I remember in high school when I saw the reading list for the upcoming year at the start of year ten or eleven that it included James Joyce's Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man. 

I got a little bit excited, thinking; this could be good. Surely a young artist is going to do some wild and crazy things. There's got to be some controversy and fun stuff. Maybe I'll even get some insight into the creative mind.

How wrong I was. It was truly disappointing. Boring with a capital B.

Cut to present day, I see a link on facebook to a page with the title, The Ten Stages of the Creative Process. Worth a read, I thought, and massaged mousey's shoulder to click and open. It wasn't great. No soul. I didn't even finish reading it. Drivel, essentially.

But it did get me thinking - I can write a better list than that. So here it is. I changed the title a little. And the content is completely different. Not a single point the same. I wrote down my ten points first and then filled in the blanks. 

Creating something is an exhilarating, rewarding process. It involves an array of feelings and processes. It is a synthesis of multiple procedures interlayed with emotional and cognitive ups and downs. What is that process? Can it be explained? I don't know for sure. But I will try...

1. Initial impulse

Who knows where they come from. They pop in to your head and buzz around like a wild bee. They flick on like a spotlight in an abandoned dance hall. They fly out of a drainpipe and soar skyward at full flap. They make have lineage, they may make know sense at all. But when you get them - the burning, crackling, electric first notions - you feel a zing. It's like feeling the pull of a fish on your line. It's a big one! Stay cool.

2.) Further thoughts

Once you realise that you are onto something good, you stay with it and mull it over. Might be for a few minutes, hours, days or weeks... depending on the size and scope of the project. You give it further thought, venture down different tracks, consider potentials, options. This is an enjoyable stage because anything is possible.

3.) Consideration

Now. Is it really worth doing? Is it worth the time and effort? What is really involved with getting this project from idea to finished piece. Would you be better off spending the time on an existing project or a different idea? Some ideas burn bright but then don't have the fuel to last to conclusion. Some ideas are out of time. Sometimes they come to early, sometimes too late. Some are simply not worth the effort. But don't judge too harshly.... it might be worth hanging on, testing it out further.

4.) Ideas pinging

You are going to give it a shot. Now it's about what is going to really work. What you need to do to give it your best shot. You are excited and ready. The ideas are popping. You're inspired, motivated. This is another great stage. It's the height of the foreplay. After this, the pants are coming off.

5.) Realisation

Action time. You are into it. It's about releasing all that conceptual energy. Letting it flow. Manifesting your truth. Making, building, sketching, writing.... piece by piece you construct your vision. Like Michelangelo chipping away all the bits of marble that are not part of the sculpture waiting inside the block to be revealed, birthed.

6.) Expansion 

New things come into play. It's impossible to anticipate everything. Improv is a big part of any great work. Using what pops up, throwing away pre-conceived segments that may have looked good in concept in the planning process but now somehow don't quite fit. 

7.) Consolidation

Bringing it all together takes confidence. And trust. Trust in self. Doubt is common. This is the stage where the unsure, those lacking commitment, conviction, have been known to give up. Eighty to ninety percent of the way there. So close. But so far. The last ten to twenty percent can be the hardest. There is no more whimsical behaviour. This is the serious end of things. This is where you tie off all the knots. You commit to your vision, you clarify, pull the threads all together. Pieces become a whole. It's a thing now. Birth has been given. There is crying involved in this stage. Pain and struggle are not unknown, either. This is where you face your demon and conquer them. 

8.) Refinement

"Kill your darlings," is how Truman Capote put it. For writers they must jettison bits they love, bits they worked on extra hard, bits they are proud of. They must trash anything that does not serve the story. Same with an artist, a dancer, a musician. It's not only about what is there. It's about what isn't. It's about empty space. Pauses. It's about allowing the viewer, the listener, the reader to fill in the gaps. Doing this part well is a learned skill. It's something that one truly gets better at with practice. It's difficult but rewarding. It's about aiming for perfection. It takes time. And sweat. But it's worth it. So worth it.

