Having a lot of free time is not always easy.
Even for a seasoned professional like me (well, seasoned amateur technically because I don't get paid for it.)
Point is, having more free time is something that many people aspire to, but when you have a lot of it, you realise that it is not the answer to everything and that having free time in itself does not necessarily bring happiness or relief from the struggle that is (life).

I was always annoyed when I read mega wealthy people say in interviews how having a lot of money does not bring them happiness.
Fuck you, I would think. It would bring me fucking happiness. Pity it's wasted on you.

As is not uncommon for an artist, I have for much of my life I have been what you would call poor. Some might call it struggling (sounds semi-heroic) or impoverished (sounds like you are a small person that has been buried or something.)

Povo - is one of my preferred descriptive terms. It's Aussie slang and any Aussie slang has a good feel about it - whatever the term or meaning. Fair dinkum. 

Anyway, so them rich people complaining about being rich. What cunts. Fucking give it away and be poor then, I would yell at the magazine or screen, unless I was in a cafe or somewhere public and then I would just THINK IT VERY LOUDLY.

But now that I consider this issue - about being 'free time wealthy'... (humble feelings, slight embarrassment for past outbursts and inbursts against the elite).. I kind of get what they are saying and it is kind of true.

Free time is good in certain amounts but too much and it brings with it certain complications. You don't want to waste it but sometimes it is a challenge to find the best way to spend it. When you have a creative mind and spirit there is no telling how and when brilliant ideas are going to manifest. You might be on a long walk, having a long shower, taking a long nap, watching a downloaded, long TV series in sequence, sipping on a long drink or two or just sitting around having a long think. You have to be on perpetual alert (passive alert, non-stressed alert) for when inspiration strikes. Sometimes you miss it and have to start the leisure cycle all over again. The whole process can take weeks, sometimes months.

I am joking but there is some truth there. It is often the case that I have so many ideas, so many projects at different stages of development that when I am at the start of a completely schedule free day that I will flitter and flutter between them without ever charging forward (as one would with time pressures) and end up not getting anything chunky completed. Other times I might have an internal rebellion against doing anything productive at all, a form of artistic self sabotage (brought on no doubt by a self esteem gland that has long ago been damaged by waves of sucker punches from high school bullies, unwarranted and unjust punishments from overly authoritative and underhandedly sadistic teachers and heart breaking early failures and discouragement in artistic endeavors.) In these low times, it is so easy to squander the time; making love to girlfriends if one is around or imagining making love to girlfriends of girlfriends if one isn't.

As I get older, I should note, I am more aware of these pitfalls and tend to cut off the urge to time waste at the early stages. It becomes apparent, I'd say post-fifty that time wasted is never coming back, that actual years left on the planet are limited and decreasing at a steady rate and that the best outcomes are achieved by not thinking too much and just throwing ones self into whatever creative task is at hand, knuckle down and be carried along by it.

I was imagining last night how I would instruct a group of younger people, starters, about how it works. 

Picture a number of jars on a long table. 

One holds time. Another money. Another hard work. And others: thinking, feeling, traveling, physical enjoyment, caring for others, etc, etc

Let's say they are fluids. You have your own container and you can choose to go and scoop cup fulls of each into your own container until it is full. 

Generally speaking, if you put a lot of free time in your container it will displace the money. If you want to put a lot of money in there, for it to be activated you will have to add in an equal amount of hard work. I could go on with this analogy but I won't. The basic point is that everything is a trade off. You cannot have it all. It's about choice and sacrifice. Of course, you can change things up. Sometimes you will be forced to by circumstance. Some people are good at getting a workable and rewarding balance, others get it wrong. The important thing is to take a look at your ratios and try to find a balance that works for you. Some of the stuff in your containers may have been poured in there by society or misguided friends or family. Sometimes you need to empty it all out and start again. The whole mixture takes on a flavour as well, and that flavour is your personality. You want it to taste good. You want to be able to own the flavour, be confident in it's representation of you. Like the flavour. Sometimes you might want to empty the vessel out a little bit. Lighten it. Less is more kind of thing. There are all kinds of processes that can help you with this. Meditation. Self awareness practices. Getting counseling, formal or informal, from a mentor or a shrink. Even things like getting away for a while - camping in nature, trekking or a retreat can assist.

Know your vessel. Balance it's contents. Monitor it's efficiency and relevance to your current needs and situation. 

I have been rambling, I know. It's something I do. Especially when I've got lots of time and no agenda. Rambling is not a bad thing, per say. It is on par with speed dating, binge eating icecream and going again when it's not your turn yet on those soapy water long plastic bag slides in someone's garden.

