'Don't be ashamed because you are a human being, be proud! Inside you is an endless series of strong rooms, one after another. You never come to an end, and that is how it should be.'
                                                     Thomas Transtomer, Roman Arches

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So, I was in the waiting room of my psychologist, standing, staring out the window, as I do, feeling calm and looking forward to our sessions, when a guy I know from poker appears. We greet each other with a g'day, a few words and a smile before my counsellor calls me in to her chamber. "How did it feel to see someone you know?" she asked. "Fine," I replied. "It's like seeing someone at a juice bar. We're both here for something healthy..."

No stigma in my opinion. Interestingly enough, me and that fellow have always been open with each other and discussed relationships, past troubles, etc countless times. Two life veterans who have been through the wars getting some help - well, it just seems sensible.

I was taken to my first psychiatrist when I was just nine years old. I stubbornly refused to wear jumpers. Even in winter. I just didn't like them. This worried my caring parents, so they sought professional opinion. Makes sense. They were young, still in their 20's. The experience for me was amusing, interesting. I was on the look out for questions regarding my jumpers, but none came. There was a sandpit in the office. A good sign, I thought. The doc was relaxed, I was relaxed. It was enjoyable. I don't recall a single question. 

After that, I chose to see various professionals from about my mid twenties onwards. On and off. On my own and sometimes with my live-in girlfriends - usually at the tail end of our relationships. Worth the effort, still. 

I've always enjoyed talking openly and confidentially to a professional about what's on my mind. Unloading, sharing, exploring, testing the boundaries... There's a limit to what you can do by yourself. I've seen a few duds - one's who weren't up to scratch - but knew pretty quickly they weren't right for me and moved on. I have a clear preference for female counsellors. I just feel more comfortable. And I appreciate a woman's perspective, insight (in general and during counselling).

Mental well being is an important thing. No matter how lucid, well adjusted or strong we believe ourselves to be we can all use some feedback, guidance sometimes. It's imperative. It helps. At the very least, a good hour session will clear your headspace for some new stuff. At best, it can be clarifying, insightful and uplifting. 

It's common to get into a mind loop, stuck in a (unproductive) groove, find yourself losing the battle with an unhealthy habit, stagnating in a going-nowhere relationship. Times like these especially, it's imperative to reach out for professional guidance.

I've always found that they don't say too much, really, they just let you talk and find your own way to a realisation, a clarification and a solution. After all, we humans aren't that different from each other, essentially, and follow similar patterns. If there is a way into the corner, there's a way out. 

Sometimes I have to really make myself sit down to write. I have avoided it for long enough and there is a topic to explore - one that has been patiently waiting for days, perhaps even a week. To ignore it would be doing a disservice to myself, the creative process and, well, to Buddha himself. Not that he would care, really, or concern himself with such things - although he might, if it were etched into a leaf in ant dung and it fell on his lap. But even then... he would have to have his glasses on. Didn't know Buddha was a four eyes? Probably because in most of his pictures and statues he is wearing contacts. Not vanity just happened to be wearing them when the portraits were done. Now that we've sorted that out, I can get on with my topic.

Back in the 80's when I was living and working in Tokyo as a freelance illustrator, there were two dudes, both approximately a decade or so older than me, who became my friends/supporters/mentors. 

The first one was called Yuji Sato and together with his live-in girlfriend (who was quite beautiful, reserved yet strong - a bit like a Japanese Charlotte Rampling - I think she'd appreciate that comparison), had a boutique design company in Ebisu, just up the hill from the station. I first met Yuji at a photoshoot for a fashion label. It was a recreation of The Beatles' Abbey Road cover with the four models wearing the brand's attire. I was cast as Paul McCartney. Yuji was the AD and producer. As the only one there who spoke Japanese, I helped out with the communication - as I'm sure friendly Paul would have done in that situation - so it was in character. Yuji and I got on easily and readily. He was a good natured, open minded chap. We went out drinking after the shoot and the friendship was sealed over sake and onigiri (rice balls). My faves are the ones with fish inside but can do the sour plum (umeboshi) too, if no fish ones available. For the record. 

Yuji and I would catch up every few months for a dinner or some drinks until I returned to Australia for a while. When I got back to Tokyo, he was my first port of call, and I was freshly married by then, so we'd go out dining as a foursome. Although his style - his company was called Cube - was more high-end, restrained and 'design-y' than my stuff (colourful, playful, pop, comic-y, raw), whenever he could he would throw me some work - book covers or whatever. It was gratefully accepted by me and very helpful to us financially. Tokyo ain't cheap. We lived in a tiny studio apartment which was basically a room with a half fridge, a gas top cooker and a modular toilet/shower attached.

Aside from the dinners and job related meetings, I would sometimes go over to Cube's small office and just talk about life with my mate. He was calm and wise and pure of heart. It was fun for both of us to discuss ideas and outlooks and learn from each other - mixed in with plenty of humour.