9.) Presentation

You've done it. You have completed the creative process. Well, mostly. You have done all you can do. Now it's time to present it to the world. Set it free. Share it. Show it. Sing it out loud. How it is to be judged should not overly concern you, for your job is done. If you are happy, that is what matters. But to not heed the response of others, too, is unwise. Every one is a potential teacher. Each can see or hear things that you may not. Listen and learn from feedback. Positive and negative. it's all the same.

​10.)Assimilation

The project is over. It's now history. It now has a place in your scrap book or worthwhile pursuits. A part of you is in it and it is a part of you. Look back on it objectively if you can. See what you have done. Feel proud. See the small mistakes. See what you would do differently next time. Don't be too hard on yourself. It will soon be time for the next great thing. You are lucky. You can create. You're a god. Small g, sure. But still. You're fucking lucky.

                            ------------------

Maybe if Jimmy J comes back and visits the future, he will read this and rewrite his solemn tome with a bit more zing and zest. Maybe, he'll come back and visit and get so caught in all the distractions of modern life that he won't even get around to writing at all. One can only hope. The bastard took such a promising title and did it no justice. As an artist, I doth protest.

Hold grudges? Me? Still raving about and resenting a required reading book from forty years ago!

Now, that's funny. I raise my whiskey glass and propose a toast, Jimmy J!

To the tormented artist! Like I said; we're fucking lucky. Jimmy J? Jimmy J? He's passed out. 

When I started at the National Art School all those lifetimes ago, first year was about trying a bit of everything before picking a major. We did drawing, sculpture, printmaking, photography and painting. They were all fantastic and I was so happy to be making art every day - whatever the format. It was such a refreshing and invigorating change from university (I had tried two - Sophia University in Tokyo and Sydney Uni) which to me seemed to be more about following and towing the line than expanding one's own thinking or awareness. In contrast, art school was all about self expression, experimentation, freedom and passion. 

When the time came to pick a subject to specialise in, I chose photography. Ever since my very first experience in the dark room, I was captivated. The process was mystical and magical. Go out, grab an instant in reality on film, process the negative (winding those spools in the dark! Oh, my!), then make a contact sheet (it was all B&W in those days), choose your favourites, then enter the red lit, moody, moist and fume filled dark room to play with the enlarger, the light sensitive paper and the chemicals to expose and develop an image. It was all so ethereal.

You could never be sure what you were going to get. It was taking a slice of life and transforming into a piece of art. It was based on reality but leaned towards interpretation, expression, personal vision. The challenge was to surprise yourself. Seek, seek, find, capture, push, push, process, manipulate and create a reflection of yourself in the form of captured light on paper. Blacks and whites and all the shades of grey. Fifty, one hundred, a thousand. Mood, mood, mood.

Armed with camera and lens, a few spare film rolls in their canisters, I would venture out in search of potential magic. It taught me to see. More closely, more broadly, to notice the light and the shadows, the lines, composition. How to frame an image. Whether to go wide or zoom in. The options were endless and the experimentation endless. Action shots, water shots, still lifes, portraits, night shoots.... I loved it all. 

It was about discovering the artist inside you - starting with how you look at things. How you learn to see beyond the obvious, to celebrate the delightful nuances of the seemingly mundane, to notice the games light plays - to chase it and capture whatever you can.

It was a great way to train. It was about self application, about expansion of vision, about appreciation of subtlety and boldness and the shades in between. Our class was lucky, we had a teacher who was just back from studying in New York. A passionate, devoted, inspired photographer named Arthur Georgeson who was relentless in pushing us to push ourselves and our imagery. He taught us much. He shared his love for hand colouring and a couple of us really, really got into it. Taking the pictures even further from the original. We also manipulated Polaroids, SX-70s, and drew and scratched and collaged our photos. It was a splendid year.

When I found out that for the photographic majors, it ended at year two, I begged the head of school to let me continue on into year three, to swerve into the painting major. I was in love with creating images, I was just beginning, I was ready now to tackle the challenges of canvas and paint. I knew where I was coming from. I had things to say. Let me, let me! I pleaded. None had ever asked before. Certainly not with such verve. He shrugged. There is a space...Tony dropped out... Tick, tick, tick.... OK!