Something I do, once or twice a week around dinner time is park my car somewhere pleasant, quiet, out of the way, and compose a tasty salad from items purchased from Woolies. The usual mix is rocket, coleslaw, avocado, lentils and a freshly squeezed lemon. I use my fork (I have three, op shop purchases, each with unique handle) to puncture the lemon - about a third of the diameter, insert it and maneuver the juice out. I also use the fork to punch tiny holes length ways around the avo and twist it, access the luscious pulp. I toss it all together in my large, fluoro green salad bowl (op shop, $3) and eat it while reading whatever book I am into at the time. 

I am currently reading and enjoying John Lyndon's autobio, "Anger is an Energy'. I was reading some this evening, down by the river, but my repast was not the usual salad, but a Christmas eve treat - pizza. It was a vego pizza with extra garlic, anchovies and pineapple - my fave. The plan was to eat half and have the other half when I got home. Of course, that was not going to happen. Num, num, num...

Johnny (Rotten) was writing about a period when he was living in Brixton, UK. He said at the time it was quite a rough area. It made me think of Kings Cross in Sydney, an area I gravitated towards in the late eighties and early nineties. It was definitely seedier then, much more interesting than now, and did have an element of danger to it. As I was driving home, I thought about my own experiences there and tried to remember any dangerous encounters. One that I had not thought of for quite a long time, floated back into my awareness. 

It was 1989, and I was recently divorced. I would frequent a cafe called Michelangelo's which was located right on the corner of Victoria Rd and William street. It had good coffee and focaccia as well as an ample balcony that looked over the west entry to the KX tunnel as well as the ubiquitous Coke sign off to the left. The cafe eventually shut up shop and became a nightclub/bar called Haste. Ten years later, I would again frequent the same location - swapping espresso for mojito and focaccia for kissing girls.

But in 1989, I had not yet graduated to player and was single. I would sit on the balcony in the afternoons and read my book, drinking my coffee. This one afternoon, an extraordinarily beautiful woman, late twenties maybe, sat a few tables away, facing me. She looked like a Cherokee Indian squaw, or the semblance of. She had a very unusual dynamic about her. I was intrigued. She sat alone and we shared some eye contact. I remember as I was eating my croissant, I looked down and consciously tried to mimic her vibe, give off a similar energy - in the way I moved, the pace, the attitude. I was experimenting. Being a little trippy, indulging a bit in a different level of connection. I did not look up at her for a while but somehow felt that she was watching me. 

I suspected that she may have been a drug user, although I can't say exactly why. Something. But, as I said, she was breathtakingly beautiful in her face and body, so much so that it overrode any hesitation or prejudice, wariness I might have normally felt. In fact, I recall, I kind of acted as though I was a user, too, relishing my flakey pastry while high. It was pure conjugation, I had no first hand experience with heroin.

I was pretty startled when she appeared beside me. Truly shocked, really.

'Got a light, have ya?' In those days you could smoke anywhere. I didn't. But the chasm had been crossed. We had connected. She sat down opposite me. Seeing her close up only served to impress and entice me more. She was quite a presence. I felt all kinds of things... attraction, doubt, excitement, challenge...

We talked for about 45 minutes about all kinds of things. Although I felt a little out of my league, I was being as cool as I could and playing the flirtation game. Eventually she said she had to go and do something - but why don't I come down to her place nearby in Rushcutters Bay in a couple of hours for a drink at sunset. She gave me the address. Sure.

It felt weird, actually. Something was not quite right. Was it too easy? Why was she interested in me? There was something about her that I could not quite work out. And yet... 

Did I consider not going? Yes.
Did I consider it for long? No.
Should I have considered it for longer? Maybe.

But I was not to know. I could not possibly turn down an opportunity like this. She was one of the most beguiling, alluring and mysterious presences I had ever met. It wasn't a love feeling, it was more lust, but it was strong. And what could go wrong, anyway? No need to be paranoid. All I was doing was going for a drink.

I found the place without trouble. A block of about thirty units, spread long and wide, about three stories high. Underground parking. She buzzed me in. I parked the car - it was actually a Tarago - I had just finished working on a Japanese TVC shoot and had it  for the weekend. I found the apartment, up three flights. When I got to the door, I noticed in the wood, several distinct crescent shaped indentations around head level. Hmmm... they seemed to be made by a hammer. Strange. I knocked and she answered, opened the door. Motioned me in.

Three things struck me immediately. 

One: she was wearing only a bath towel. 
This is like the movies, I thought. I cannot believe it. It's like a fantasy coming true. It's all being handed to me.

Two: her vibe had changed significantly.
I can't exactly explain it, but there was a noticeable shift. Almost like she was a different person. Some of the natural warmth was gone, the pure Indian spirit - and it was replaced by something a bit more calculated, detached. I don't know, maybe she was high, I thought.

Three: On the inside of the door was a second door. A cast iron security door. OK. Yeah. But it's on the inside...? And when I stepped in, she locked it. With a key.