My other friend/mentor was the head Art Director of Popeye magazine (the best selling Men's mag in Japan at the time). I met him on the rounds with my portfolio. I did a lot of cold calling in the early days. Looking up numbers in the fronts of mags and trying to meet with the ADs. Lots of knockbacks but I only needed a few good hits - so I kept trying. Arai Ken and I also had an instant connection. He had long black hair and seemed to be a bit of an outsider/loner - even in the huge building/company that was Magazine House. They produced, I don't know, probably forty or fifty titles at the time (80's). Ken was quiet but underneath you could tell he had a great eye and intellect. By the way others treated him, I could tell that he was highly respected. 

I remember, we met down in the lobby the first time. There's waitresses who bring tea or coffee, orange juice. Lots of meetings happen there. My stuff was pretty diverse. Hand-manipulated SX-40 polaroids, surreal collage, slides of large paintings from my post art school days, crayon drawings.... It was different from what he would normally see. Many of the other ADs I met could not get there heads around it. Ken got it straight away. He saw the passion, the playfulness, the experimentation, lack of restriction... And he liked it. I was raw and maybe a bit of a risk, but he couldn't not give me a go. He gave me my first, modest, assignment right there. We went upstairs to the offices and he gave me a brief. I was stoked. 

He must have been happy with it, because a few weeks later, he called me in again and told me that he wanted to talk about something. Cool. I rode my Kawasaki KZ650 into Higashi Ginza and went up to the bustling 7th (?) floor, sat down at this desk. I wonder if you would like to become a regular contributor to Popeye magazine, Lewie-san? Wow!

My job was to do four small, related, illustrations for the opening pages of each issue - the Pop Eye section. Little faces, comics, whatever. It was a bi-weekly, so I did eight a month, as well as a few other larger pieces here and there. It was enough to pay my rent plus some. I loved it. Total free reign. Ken was like a kind hearted emperor. We would talk about the contributions, on occasion, but all he ever did was to praise and encourage me. What a legend. To have scored a regular gig at such a prestigious magazine, opened plenty of doors for me with other work. I was sanctioned.

I did it for a few years and even continued to do them after returning to Australia - sending them by post - for another year or so. But not being there, dissipated the energy somewhat and eventually it was over. Ken and I remained good friends, though, and we would meet up on subsequent visits to Tokyo. 

My friendships with both Ken and Yuji were pre Facebook and even pre-mobile, pre-email (!) days, so somehow we lost contact. But I will never forget their kindness, guidance and generosity. Two stellar gentlemen. Creative, brave, fun loving. The kind of qualities that one can look up to and attempt to emulate. Thanks, bros!

r​I was lying on my bed just now, awake and mellow, mind drifting from thing to thing after a half hour early evening, post-dinner, pre-slumber nap (a rare but occasional indulgence) when my mind traversed back to a time around the year 2K when I briefly dated a twin. I cannot remember her name but she was petite, fit, blonde, somewhat chirpy, somewhat ordinary and just as complex and undefinable as all of us. (Covered my bases with that description!) I met her at the Middle Bar in Sydney during a time when it was customary for me to go out to bars and clubs regularly and seek out exciting and engaging encounters with women. I was around forty, single, I had my own (rented) pad in Bondi, a steady, disposable (evidently) income and a new found passion for the nightlife. It was a good time in Sydney to be doing this with some great clubs and bars around Kings Cross and Oxford Street.
 
On this particular night, I had already spent a few hours at my favourite, super-classy, lush, delightful bar called The International. It was always my starting point. I would get there at about 9pm, dressed in all black - slacks, shirt, jacket and (cowboy or motorcycle) boots. I would wear interesting necklaces (purchased from market jewellers in Sydney and overseas), a thick leather wrist band, chunky rings (including a gold one that used to belong to my grandfather). I had long hair and a goatee. I wore a single rose gold encrusted diamond (were they real?) in each ear. Before going out I would have a shower, spray or  dab on one or two eau de colognes (Burberry, CK, Acqua di Gio, Hugo Boss... I had twenty or more mini bottles lined up to choose from), blow dry my hair, slick it back a little with coconut oil, and sometimes dab some glitter gel on my temples. For a while there I even took to applying temporary tattoos on either side of my face - simple line motifs a la Mike Tyson. I was not a wall flower, let's put it that way. For me it was theatre. I was playing a role. Romeo, the pirate, the seducer, the poet, the lothario, the lover. Dressing up like this was part of my confidence and my bravado - an identity I could assume; one that made things clear to the women I met: I was available. Fantasies fulfilled - apply here. A sense of danger - but safe. Street - but articulate. Mysterious - but accessible. A dark loner - but not if you join me. Etc.
 