Painting was just as thrilling and my foundation in still images gave me confidence and a slightly different edge amongst the other painting majors - many of whom I knew from first year. They welcomed me. There wasn't much structure to it anyway. No classes per say. We each got a studio space; a bit of wall and some panels. And we came in five days a week and worked, worked, worked. But it was fun, fun, fun. Just as it should be.

I browsed through some of my poetry book from fifteen, sixteen years ago and I was struck by how much time and circumstance have changed my headspace, heartspace, outlook and inlook. 

I was reminded by the poems that I used to have quite the romanticised view of the world. Reading them I was moved by the sentiments and surprised by the depth of feeling and, to be honest, kind of impressed by the verbal dexterity and inventiveness.

A lot has changed. The last half a dozen years have served up a series of challenges, one after the other; financial, medical, emotional, physical, circumstantial.... all the 'al's.

In old school parlance - I was put through the ringer. So much so, in fact, that in sessions with my counsellor we have identified that I have manifested symptoms of PTSD. And it feels that way. Like I have been in the trenches, been bombarded. Worn down. Mettle tested. Stretched out and strung up.

I do believe I am making my way out of it. Some of the heavier blue-grey clouds have lifted. The notion of peace, of an occasional mild happiness is not implausible. 

Reading the poems from back then made me realise how I've been worn down by situations and circumstances beyond my control. In each case I have mustered up my best defence, dealt with things as best as I can, tried to stay positive. But I never anticipated just how taxing the cumulative effect would be.

I don't think there is any going back. At times i wasn't sure I was completely willing or even able to continue forward. But now, I am rebuilding. Using what I've got, dusting off some of the old tools, repairing the broken pathways, patching up the gaping holes...

And in doing so, finding and accepting a different me, an older and wiser self, a survivor, a veteran. I have come to terms with surrender. I practice gratitude. I strive to be more of service.

And slowly, day by day, my hunger and my hope are becoming reanimated, revitalised. I have missed them. My whole being has been compromised and my wounds have still not healed, but I am able to walk on my own again, the will is there again, it's stronger now and my only choice is to buck up and stand up and try again.

I tried hiding away, running away, denial, avoidance. I tried suppressing the emotions, subjugating the pain, rationalising the wrath. It may have worked partially at the time but now I need a new strategy. I need to forge forward with what I have got, gather up the broken pieces, the dream fragments and the shards of idealism and see what I can make.

This is the journey of a human. This is life. 

What a surprise.

In a way, I am lucky to have another chance. Not everyone does. Some beautiful friends have died already. Giving up is not an option I will again consider. I want to be there at the end. I want to write poems again.

Please don't make the mistake of thinking you know me - or anything about me, really - from reading this blog.

Everything I write is one of a few things:

1.) The re-telling of a memory.
2.) An explanation of a recent bump in my perception.
3.) A spontaneous expressive word play (aka poem).
4.) There's probably a fourth thing but I can't think of it right now.

What these things are for me:

1.) Taking what I recall of an experience from the past and shaping it into a small story that makes sense. It is based on what happened and I am not making any of it up, but is surely, by the nature of any such recounting, not only highly edited and subjective, but biased (in one way or another) and bears only a fleeting resemblance to what actually occurred. But that doesn't matter. Because, I was there, I experienced the situation and the retelling for me is a series of triggers to activate a kind of re-living, re-visiting of the circumstances and events with the new element of distance, abstraction and hindsight. Over the course of decades of living there are a number of experiences that stand out as worth sharing for whatever reason. Doing so, in a way, unburdens my mind, unleashes them from my memory bank while at the same time brings them back to life temporarily to be dusted out, shaken, aired, lightly polished, then repositioned on the shelf or mantlepiece.