Alarm bells started going off in my head. Not full volume, just muffled ones. 

Come in, come in... She got me a drink. Vodka orange? Something like that. We sat on the couch. I'll just be a sec, she said and got up, went into the bathroom. OK, sure. She's going to get dressed. Don't panic. It's a bit unusual but nothing amazing happens without a bit of uncertainty. The vodka took a bit of the buzz off. Gulp, gulp. I stood up, walked over the balcony. It was sliding large frame glass doors. Perhaps I'll step out, take a few deep breaths. I stepped closer to reach and open them. What I saw, truly shocked me.

They were joined together by a short, heavy duty chain. And on the chain was a padlock. Locked.

Just as I noticed she came out of the bathroom and headed towards me.  She was still in her towel! 

Everything alright?

Ah, yeah. Um... 

Then, to add to the surreal-ness, the tension in the air, as if by magic, her towel fell to the floor. She was completely naked. I didn't want to stare, so I looked away.

Ooops, she said, like Marilyn woulda.

She must have sensed my rising anxiety, so she came and sat down beside me, towel back on. 

Tell me about the job you were on....

My mind was racing. It was all just too, too weird. Now it felt like she was just stalling. Trying to keep me there, distract me.

Something was very, very wrong. I was sure that any minute some dude, or dudes would be arriving and I was going to be in some serious danger. 

"Hey, you know, what..." I said, as casually as I possibly could, downplaying any panic. "I've got some photos in the Tarago. Why don't I go and get them... "

"Oh, that's OK," she said, "you can just tell me..."

I stood up, acted enthusiastic, innocent. "No, no, you're going to love them..." I stepped towards the double doors. She hesitated then unlocked it.

I think she still thought I was good, unaware. Not letting me get them would show her hand.

"Don't be long!" she whispered, touching my face.

"I won't..." I said, keeping the act up, being cheerful. 

I didn't even look back at her. Whoever it was that lured me there had shape shifted and revealed her true self. I had brushed up against desperation, evil.

I got in the Tarago and drove the fuck out of there.

I was lucky. I had escaped what possibly could have been a seriously unfortunate incident. I cannot begin to even imagine what would have happened when the muscle turned up, playing the enraged boyfriend, or whatever the scam was. Important things was, I made it out.

I didn't go back to Michelangelo's. Found a better spot - just around the corner. The Tropicana. I became a regular. There I made some great new friends. And never looked back.

​Lying in bed this morning, thinking...
 
I thought about these blog entries and how what I am essentially doing is uploading my brain. I deas and daydreams that aren't shared, committed to words, are essentially lost in the ether.
 
On the other hand, thoughts that I make the effort to write are on record. As well as having my regular existence, I am creating a mirror of my mind - or part thereof. Of course, it's actually just a small part, a tiny part - probably less than .1%. But even .1% is still so much more than zero.
 
Because, as humans, our existence is limited, we do things to stretch the energy of self, to expand ourselves and leave a legacy. These legacies originate from a real being but they, by nature, become something else. While still based on what exists, they often grow into something beyond their points of origin. 
 
If you think about actors - what they do is present personalities for consumption. The record of their existence is magnified, mythologised. Their faces, their energies, are captured and amplified into the imaginations of millions. Their worth, their content is based upon their presentations of human being-ness. They are role models in many ways for many, on how to be a person. They present options. They start out their careers as regular, everyday people. As they progress, improve, hone their craft, gain attention and popularity, they themselves expand, take on the added energy from the attention that is garnered on them and become 'larger than life.' Inside each of them resides the original model, but it gets deluged by all the focus and pressure and expectation from the public, fed by the media.
 
With writers it is different. It's not about them - it's about the stories in their minds. It's about transferring, giving shape to their imaginations and amplifying that. In many ways, as humans, we live in two realms: the real world and the imagined world. I find the interplay between these two to be fascinating. These days the two have a lot of crossover. It is not implausible that eventually the imagined world will overtake the real. For some it may have already started. The power of story, while it has always been powerful, has got new and amazing tools at it's disposal and is increasingly engaging. One can easily get lost in all the different types of imagination presentation out there. In some ways it dwarfs our individual lives. It's like a snowstorm, an avalanche of outside imagination coming at us. No harm done, in most cases, it's our collective. For people from my generation, we had plenty of time to formulate our own identities. We were based in a simple world. What was, was. The biggest thing out there was movies. And most people would see only one of those a week - at most. The rest of life was all interracting with reality. TV was there, too, but it was more like a distraction - not all encompassing. It was a snack in black and white. On a tiny, petulant, rounded edge screen. 
 
Back to my original point - in some ways - if you do not create some kind of digital record of your existence these days - then you won't exist beyond your actual years. But if you create stuff - you can live on - you can be expanded upon, amplified.
 
