When I was in my early teens, we were living in Tokyo and my Mum was a member of CWAJ. Christian Women's Association of Japan - it wasn't a religious group, from memory, it was more about women empowering women through cultural exchange and events. The members were about half expats and half Japanese nationals. One of their main things was that each year at The American Club, near Ropppongi, they would hold a wonderful exhibition of the new works of contemporary Japanese print makers. This would include silkscreens, etchings, lithographs and woodblocks.

There would always be a couple of hundred awesome artworks to purview. The first year, my brothers and I were dragged along kicking and screaming, but we quickly came to enjoy the range and invention of the works. Well, I did, for sure. 

There was also, always, a full colour catalogue that had every print included. I would often pour over it at leisure, studying my favourite works. At that stage, I had no idea that I would go on to do three years of art school and become an artist but did know that I liked art. 

Woodblock is the most traditionally Japanese of the printmaking forms. My Mum actually studied it for quite a number of years with some top notch Japanese tutors. Over the years she became very proficient and created some wonderful and popular woodblock series of her own. (Good on you, Mum!) 

It's quite a labour intensive process. Each colour within a print is carved from a separate block of wood with special tools. Some prints will have eight, ten or more blocks. Then the printing involves the application of the ink, the lining up of the pre-prepared special paper and the rubbing of the paper so that the ink penetrates. It's a delicate and technical process - enjoyable to watch. (Once.)

Over the years, my parents collected many dynamic prints from the CWAJ shows and also from small galleries. I also witnessed things like the choosing of frames, decisions on where to hang them, etc. I did not know it at the time but these things surely influenced and enriched my art head space. Tokyo is tight on space and homes are smaller scale, so prints were generally much more prevalent than paintings. In fact, I recall coming back to Australia to live at seventeen and noticing paintings in homes and being intrigued and enraptured by them.

My uncle Dick, I now recall, a wealthy man, had one of the country's pre-eminent private collections of Australian art. He even had a granny flat full of them and would take us on a tour with animated and learned commentary included. He had originals by Dobell, Whitely, Nolan, Boyd, Crooke, Drysdale and Klippel as well as many others. Visiting him was an art lesson in itself. Funnily, even them, after doing the tours more than a few times in my teens, I never considered that I may one day myself become a painter.

It really wasn't until I had dropped out of Sydney Uni, first year, and returned to Japan to see my family that it even became a possibility. I was eighteen. Uni was not for me. I was doing a BA, studying Literature, Computer Science (!!!)(it was 1979), Japanese and Psychology. These were all areas of interest but I simply found the format of education too dry and personality lacking. A large lecture hall with one guy telling everyone what to think. Boring! More than I could bear, in fact. I quickly began cutting classes and going to the movies. Then later, visiting a sweet girlfriend. Two areas I was much more naturally passionate about. And that taught me much better.

So, I was back in Tokyo to see my family. It was the day before I was due to head back to Australia. My parents convened a meeting at the Okura Hotel. We sat in the lobby. The point of discussion was 'what was I going to do?' I was drawing a blank. The only thing I knew for sure was that I didn't want to return to University. Time ticked. There was some tension. Off the cuff, my Mum said, 'What about art school..? You've always liked art...." 

Ping! What? Art school? They have those? That is an option? I seriously did not even know. But now that I heard it, it was like... er, yeah! Next day I was on a plane back to Sydney.

I looked up Art School in the Yellow Pages. The closest one was East Sydney Tech in Randwick. I turned up holding a portfolio of portraits I had done with a biro, mostly copied from comics. The year had started a few days earlier. The selection process was completed months before. And yet, somehow..... I got to show my portfolio to the head of school. Theo. He liked it. Someone had dropped out that morning. Theo shrugged. "You're in group B. Next door. Start now." I was in. It was truly something that was meant to be. So random. So spontaneous. So glorious! I loved it. Three years. A double major in painting and photography. Many, many wonderful classes and experiences. I was on my way....

Hear you, LB, I hear you. As I get older and accumulate wisdom and knowledge and a wider perspective world view, I can see with increased clarity just how much suffering is involved in living.

When you are younger, it is easy (and natural) for youthful vitality to carry you through the years of exploration and adventures. It's like riding a wave. The velocity doesn't often allow for you to take time and really inspect life as it rushes by.

But hit fifty and, wow, things change. No more free rides, no more yelling and screaming sans souci. Contemplation descends upon your existence. You cannot ignore things as easily. You cannot ignore the throbbing truth of reality. This too is a natural occurrence. You are more or less ready for it. 

Usually a bit less than more. 

So you have to dig deep. Truth is harsh. Things don't turn out as you imagined. Romance fades. Notions of beauty and magic wither. And yet, you can not let yourself become jaded. You have to find what goodness you can amidst the wreckage. You have to not only continue to survive but you have to use whatever skills and energy you have to somehow rebuild a version of yourself that is less idealistic, less consumed and consuming, less charged. You have to accept your mortality. You are reminded of it more often now. 

You need to see the bigger picture. Divest from ego. Jettison a large trunk of self serving activities and realise that the time for taking is gone and the time for giving back is nigh. This will be a large part of your salvation. This will make the sting of the realisation of lost youth hurt less. 

There is still time to grow. Still plenty to enjoy. Sink not into the morose. Be not a victim. But do not ignore stark truths either. You are heading towards the exit now. But on your way out you can still slap a high five, scratch a pithy caption on the wall of the corridor. You can even blow a fucking hole in the wall and make a window for those to come!

So lament not. Feel the sorrow. Express it. Release it. And accept the kiss of each morning's sun with a steady, kind and open heart. It's a new day. A new day for everyone.

