symbols, and from them evoke meaning and substance. You get direction - and take it from there. You get ingredients, just the right amounts (hopefully) and in your mind you mix them together for a wonderful feast. Every reader will get a different experience from the same book. How amazing is that alone! It's partly what is presented and it's partly how you perceive it - based on who you are and what your outlook is, your life experiences are. 

My reading arc has been through many phases over the decades. Plenty of fiction - I look for quality of writing and originality of voice. Favourites from over the years that pop into mind include James Salter, Jonathan Lethem, Hilary Thayer Hamman, Tom Perrotta, Louise Erdrich, Lorrie Moore, Carlos Castaneda, Andre Dubus III, David Sedaris, Raymond Chandler and Haruki Murakami. Even writing the names of these writers ignites my passion! Some of their writings are so fucking awesome, so powerful, so eloquent that I get emotional just thinking about it.

What is it about reading great stuff that moves us so much? I think it's the fact that someone not only has talent and imagination but they exert the effort and spend the time to truly form their tales into the best possible presentation they can. Writers care. Writers are devoted and serious about what they do. They are on a mission to inspire, inform, elevate. And the best ones, like those mentioned above, do all three. It's such an admirable pursuit. The rewards are hard earned. The greatest reward, I am certain, is the sense of accomplishment, completion. Sure, a writer will be happy about sales, encouraged by good reviews and reader responses but they do not bring any deep satisfaction. Validation is positive and certainly encouraging but it's not tantamount to the satisfaction that comes from the realisation of a dream, a vision, an idea, a fantasy. 

Having said that, from my own experience, once a story or a screenplay, a book, is completed, it is not long after that one gets itchy to commence the new thing - usually more ambitious than the last. There's nothing glamorous about writing. It is a solitary pursuit. You are wandering through a great unknown, one for which their is no map - and you have to trust your instincts, believe that your innate prowess will see you through. 

The image of a writer, from the outside, is so romanticised. It is so far from the truth. Anyone who writes regularly and with dedication will tell you: it is hard work, often thankless. There is no applause, no pats on the back, no huge financial reward or incentive. It's just you and your mind, firing away: chugging, ploughing, climbing, chasing, wandering, grasping, hoping... for a result that will quell the compulsion, calm the self imposed demands. You start something, you have to finish it. One word at a time. Thoughts in order. Descriptions on target. Characters alive. Meaning implied or clearly stated must be accurate and precise. 

​I remember when I was in first class, just aged six, how much I loved playtime. Classes were OK but playtime was the best. It was the time when we, the little people, got to make up our own games and entertainment. It was a time of excitement, frenzied activity, pure joy. I was always the first one to run out and the last one to come back in. Confinement was not my friend.

It's amazing how seamlessly and naturally kids can concoct fun. It's inspirational. Verging on magic. In a way it is creativity in it's purest form. Something out of nothing that is fun and engaging for all involved. No judgement, no payments, no pre-existing rules. Activities are pulled out of the air and implemented, adapted instantly and constantly. Things take a from of their own and are realised within seconds. There is no time to stop and think, it's all input, reaction, input, reaction. In this respect, children are genius. They have no limits, no restrictions. They innately sense where the energy is and they go with it. Ego is minuscule. Like a flock of birds in flight, the group becomes one synchronised organism. And it's goal: maximum bliss.

I went to a The Bush School in an outer suburb of Sydney called Wahroonga. We lived on the edge of Kurringai National Park. Life was simple, outdoorsy. There was a TV in the house. It was a little one, black and white. To change the channel you clunked a hefty dial. My younger brothers and I were allowed to watch two shows in sequence, a couple of arvos a week; Gilligans Island and Get Smart. We would share a bowl of cheese Twisties, a pre-dinner treat. We would all be in bed, asleep, before eight. I observe my godsons growing up (10 and 13yrs) in this day and age and notice the discrepancy. Society has rushed ahead, terrifically quickly. I can almost say that when I was a kid we were still not quite at, but just past the starting line. I used to play with dirt and sticks, for heaven's sake! An iPad was not only inconceivable to me then, but to even the most forward thinking of technologists and inventors of the day. These days, six year olds commandeer them like experts.