Most of us have our facebook indentities. They are simple personality extensions. Our online representatives. We communicate and connect with and through them. I have many relationships that, while they began in reality, have grown and expanded through facebook. Some people, like old school friends from Tokyo, I may never actually see again (because they live in other countries) but our ties live on. Some people that I am 'friends' with I have never actually even met! We connected though common interests (art, comics, etc) and share brief moments and support - and we feel like we know each other - but may never even meet. It's kind of amazing. Mostly because this is only the beginning of the trend. I am speaking of digital existence. When our lives are translated to binary code. 
 
We aren't there yet. And in some ways this is a pretty special time to be a human. We are on the verge of crossing over. You will experience it in your life time. Some will go willingly, others will resist - even till death. Either way, it doesn't matter. We are headed where we are headed. Resistance is futile. Embrace things and the ride is much smoother. This is a good general rule, anyway. I'm not saying don't stand up for what you believe. Not at all. That is a vital part of a good life. I am saying when letting go is the only option - recognise it and just let go.
 
I have decided to embrace this practice of recording my thoughts. I have deemed my life lead to this point worthy of inspection, assessment, representation, interpretation and documentation. I am not doing it for any personal gain. I am doing it for the same reason I do most things: to see where it leads, because I got the impulse and was nudged along by circumstance.
 
I remember when I first started these blogs three years ago. My first entries where cranky and directionless. I was a bit like a child wandering around the playground. Still am, but now I am familiar with the space and know how the rides work. Now I am calling in other kids off the street, shouting - come in, have some fun. Let's explore our identities, our perceptions, our tendencies together. Let's share information on who we are and how we work, join together in exploration, examination and discovery. Let's pick it apart and put it back together. See how it works. Let's, let's, let's!
 
Through communication comes connection. Through connection comes expansion. Through expansion comes liberation. And everyone wants to be free! Share your feeling and thoughts, find a format that suits you and write them down. Even just for the reward of getting them out of your head, it is worth it. Not to mention what others may learn and gain from your sharing. Come on! Calling all minds! It's the newest revolution and it's just beginning. Well, not really just beginning - it's been going for ages. Growing. It's growing. Come, pee on the dirt. Join us.
 
Oy, not on my shoes!

Like just almost everyone else on the planet, I've always loved movies.
And like a large number of those people, I've always dreamt of working in film, making one.
And then, like most of that large number: I have tried - and failed.
Well, failed to reach my ultimate goal: to make one.

My attempts were valiant. And ongoing.

I was thirteen when I first announced to my parents my desire and intention to make movies of my own. Sadly, it was still the early seventies and such a declaration must have sounded rather far fetched to my father. It was quickly dismissed. I was told to work harder at school and stop getting in trouble lest I end up at the checkout at Woolies. I followed neither of those directives and while temporarily sublimating my instinctive goal, I focused on my natural skills: writing, art and comedy. I started keeping a regular journal of my ideas and stories. I immersed myself in books. I drew everyday, especially during class, when I was supposed to be listening to tedious lectures on history, physics and Latin (yes, Latin!). I shouted out pithy one liners during class, whenever the whim took me, and was vociferously encouraged by my classmates and reprimanded by the teachers. I did drama and choir. Video was non-existent back then and film was prohibitively expensive. I did make a few shorts on super8, but they were never even edited. Still, the spirit, the interest and the intention were there early.

Through art school and beyond, into my late twenties I kept journals with film ideas alongside my poetry and short stories. At around thirty I began publishing a zine, called Free Spirit, which included my written works with some comics. Think New Yorker, ha ha, but all the way at the other end of the spectrum. If New Yorker was a skyscraper, Free Spirit would be a single left over brick down in the basement. Still, for myself and a few friends and followers it was a brick that brought pleasure. It wasn't a brick that was used to bash in heads, it was a brick for love and peace and joy and butterflies and was full of influences from Woody Allen, Monty Python, Raymond Carver, Japanese haiku, Robert Crumb, David Hockney, National Lampoon magazine and 70's and 80's comic books and album cover art. In 1990, surrounded by fellow creatives, hanging out at the Tropicana cafe in Kings Cross, I was encouraged to apply to film school. I made it to the trial week and the personal interviews, the short-short list. The head of production, Gil somebody, got me, got where I was coming from. He said my creativity was undeniable but they believed that I would be stifled by 3 years in their institution. He recognised the rebel in me and surmised that I may tire of being imposed by guidelines and rule books and would drop out before the end of first year. They could not afford to risk it with me. Of course, I protested. "I'll be good!" I said. "I will stay!" But they were not convinced. Maybe they were right. I took it in stride. 