2.) When I share my perceptions, it is an opportunity for me to give these new feelings and thoughts an anchor in reality. Give them a space to exist outside my mind. It allows me to explain myself to myself so that I can then think about myself from the vantage point of a detached self which allows me insight into my insights. Trippy, I know. But, for me, trippy is a really good thing. Good trippy, anyway. Not bad trippy.

3.) Poems are loose, fun, in the moment expressions using words, meter, bounce, imagery, feeling and dynamics. They are like making music in silence. It is riffing, it is jazz. You record it, but you don't own it. The greatest part of writing poems is the process. Sometimes, too, re-reading them makes you feel in tune, funky, happy, smart, bohemian...

What these things are for you:

1.) Stories. You inhabit my headspace and get a vision of an event that occurred. There is no doubt, however, that the way it is playing out in your mind's eye and the way it plays in my mind are probably very, very different. And, the way it actually happened - different again. So what is happening for you is that you are being pinged, activated in certain ways by certain elements but they are based on your own world view and set of experiences, perceptions and not mine. There is likely to be some crossover but it is minimal and not important anyway. What you are looking for is stimulation and insight. If the story is well told, based upon an actual event (or memory of one), and you can relate to certain elements of it, then you will feel satisfaction, activation.

2.) In reading about my recounting of something noticeable in my perception, you will be able to absorb and filter the information to inform and expand your own world view. If it is something that is of relevance to your current state, then it will be a useful, perhaps refreshing new perspective. If it is not directly related to, or relatable by, you, then you will find it interesting, boring, amusing or confusing. Still, if it is new to you, you may not need to judge it, just absorb and carry on; it's relevance and impact may become apparent at a latter time.

3.) Poems are strange things. They are kind of like arrows. Once in a while one hits the bulls eye. Most of time they just go flying off into open space, landing randomly, to be later picked up of the ground with a grunt from the shooter.

So, what I am saying, here, really is:

There is me. The person writing this. But that person is in no way definable by what is written. Yes, it originates from the mind of me, but that part of the mind is only a small aspect of me. And even when I say 'me', I only use the term in the most basic of ways. Me is what I inhabit in order to exist. Me is what I use to travel to other countries. Me demands that I eat, breathe, keep safe, shit, sleep. Me sometimes delights itself in any number of ways. Me sometimes spooks me. Me is a million times more than what I am able to present in these forums. Me is undefined and undefinable. A work in progress. I, aside from the obvious, have less and less attachment to me. 

So that is why I am explaining this to YOU. 

Because I have become aware of the inter-changeability of me and you. I am talking to you, ostensibly, but I am actually talking to me. YOU are absorbing these words right now but what they are doing for you in actually unknowable to me. That is because I am fully busy just deciphering my own experience and perceptions. So, with the experiences and bias and subjective absorption through which you filter everything, the gap between me and you is as great as the universe. And yet at the same time, there is no gap at all. 

So, what I was saying at the beginning of this piece about not knowing me from reading this stuff is essentially true - even if only because - none of us are truly knowable - not even to ourselves - what I am really saying is that what you are coming to know better through reading and sharing in my words and concepts - is yourself.

And you are seeing your version of me - which is, and can only be, you.

Weird, huh. But I am writing this. Correct. But only as a tiny contribution to the massive ethos of our ever expanding communal consciousness. Only cause I feel like it. Only because I am compelled to by the universal spirit of which we are all a part, and all contribute to in our own unique and crazy, cute ways.

I was married in my twenties. It was for less than a few years and we didn't have kids. Sometimes I think back to my girlfriends since then and speculate about how, if I were doing it again, which of them I would marry/have children with. I consider things like whether it could be a lasting relationship and what kind of mums they would be. I also think about which of them I would stay with, given a second chance, a redo.

There are only three who meet the requirements of both categories. I'm not really in contact with any of them. I could probably track down one of them, but the other two, well, I have forgotten their family names and they are from other countries. Probably for the best. Nothing worse than getting a drunken text or fb msg from your boyfriend from 20 years ago, seeing if you want to mate.