Neither way, neither time is better. Things are just as they are. But I am glad or my humble, in-cluttered, un-complicated origins. It's like a mellow base line, underscoring my subsequent days.

At poker last week, I suddenly remembered an incident from my first year at Bush School that was quite influential in my psychological formation. As I mentioned, I was just crazy about play time. So much so that sometimes I could not even spare the time to use the bathroom. I wasn't willing to sacrifice even a minute. I truly relished the frenzied rush.

One particular day, I suddenly noticed that I urgently needed to do a wee. We were all sitting on the floor. I put up my hand and asked the teacher if I could go to the toilet. She asked told me I should've gone during the recess. I said sorry, but I really have to go now. She said no. 

I remember the warm feeling flooding my pants. I had held on as long as possible. I burst out crying, too. Feelings of confusion, embarrassment, sadness, shame and anger swirled inside my tiny heart and head. I was lead out to somewhere, to change or whatever, I can't recall exactly. What I do remember is that from that day on for many weeks, maybe months even, I spent my entire play time standing at the old concrete urinal in the playground toilet block. Other kids would come and go, I'd say hi, have a chat. No one noticed that I was there the whole time. It was overkill, over compensation. But I really didn't want to repeat the episode. That fucking cunt of a teacher, in her selfish power play, screwed with my little mind. She pushed me into one of my first psychological reactionary processes. She was entrusted with my care and her stupid, sadistic behavior scarred me. She was the authority and she taught me how cruel authorities can be. I would be vigilant from that day on. My trust in adults was shattered.

It wasn't my only encounter with bullies, though. Not long after a kid called Stuart Hall took offense to my Vegemite sandwiches. I hate Vegemite! He announced in his Pommy accent. I was sitting with the gang, of which he was the strongest. There were about four or five of us, including good natured ginga, Steven Clements and easy-going, chubby Josh Harris. Stuart insisted I put my sandwich away or leave the area. I refused. He started kicking me in the shins. I wouldn't budge. Eventually, I couldn't take the pain - he had boots on - so, I walked away, teary. But I was back the next day to suffer again, and the one after that. After a few more days, he gave up. My mini Gandhi-esque passive resistance persevered! 

A funny thing happened during one of my toilet camp outs. Steven Clements came in and decided to break the record for peeing the highest. The goal was to get it above the top line, which was about shoulder height. His intention was to shatter that. He had a full bladder and went for it. There were a few other witnesses. He leant back and back, further and further. His arcing piss stream going higher and higher. To the line. Above it but a foot, two, three.... He kept going, his back arching further, head tilted back in revery. Until finally, inevitably, his pee stream went all the way to one eighty degrees - then beyond! There was a scream of terror from Steven. It was garbled. The urine was landing on his face! It went in his eyes and his mouth. It was a comedic tragedy. Taking place in the most unusual of theatres. One in which I had a permanent front seat. It became a legendary event, one that last years. Good natured Steven was the least disturbed about it all, once he had recovered from the initial shock. He enjoyed the absurdity of it all and the infamy. Sure kids took the piss. But not like he himself could take the piss! No, he was the undisputed  champion.

Lately I have become aware of the importance of writing only things of substance. My pieces, I have recently decided, need to have merit. If they are going to exist, be created, and read, then they need to be worth the time. This doesn't mean they have to be exclusively serious, it just means that I don't wish to waste any one's time.

Once you begin reading something, you usually commit the energy and time to stick with it. You are searching for something. When you read the headline or the title, the opening paragraph, you are deciding whether or not to proceed with the piece. Will I find nourishment? Will I learn something new? Is there information here that will advance my understanding of the subject? Or, even, will I be distracted in a pleasurable way, entertained?