The International closed at midnight. I knew the managers, the doorman and all the bar staff. I was a regular and a good tipper. Years later, one of the managers told me that I was their best and most regular patron. I had a spot at the bar, right on the corner, just outside the enclosure that became my spot. There was joking talk of putting a plaque there. Drinks were not cheap but they were worth it. Cocktails. My drink of choice was the Cadillac. A margherita base in a heavy tumbler glass, over ice, salt rimmed, with a splash of Grand Marnier. Mmmm...  I loved them. Every second or third drink was free - courtesy of the barmen. Although the first one often went down pretty quickly, I paced myself over the three hours. I enjoyed getting to the perfect point, thoroughly relaxed but completely alert. After all, I was on a mission. Sometimes, I would go home with a lady straight from the International after closing, but often, I would, friend in hand or solo, at the Middle Bar - walking distance, at the top of Oxford Street.
 
There, too, I knew all the staff, and had the pleasure of being able to forego the queue and be waved through by the doorman and duty manager. It's a great feeling, I won't lie. I was sixteen when Saturday Night Fever was released, after all, and Tony Manero taught me how to float on air. So, it was at the Middle Bar, at maybe two or three (closing time) when I sat down on a couch next to the pretty girl in a dress. She had been out with some friends celebrating something. She was a little tipsy and she wasn't ready to call it a night. We connected pretty quickly, effortlessly, seeing in each other a similar need and desire, a way out of the regretful and defeating return home alone when spirits are still high and willing. We held hands as we sat there. It was kind of innocent and almost cute. It certainly felt natural and meant-to-be and yet, at the same time, exciting and promising. We went back to my place, straight to the bedroom, straight into bed. We went from the first kiss to having made love in about an hour. Sex with (relative) strangers is always different. This time was unique in the sense that it felt like we were in high school for some reason. She worked in a bank and lived a pretty straight forward life. She liked going for runs and going to the gym. She liked cooking, too, and invited me to her place for dinner the next night. I accepted. In the morning, she caught a taxi home - she had something to do - and left me sleeping in my bed.
 
The next week she invited me for dinner at her apartment. We ate and then had sex. Later, her flatmate, came home. It was her twin sister. We were introduced. It was pleasant but there were many unspoken undercurrents. I didn't really think to much about it at the time, but tonight, lying there on my bed, for some reason I thought about it. About twins and their sex lives and how people react to them.
 
Here's what I was thinking. What I would say to the duplicate diva: For starters, if I am attracted to your identical sister, I am attracted to you. You know this. It's not the first time for you, I'm sure. I'm a decent person, so I surpress any flirting. You love your sister, so you don't flirt either. But, that just makes things more heightened. Our thoughts are naughty. What happens if I tire of your sister and you and I find ourselves alone together? What if you and your sister are well ahead of me and I have already slept with you without knowing? (Unlikely - but what if?!) You are in the next room, while your sister and I are making love. Is that uncomfortable? Are you tempted to ask for a turn? The original sister must know that each of their boyfriends will, at some stage, at least fantasise about being with the other sister while doing it. Is this bothersome? Do you discuss it? I know these thoughts are a bit schoolboy and perhaps unfitting, but I thought them. It is a strange scenario/dynamic. In my case, I didn't stay in the picture long enough for complications to evolve... but part of me wishes I had. Just to experience it. I wouldn't want anyone to get hurt, but I wouldn't have minded seeing what it was like sleeping with a replica.
 
Of course this all just base level fantasy. It does not take into account emotions and personalities, proper relationship stuff. It was only an extended one-night stand - lasted a few weeks, I guess. She seemed equally un-attached to the notion of longer term and equally as free spirited and promiscuous (that word! Hmmm...) as I was, so letting it fade wasn't an issue. I remember a few details of our union vividly, mostly I have forgotten. Like I said, it was mutual, almost high-school romance like. Better than not doing nothing, that's for sure.
 
I remember the special moments with each of the women I was with during that period. There was everything: the flirting, the sometimes salacious glory of seduction, the surprising tenderness, desire, lust, fulfillment, connection, thrill, thoughtfullness, playfulness... All the stuff that our sentient species gets up to when they choose to give of and explore each other physically. Most of the unions began after midnight and peaked around 4 or 5am. Some lasted but a night - others for a few weeks. I got a lot from that time, more than memories. For me, it was about the intimacy. Going from zero to, not a hundred, but say eighty or even ninety in a short time. Jumping off a cliff together, into the wild sea. It was thrilling and rewarding. Some say it leaves them empty - but I never found that. I appreciated each person for who they were and felt lucky to go deep with them, even for just a short time. There were no motives beyond feeling an attraction and acting on it. Being bold. Cheeky. Free. It was a mini - sixties recreation! In Bondi. And Kings Cross. At my place and theirs. In the car, in stairwells, in parks, on couches. But mostly in beds. Beds. How great are they, just generally? A place to escape to.  And if you can do it with another - with a bit of friction, some fiction, heat and coolness, skin on skin, secretions and sweat.... well, bring it on! Loving is good. Anytime, anyplace. Makes you feel alive.