Anyway, this story, true story, involves one of them. She was a truly lovely girl and we were very close. It was one of those relationships that just got unlucky. If we had made it over a very testing third year hump, I believe we would possibly still be together. But this is just fantasy because, since then I have experienced some amazing relationships and encounters and none of it would have happened if I had been married to her. And you can't have both. I made my choices, it seems, and I will live with them. No regrets. But just sometimes.... what if...? You know how it is!

I'll call her A. (She deserves top marks.) We had such a close connection and shared some wonderful times and adventures. At the time, we were both into investigating the spiritual side of life. We decided to attend a weekend seminar held in Kings Cross that was about past lives and connecting with them. It was helmed by Denise Linn, a deeply spiritual woman of Native American descent. (She is still active today in spiritual guidance and teaches across the globe, with seventeen books to her credit.)

So, it wasn't cheap but from the available literature at the time and from, you know, vibe-ing it out, it seemed like a worthwhile adventure. These were pre-internet days, so there was no reading up online or anything. Things were done and decisions made trusting a more innate level of assessment. 

I had already done some interesting seminars like The Forum and Insight, as well as re-birthing and kinesiology sessions, so I was aware that having an open mind is important in this kind of engagement. 

Day one involved a lot of visualisations, meditations, group sharing. A and I were split up, mostly, by choice, not wanting to influence or hinder each other's immersion. In my opinion, because it was a relatively large group of attendees (over 100), the power and impact of the process was compromised. I really wasn't feeling it.

On the evening of that first day, Denise informed us that we would each be receiving a certificate of attendance. She wanted to have the names inscribed by volunteers from amongst the participants who felt confident enough with their calligraphic skills to fill in a share of them overnight. I raised my hand, along with two or three others and we each received a special pen plus a small pile of parchment - which included two or three extras in case of error.

I did mine that night when we got home. I only made one mistake. Just one of the names, I felt was not quite up to standard. I redid it and took the rest in, handing them in to the administrators that morning. All good.

Day two was a little better, but I still didn't get any experiences of personal breakthrough, epiphanies, wow! moments. While it felt, worthwhile and authentic, it lacked, for me at least, that bit of magic that you look for when you do these kind of processes.

Sunday evening and the seminar came to a close. A and I were gathering our belongings from along one of the walls of the auditorium, when we were approached by a gentle, kind faced older woman. 

"Sorry for intruding, but are you two together?, she asked meekly. 

"Yes," we said. 

"Are you a couple?" 

"Yes."

She kind of shuffled around a bit and seemed awkward. It was a little strange. We gave her a moment to compose her thoughts and express herself.

"This may seem a little strange, but we have all, the three of us been connected in a past life. It was back in England. You two were brother and sister. You went through some very hard times. I witnessed it. But you really loved and took care of each other. Your bond was incredible. Some things happened with your family that were rather horrible but you rose above it together and really looked after one another."

Well.

A and I were both a little shell shocked. It all seemed so random. But, but...

Before we could really assimilate what she was saying and think of anything to ask, she began to shuffle off.

We thanked her. 

"What is your name?"

"It's Mary. Mary Thomas. God bless you both. Your love back then was an inspiration. I am sorry I couldn't do more to help you back then... good bye."

It was mystifying. And beguiling. 

We soon forgot it, as we dug in to our bowls of Japanese ramen from a place up the road. Then we headed home. Ready for sleep and the new week ahead. 

In bed, we debriefed some more and discussed things. It was strange but kind of comforting what the old woman had said. In a funny way, our relationship did have a brother/sister quality to it. We were very protective of each other and sensitive to each others feelings and needs. What she had said was out of left field but somehow kind of made sense. 

When I got up, pre slumber, to get some water, I popped my head into my studio for some reason. There, in the middle of my workbench, lay a certificate from the seminar. It was not the one that either A or I had received. 

I went into the bedroom and stood at the door, a little stunned. A sensed my energy and asked what was up. 

I told her to come with me and led her to the desk. She saw the certificate and moved in closer. She read out the name inscribed on it:

Mary Thomas.