We are not in fucking school anymore. Nobody is making us read anything. (And curse them for doing so back then!) We read what we want to read. We don't want to waste time with fluff or bullshit, lies, misinformation, tackiness, didactic trash. We want to be educated, uplifted, fostered, cultivated by the stream and tiny black symbol clusters. We want to be transformed, even just incrementally. Ideally we want a little bit of magic.

And words can be magic. It's one of those things. I think the word I am looking for is; ethereal. 

We may not even be quite sure what we are seeking before we begin to read something. We just know that we'll know when we find it. We become like detectives, sifting through the evidence in front of us, searching for clues that will add up to a reasonable deduction. We want to crack the case and the case is life itself. Cause, face it, we are actively living in and fully engaged in an ongoing mystery. One that is yet to be solved. Who knows what we could stumble upon in our investigations - through reading, or writing for that matter.

Writers are adventurers. Leaders, mostly solo, the advance party, trackers. We are curious, we like to analyse, build, invent. We work with concept. We are fuelled by imagination. Often we enamoured by the musicality of words and phrases. We ride the sets of thoughts like a surfer does the waves. The more practiced and adept we get, the bigger the surf we take on. Unlike the physical realm, there is no fear involved. Nobody ever got injured writing down their thoughts. But it is about confidence. The more we write, the more we are able to attempt with the next one. We get bored with what we have done, said, thought and written already. We seek new horizons. Not always new, though, sometimes it's the familiar that holds the secret riches. In this case we go deeper. We delve. Nice word: delve.

And the whole time, whatever it is we are doing, writing about, we are rewarded with tasty treats that pop into our heads and are expressed though our hands. Our minds get to reflect their magnificence. Our higher selves are offered an outlet. If we can get out of our own way, we can occasionally tap into the sublime, the wonder, the exquisite soulful limitlessness that resides within us all but is mostly disguised and interrupted by the static of daily living.

In this sense, writing is truly of the most pure pursuits available to us. In tandem with reading, it is an activity that can lift us up out of the ordinary and transport us, offer us a bridge from what is to what could be. We have to return eventually, to our homes in the physical realm, but for the time that we are away, we are liberated, suspended in the divine dimension of unlimited possibility. 

And that is a nice place to be.

​     I'm now an artistic machine. A very human one, indeed, but a machine in the sense that my artistic involvement with life, absorption and output is constant, synchronised, automatic.

I paint and write every day. I think about projects, current and future, the much of rest of the time. Even when I am not physically producing, I am inputting and assessing things from a creator's standpoint. I notice what I am noticing. I store thoughts, ideas, observations for future integration.

When I use the word machine, I do not intend to de-humanise my process in any way. If anything, I am even more organic, fallible, sentient in my approach than before. It's primarily the output to which I allude and the churning nature of my inner mechanics. Over time they have been constantly updated and fine tuned to my circumstances and environment. They have been put through a steady stream of rigorous tests, physical, moral, emotional and metaphysical. They have been pushed close to the point destruction numerous times and because of it, through adapting, have become stronger, more streamlined, with more clarity.

I have stubbornly surrendered my bold and reckless feelings of immortality and replaced them with new sentiments of acceptance of limitations - temporal and physical, gratitude and 'make the best of what you've got to work with' attitude. As do all, eventually, I have had to face some hard, hard lessons, my knees have been buckled, my belly has been sucker punched, I've had the air knocked out of me. I've been on my knees, begging, flat on my back, bleeding and in the wilderness, stumbling, utterly lost and distraught. 

And yet, here I am, still. My resolve has hardened, my outlook has broadened and in-look has substantially deepened. None of this I asked for. It was thrust upon me. Life! Life! I've got one. It is messy, ragged, precarious and precious. Fewer things now are taken for granted. Essentials: like my teeth, my eyes, my hearing, my digestion, my mobility and my consciousness. All of these things have been put in jeapordy over the last half a dozen years. 

When I look in the mirror now, I cannot fool myself. The open eyed and open minded young man who for so long commanded the helm is no longer present. He has been replaced with a more hardened facade. One that is wrinkled, sand blasted, worn. Youthful zest has been replaced by weathered knowingness, the slightly weary and wary gaze of a survivor.