After gaining experience working with my brother, Mookie, on Japanese TV commercials as a bilingual production co-ordinator, I decided to invest some of my earnings in some short films of my own. Over the next few years, I completed five or six shorts on both video and super16mm. They were all comedies. Two of them made it as finalists in the Tropfest and were shown to an audience. The first one was in the inaugural year - so it wasn't that hard to get selected. There were only a dozen of us! The whole idea of the Tropfest was cooked up at a table in the Trop with me, Johnny Polson, Rob Mac, Stephen Fennely and a few aspiring filmmakers brainstorming about how to get our stuff seen. John took it further, ran with it on his own and meticulously built it into the wonderful celebration of film that it is still today.

Some of the titles of my shorts: Alpha in Tokyo, Santa in Sydney in Summertime, Bondi and I, Troo Lurv, Trust Me, Darling and Elevation - my final biggest budget one - shot on super 16 - that I never got to edit cause I ran out of money. The reels are still sitting in storage. Maybe one day. No. Maybe not.

For years I labored away at my first feature script. But it just wasn't gelling. Unlike story writing where instinct can guide you, scriptwriting is a craft that must be learnt. There is a format to adhere to. Much time can be saved by studying it. So I did a few night and weekend courses in Sydney and that helped. I also attended guru McKee's 3 day seminar - which was enriching and inspirational. The guy is a dynamo. But it wasn't enough to actually help me get my first script written. It did amp me up, though, and make me feel like it was going to be possible - that I would be able to make it happen. I loved the language of cinema, I loved the magic of creating something from nothing - and this was my new chosen form. I would not stop until I had done it. Written at least one complete script that I was happy with. (Then hopefully make it or see it made.)

 At the time there was a great little shop in Chinatown called the Script Shop - run by a good hearted and enterprising American film afficianado. They had all the best books on the craft - which was great - but as well, there were two big shelves full of actual scripts of classic and current films. I was his best customer. I think they were 20 dollars each with a bonus 6th one if you bought five. So, I'd go in there, almost every second weekend and get six of the freshest imports. Over a year or two I amassed a collection of many hundreds. I chose carefully - and read them all. Some screenwriters are truly talented and entertaining writers - as well as being good with scripts. A few of my favourites were Joe Esterhasz, Shane Black and ..... I really dug the brevity of the form. Not a word is superfluous. No wasted space. 


I took a leap of faith and invested all my savings to enroll in two summer courses in the US, one on each coast. At the International Film and TV Workshop in Maine, I studied with Robocop co-writer, Michael Miner and screenwriting expert, Christopher Keane. At UCLA I did the master screenwriting course with Lew Hunter as well as one with the dynamic Richard Walters and a third, night course with Phil Hartman, the co-writer of Pee Wee's Big Adventure. They were all fabulously instructive in their own ways. All five of the instructors taught me something worthwhile. While I was over there, I also attended the Hollywood Film Festival and soaked up stories and direction from the writer of Gandhi, John Briley, and others. It was a veritable feast of screenwriting. I was saturated and poised to commence scenarios of my own. 

One funny thing that happened to me while I was studying at IFTV in Rockport with Michael Miner was that as our final presentation we were to pitch, to the entire school, on the last day of the entire course for everyone (others were doing directing, producing, cinematography, etc), our favourite film idea. Each of us had five minutes and the live mike in front of the gathered audience of two or three hundred. I had been kind of quiet at first in the classes, just focusing and trying to take it as much as I could. Americans are a pretty vocal bunch and there was no point in competing. Inevitably, though, my cheeky side leaked out and I became that 'hilarious Aussie guy with the weird sense of humour.' 

An aside within the aside: One of the most useful things of the course was our one-on-one sessions with Michael. Each of us got an hour of so with him to discuss and brainstorm the actual script we were working on at the time and presented in order to be selected into the course in the first place. So everyone had at least a first draft. When Michael told us that two days would be spent with these one-on-ones I was a bit pissed. There were some cute girls in the group of about fifteen and I was suspicious that our six foot two, whiskey voiced, LA lothario, was just vying for alone time with some fresh honeys (with talent). The course was not cheap and I felt that losing two full days of face time - minus the private session - was bordering on rip-off. I even considered not going to the meeting at 'his cabin' in protest. 

But I did go. And, whoa!, am I glad I did. It was without a doubt, the most rewarding and useful hour or two on my screenwriting path up until that time. Micheal, who had written eleven features at that time, got paid pretty handsomely for Robocop (directed by Paul Verhoven, of whom I am, incidentally, a great admirer) and had optioned (for about 100K each) five or six others, knew his stuff! Surprise, surprise. A true mentor. We got on really well, clicked, and he knew all the right questions to ask me, suggestions to give and ideas to float to turn my hodge-podge of a script into a cohesive, potentially producible concept. I would still have to completely rewrite it, of course, but after our invaluable session, I knew where I was going. It was a truly enlightening and rewarding experience. I walked away high (not literally, although had been so inclined that may have been an option, too), and completely transformed as a screenwriter. How silly my initial reservations and petty and misguided mini outrage had been. Lesson learnt: get out of your own way.