Yesterday morning when I got up, I went to the bathroom to evacuate my distensible membranous sac and as I stood there looking out the window at the late morning light hitting the trees and leaves, I was profoundly aware of the omniscience of life and the exquisite grandeur of this planet. Simultaneously I felt suddenly aware of my own relative tiny-ness and insignificance. 

Certainly, within my own mind, and body, within my personal reality-construct, I am key, larger than life, the central player. As we all are in our own consciousness. But in that moment I realised with quite a powerful peeling back of the layers, that one humble human life is such a minute part of the gargantuan and infinite mechanisms of the world and the universe. And not just as a concept - I actually felt it vibrationally.

I greeted my revelation with a mix of fear, surrender, wonder and awe. It was truly the first time so far that I have completely without any pondering or meditation, focus of thought, experienced such a wave of pure obvious truth. 

I have had out of body experiences since I was nine years old. The first one came about while sitting in the back seat of an old Beetle VW on the way to hospital after I had been bitten by a deadly funnel web spider. I remember looking out and up at the tops of the trees and the sky and thinking, well, this could be the end of the line, I may be skyward bound myself in a few hours. 

A few years later, in a Tokyo hospital, I was given a near overdose of pain killers and tripped out so heavily that I remember hanging on by the thinest of threads, slipping in and out of consciousness. I realised then, that life itself is tenuous at best, unpredictable and well beyond our mortal control. 

At 17 with a good mate and some fresh hashish, during a deep and meaningful, relaxed dialogue I felt a wave of deepening connections to the omnipotent forces and a depth of understanding beyond my tender years. I cried and cried, at the beauty of it all. Sobs of joy - and then the munchies.

In my twenties, I experienced some magnificent, delightful and astounding revelations on my first ever LSD trip. Subsequent ones never equalled the first, so I curtailed my intake.

In my twenties and early thirties, I sometimes felt my awareness/consciousness was like a wild, wild horse. I did my best to remain on it's back, but a few times, I felt fearful. Never one to shy away from looking over the edge, occasional violent gusts of wind, would make my mouth dry and my head spin. Close calls were rare, but disconcerting. 

Around 33, things spiralled beyond my control and I began to experience fully fledged anxiety attacks. I endeavoured to ride them out, work my way through this stormy period, but my doctor at the time said she would refuse to see me if I didn't get immediate professional treatment. She was convinced it was necessary, so I acquiesced and enrolled in a weekly group therapy to curb the escalation of panic attacks. It was most entertaining and eye opening, and more importantly, it equipped me with the techniques to stop the escalation. I have not had one since. (If anyone reading this has them, I strongly recommend these anxiety management classes.)

In my forties, I moved to Byron Bay and lived in a Buddhist temple. I was a temporary guest of the head monk, initially, but was invited to stay on, even though I elected not to astutely follow the path to ordainment, due to an aversion - from an early age -  to imposed structure, expectation and assesment. Instead, through a impromptu, self-evolved hybrid technique of meditation, solitude, quietness and self investigation, I lived in harmonious tandem with the monks with a strong mutual respect for three years.

The through line here reveals a predilection for exploration of the mind and consciousness; the spiritual journey. It is something that comes in waves, spirals, peaks and troughs.

So, when I felt that stuff, yesterday morning, it was with a mixture of surprise, near overwhelmingness, amazement and, eventually acceptance. You are exposed to what you need when you are ready for it. Also, I realise, now that I am in my early fifties, I am well past the half way point of my journey. I am heading towards a period where one can ruminate over life experiences lived - celebrated and endured - and use the colourful maker pegs of the highs and lows to assist in the speculation of what is to come - or more aptly - what 'is'.

I feel lucky to be an artist, somewhat of an outsider in society, because it avails me time and freedom to pursue nefarious things and ponder questions regarding the true nature of existence. We are an evolving species, now faster than ever, so to be able to step away, step back, view from a distance, the immense madness and divine chaos in it's infinite variations is a blessing and an honour. 

That sounds a bit like the ending of a speech. But to who? And what for? Everyone is much too busy with their own whirling, constantly demanding realities. And, each is so important in it's own way. Otherwise, it would not be. So, acceptance.

I realise my own need not to get to spaced out or esoteric. I do things to keep it simple and true. Eating, walks on the beach, swims, laughing with friends. It's such an incredible ride - sometimes you just have to hold on and hope for the best. Other times, you can sit back and watch in wonder. Wherever you are, whoever you may be, I, as a fellow human am communicating with you my own truth, as best I can, in an effort to connect and commune. I am telling the tales of my adventures. Whilst many of them are in my head, they are no less real, and no less worthy of sharing. 

I am encouraging you to have no fear. And to get to know yourself, to find and forge your unique place in the world, then to share your truth in whatever way suits you best. 

While other kids were winning races in school, getting medals, accumulating A's and generally being astute and doing their assigments, I was freeballing poetry. 

On scraps of paper, inside library books, on the back of the bathroom doors I would scribble non-sensible meanderings, brooding shotgun staccatos, ironic, twisted, darkly playful spitballs of concept and word.

I received no recognition, no accolades, no praise or shiny objects to display on a mantlepiece. I received no mantlepieces, either, for my pieces of prose.

Not that I need any. The joy of writing is in the zing of the moment, the clash and clamour of syntax, the spontaneous friendships and rivalries between verbs and nouns, the thrill ride on the free flowing river of creative invention.

Being a moody/arty sort, a hard-to-categorise, passively disobedient kid, I often found myself alone, in silent solitude - skipping classes, missing PE, in detention - and the word clusters soon became my companions, my outlet, my youthful attempts to define soul and express the flavours of existence.