Of course, none of this is unique to myself. I know that. It's a rite of passage. What I am doing, is expressing the process and outcomes in my own away. I am recording my experience of this stage of life passage. Sharing it. The reason for putting it in words is two fold. One: it's an interesting challenge for me, one that helps bring form and clarity to it all, adds to my insight, fractionally lessens the burden. Two: for eventual readers of these words and thoughts there will be, for those who have been through or currently going through similar, a comforting and perhaps fortifying assurance. We're all the same, we're all one - that vibe. And for those who are younger, yet to reach this point, these messages can serve as a harbinger, a map, a parable that may serve as a guide, a foretelling. 

Cause this whole fucking experience goes way beyond what you can imagine. Each of us is tested not only to our limits but beyond our limits. Who knew? Who signed up for this? We all did, apparently. And then what? Mission completed, we vacate. Game over. We return to the vastness.

But in that gap, in that time between eating dirt and turning to dust, during the few years or decades left, in which I currently reside we are treated to a fierce new flavour. My mouth is full of it right now. My head is, too. It possesses me, in fact. It informs my decisions and choices, artistic and otherwise. It's a whole new stage. There is no manual, per say. You've got to pick and forage for your plans and strategies of your own. But as long as the passion has not died, as long as there  are a few more "fuck you"s to mutter, a few more dreams and aspirations to not give up on, a few close and meaningful individuals to care for and about, as long as there is breath, there is hope, there is reason to carry on, to continue to grow, build, make and materialise. 

You learn that as long as it's not one of those times when you've got no choice - then you've got choices. And you know now, you've learnt; choose wisely. Or recklessly. As you see fit. It's your life trickling through your fingers... make the best of what you've got left. 

I've been painting most days recently, banging out a new canvas each week. On reflection I realise that when I paint I have absolutely no pre-conceived idea about what is going to appear. I have no direction, no concept. I just put down some colours and get started. I am not doing the painting, I am just following it along, being guided by instinct, impulse, lead by the spirit of the work itself. 

It's an interesting way to work and suits me. If I try and do anything with any structure or enforced direction or content, I immediately feel uncomfortable. I like to just cruise along, chuck down some colours, some lines, shapes - you know, see what comes together.

This way, there is no pressure. No wrong or right, no expectation. I am experimenting, playing, going with the flow. It's a pleasure. 

And that is why I paint in the first place - to enjoy pure expression. 

After each one is finished, I'll spend some time with it, over a few days, weeks or months and get into it. I'll put the fresh ones up somewhere that I can see them and enjoy them on another level - as an observer. This brings another, different, round of interaction. I know that  I made the image and can look back at different areas and choices I made in the process and recreate how it came together, consider what I have created.

In many ways, it's quite an esoteric procedure from start to finish. From blank canvas to a complex, living visual personality. I may not know what I am going to say when I commence but they each certainly say something, at once distinct and ethereal in the end.

I don't try to analyse. My appreciation is purely visual, emotional. The colours are tasty. The shapes are interesting and playful. There's a mood, an atmosphere. Something exists where once there was empty space. 

The artwork will then go on to call out to others, show itself - and from each viewer elicit a personal and unique response. Because when making it, I had no concept in mind and it wasn't until the work was complete that it claimed an identity, I do not have any investment in how people respond to the work. Once it is done, I'm an equal viewer. Of course, because I was there for the whole procedure I have a unique relationship with it but it's common for others to derive a lot more pleasure from my pieces than I do. And that's great.

I love to try to imagine what others see and get from my paintings. It's such a complex and emotional response, unique to each, that I can only do just that: imagine. Paintings evoke intricate and powerful feelings. That's part of their charm. And their openness to interpretation. They don't have a manual. There are no guidelines, rules for responding to an artwork. You look at it as you do, see what you see, feel what you feel and in those minutes that you are doing it, well, that painting is all yours.