So, back to the big night... everyone was huddled into a barn-like, makeshift auditorium. I chose not to present the script I was working on, but a new idea that I cooked up in situ. Of course, like everyone, I was a little nervous to get up in front of such a large group, but once I began - almost immediately - the crowd warmed to me and began with a snowballing laughter that ignited my spirit of playfulness and joy and made the presentation a hugely satisfying experience. Afterwards, there was an abundance of high fives and back pats and even an offer from a fast talking LA based young producer (who claimed a strong affiliation with Tarantinos' producer, Lawrence Bender) to help me get my idea produced once it was written. Of course, Michael, was proud as punch that one of his students was the star of the show. Once it was over, after a flurry of celebration for about  half an hour, it died down quickly and everyone returned to their individual temp dwellings. I was staying in a tiny road side motel, out the back of nowhere, as I had got in too late for the student apartments closer to campus. I retired to my little room with an crummy old tele and fell asleep satisfied and happy with a black and white classic humming away in the background, dreamt of a technicolour future.

The kicker is - and it's always good to have one - think The Usual Suspects - that my story was about a non-conformist, underdog, quirky dude and his wacky adventures. I made it as funny as I could but I was surprised at just how much laughter and egging on I was receiving from the crowd. Thing is, and I was to find out after it all, as one of them took me aside, was that my protagonist's name - and the title of the entire story - was Pud. Unbeknownst to me 'pud' in American vernacular means penis. Pud did this, Pud did that, I was naively flopping the word around to the wicked delight of the growingly raucous crowd.

On my return to Sydney, I immediately set myself to the task of writing and within less than a month I had completed the first draft of my first script. It was a wild, rollicking adventure-comedy set in Australia and New Zealand called Resident Alien. I joined the Australian Writer's Guild and registered it. Then I set about writing my second one. Followed by a third, fourth and fifth. I was powering. Full focus. Direction. Dedication. Obsession? 

Hell, yeah. That's how I roll. If Michael could write eleven, I could do half a dozen. I think number six was my first real chance at a go pic. It was called Tokyo Rush and was the coming of age story of a  young man graduating high school in Tokyo and spending his last summer there, partying at night in Roppongi and inadvertently getting dragged into life threatening drama with the Yakuza. It was a real page turner and I had high hopes for it. I took it with me on a return trip to Los Angeles but I had no great contacts or leads, and over there it was just one of thousands of scripts presented daily. It got buried. Lost. Ignored. I've never been a salesman, a hype man, a push person. With a shrug, I returned to Sydney, making notes for my next script on the plane back.

But number seven never eventuated. I had done my dash. In a way, I conceded. I went back to regular writing and self-published a book of my poems, stories and essays called 'All I've Ever Wanted Was What I Know I Can Never Have.' I had a great launch, sold all my copies, loaded up my old Rangey with my essentials and hit the road, headed up to Byron Bay to live for a while, see what was next.

CUT TO: Present day

I have no regrets about the entire time and process. I really loved it, in fact. I got right into something new and went as far as I could with it. Is there a number seven, number eight in me? For sure. They are there, waiting. Their time will come. I'm easy. I don't like to pressure myself about things. As long as I am doing something creative, numerous things actually, each day - whatever form they take - painting, drawing, writing - I'm OK with life. Cause that is my job. What happens with those things after I have made them has never been something of much concern to me. 

I feel lucky to have been granted a creative spirit. 
I revel in it, like a kid in a kid's pool. 
Listen carefully, and off in the distance, you might hear me.
I'm in it everyday, chuckling, squealing, flailing around with delight. 

Some of my most wonderful life experiences have, without a doubt, been in sharing time with women. So have some of my most challenging. Often, but not always, they are with the same woman.

One such woman, I'll call her Claire, I met in New Zealand while shooting a Japanese TV commercial a few decades ago. She was hired by the local producer as a production assistant, also known as runners. They help out wherever they can on set or location - doing anything from driving, to getting meals, handing out call sheets, etc.

Although I do remember the first time I was introduced to Claire, in the production office in Wellington, it wasn't until we were on set a few days later that something really pinged and I realised that there was some attraction there. She was a bit like a cat; quietly confident, graceful and sleek, and, I was soon to find out great to curl up with, fun to make purr.

We started out playing some cheeky games with ice cubes, one day on location when the main crew were out on the camera car getting some shots. She was up for any challenge and we shared a sense of humour and play. I love that moment when you both realise that eventually you are going to be together. Maybe you are not 100% sure, but it's 90% from both sides and you each use the last 10% as an ongoing oscillating tease. 

That evening, after the crew dinner in a small town pub, halfway down the south island of NZ, we snuck away to a secluded courtyard area and shared some time alone together to see if your chemistry was indeed what we perceived it to be. I remember, at my suggestion, we played a word game. A simple one but quite telling and revealing of each other's headspace, world view and nature. I would say a word and she would respond with the first word that came into her head, to which I would do the same and so on. 

It was smooth, funny and dynamic. I was surprised and delighted by her complexity, intelligence and layers. The 10% was reduced to 1%. She suggested we go for a drive. By now it was around 11pm. The call time for the next morning was six. "Let's go!" I said without hesitation and jumped in the passenger seat of her assigned mini van.  

After she had been driving for about ten, fifteen minutes, in the abandoned countryside, I asked her if she knew where she was going. "I'll know when we get there." was her response. It seemed a little strange, to be heading out so far into unknown territory (for us both), but I shrugged it off and relinquished control. We drove in silence for a while longer and then we crossed a bridge. I recall looking at here driving and suddenly getting a feeling of dread, a strange and powerful gut feeling. What was it and why? I did not know. I surpressed it, though. I was too into her. I was willing to see the outcome. It was a mild, inexplicable panic. I did not want to succumb to it, although it was noted and filed. By the time we pulled up on the side of the road, in the middle of nowhere, it had passed. We got out of the car and climbed over a fence and ran across a large open paddock. Our destination, using only the available moonlight to guide us was a giant, multi-layered stack of hay bales. Like a couple of crazy kids, we climbed up to the mid level, and laying out coats down as a blanket, we began to get intimate.

You know you are with a good match when you really just want to keep kissing. Kissing is more than enough. Your body is pumping chemicals like there is no tomorrow, your eyes are closed, all your senses are on high alert, your faces are smashed together, saliva is being exchanged, tongues whirling in playful delight. There is nowhere else in the world you would rather be. You are experiencing one of those moments on planet earth that is as close to perfection as you'll ever get. You are connecting with another person in a way that makes you feel incredibly present and incredibly transported to another dimension at the same time.

Eventually, the animal takes over and nudges even the most romantic, slow burners towards intercourse. We were just beginning, maybe five or ten minutes into it, when we noticed car lights at the gate. After a few moments of confusion - we were out in the middle of nowhere at 1am - I leapt up and pulled my pants on, headed towards the lights. What I saw gave me chills. It was a man holding a rifle. Not just holding it, but pointing it at me as he walked towards me. For a second or two I was frozen. 

"What the bloody hell are you doing on my property?"

He was angry but not psychotic. I told him we were just out on a drive and decided to do some star gazing. In the meantime, Claire had put her clothes on and gathered the rest of mine, joining me at my side. She apologised with me and I believe that the old fella worked out exactly what was going on and realising we were no threat in any way, chose to cut us some slack. He did not become friendly, but he did lower his gun as he invited us to piss off.

It was an unexpected experience, a heightened experience. When we got back to my room at the motel our intimacy was continued, perhaps improved by our shared brush with danger. We took our time and knew that our bodies were as meant for each other as our personalities and minds. There was no question that this was something special.

We only had one other opportunity to be together in private and that was on my last night in Christchurch. Claire snuck back to my hotel room quite late, after the wrap dinner. Not being sure when we would see each other again made it bitter sweet. 

Of course, we had to see each other again. We conversed transpacific a few times and soon arranged for Claire to come and visit me in Bondi. It was so exciting to see her again and it felt like something real and potentially long term. We were so compatible. As well as being gorgeous in an understated way, she was a very cool person who had a quiet confidence and alluring charm. It felt like I was the only one who had access to this truly amazing being. I was euphoric. After some time in Bondi, I decided to treat her with a trip to Australia's chilled, spiritual rejuvenation, coastal mecca; Byron Bay. It was on our last day there, after a week of laughing and loving, heavenly hanging, that the dream came to a sudden and shocking halt.

It came in the form of a message on my mobile phone. Mobiles were still pretty new then and basic. Texting didn't exist. Calls were often missed or would go straight to mail box. This one came from a private number and went straight to messages. I pushed one to listen. It was a voice I did not recognise. It went something like this:

"This is Ben. I'm Claire's boyfriend. I know you are with her in Byron Bay. I'm at your place in Bondi right now. I'm waiting in the stair well with a knife. I'm not afraid to go to prison. I have been there before. I'm not even afraid to do life. If I can't have Claire, there's no point in living anyway. You've taken her from me and that is unforgivable. I've got lots of nasty friends in Sydney who..."

And on it went. Increasingly desperate, unbalanced, shocking, threatening and psychotic. After another few seconds, I hit the discard button. Shut it down. I was spooked enough. The message was clear.

The place we were staying was booked out. We moved to a hotel on the Gold Coast but did not catch our scheduled flight back to Sydney. We holed up there for a few more days and nights. I arranged for a mate to scope out my place. Claire assured me that he wouldn't be there. That he was a lot of bark and only some bite. Still. Bite's are painful.

Who was this guy? And why had I not known about this?

Turns out he was a recent ex. A dangerous character. She had left him, finally, after an unhappy, tormenting and prolonged break up. But in his mind, it was not over. He had found out about me through their friend's network and somehow got my phone number and address. 

Was he really dangerous? Did he really have bikie friends? 

Yes and yes. But, she didn't think he would really actually kill me. But he could, maybe. Friends of their friends had taken out hit orders on people before.

A whole new side of her became apparent. She was someone who walked the line. Live dangerously. Under that sweetness was cold blood. She was attracted to my free spirit and comparative innocence. I've had my share of scrapes with trouble, sure, but I've never taken out a hit on someone. 

Anyway, she rang a mutual friend of theirs - the leader of a bike gang in NZ. After a few conversations to and fro, including the big dude calling and allegedly placating Ben - I was given the all clear. No assassination today.

From Sydney, she returned home. She promised to get it sorted out before the next time we would meet. I was going to go down there. Spend some time at her place, meet the family...

We continued to talk on the phone. But things were different. I could not comfortable integrate into that world. Her and me... yes. The rest of it... no, thanks. The calls became shorter and less frequent. Time, in it's giant rolling snowball way, whited out everything. As it does, as it does.

Sometimes, I would think back to that very strong feeling I got before it all started. In the van on that first night. I believe I sensed the trouble in her, around her. She showed none of it, but it was there, hidden away. I sensed it. I could not have known - and I wanted to be with her, so I let it dissipate. But it was one of a very few times in my life I have ever felt it like that. It was spot on.

Sometimes I start to write an entry and I just can't.

Maybe I will know my topic and find it too challenging to get into it, or maybe I will not know exactly what I am intending to say and things will not gel.

Sometimes I even begin an entry and then stop halfway, either due to lack of direction, lack of conviction or lack of motivation. 

These things do not happen often. But they happen. 

As one who questions things, I have to ask myself, 'why am I writing this?' And, if the answer is not satisfactory, I will cease. I don't like wasting time. Not mine, nor yours.

And when I say yours, when I refer to you, I, of course, do not even know who you are. I will know some of my readers personally, for sure, but others not. I also do not know who reads any given essay, even amongst those who I know sometimes pop in for a gander.

But it doesn't matter. Because I am actually, really, talking to myself. I am talking to an element of myself that wants to understand how I think, how my mind works, how I put the world together, take it apart. 

I am curious about every element of existence. Strike that. I am curious about the things that I am curious about. There is plenty of stuff that doesn't interest me.

I have strived for more than forty years to gather as much information and life experience as I can, at every opportunity, through interacting with people of all sorts, through travel, through absorbing books and music and art and films. I dive in deep when I am into things. 

In the late seventies and early eighties, movies were my passion. I made an effort to see as many as possible. I would go to revival theatres and watch double bills - movies like Performance, El Topo, Dog Day Afternoon, Midnight Cowboy.... Films by European masters like Truffaut, Bergman, Fellini... Japanese greats; Kurosawa, Ozu, Imamura... plus Kubrick, Altman, Lindsay Anderson...etc, etc - I just wanted to soak it all up. 

I was studying. I also did the same with books. Less the classics - more the contemporaries. And music - I recorded onto cassette thousands and thousands of hours of stuff. Art, too, of course; I could not get enough.

And my point? I realised today that I have been loading up big time for a long time. I have been a perpetual student of the arts for decades and decades. It's all self study, a vary loosely structure curriculum. ie. find what ignites my interest and get right into it. Go deeper and deeper. When it gets boring - move onto the next thing.

So what is to become of all this knowledge? Am I full yet?

No, of course not. I continue to stock up. But, what is becoming apparent now is a growing urge, need, to use what I have learnt to make some good things, some lasting things, some inspirational things. Stuff that will fire up the young meez of the future.

Naturally, as well as absorbing over all this time, I have been consistent with my output as well. But I believe I am yet to really reach my pinnacle. I am yet to bring it all together into something wonderful. But now, the time has come. I am getting nearer and nearer. I can feel it. My output - of paintings, of comics, of ideas and of writing has increased considerably. Things are taking form more easily. Purpose is becoming more apparent. 

Cause, seriously, let's face it - at 54 - I can't wait around too much longer. I've got to go for it. And I think I am ready. I am ready. 

I cannot say yet, right here, exactly what form it will take - because I am not precisely sure - but I do know the roads are converging. I am tuning in more accurately. I have created - through data input over my creative lifespan to date - a massive repository of all kinds of artistic and expressive notions and techniques and sensibilities. I have stockpiled, in fact. The warehouse is full. The factory is oiled and ready. Production has begun. Even I know not what will appear out the other end - but I do know something - it's going to be absolutely wonderful.