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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that is a nice place to be.

As well as self expression, through images and poetry, as well as notations of the artistic experience, I have been utilising this space as a record keeping venue. Somewhere to express my memory of experiences from my past that had impact and meaning to me.

Over the past decade or so, my reading has become almost exclusively autobiographies and memoirs. I just finished Kim Gordon's book, Girl In A Band. I had no idea who she was before picking up the book but it gave off a good vibe. She is a lucid writer and observer and I found it engaging and enriching. I had never heard a Sonic Youth song before, but once I got half way through the tome, I hit You Tube and checked a few of them out. It enriched my reading experience to have done so.

I think an artist's life informs their creativity and creative output. Of course it does. Der. But what I am saying is that it's not only stuff about art and making things that is interesting. The details and situations, the feeling and experiences of a person, not necessarily ostensibly related to creation are, in and of themselves, equally as nourishing and informative as the artistic stuff. 

If you think about it we are actually all living works of art. Works in progress. What we do, what we choose, how we elect to express our personalities through our behaviour and actions are not only intriguing but they also add up to form a picture of a human's being that can broaden the outlook of and inform, inspire the observer in their own lives. 

That's why I like to read memoirs. At the moments I am reading about a mercenary in Afghanistan. I've been reading the true life account of Shirley Maclean's daughter, snippets of Julia Bishop's personal story, the highs and lows of a mountaineer, a drug loving chef from Newtown, photographer Sally Mann's erudite tome...

These are lives vastly different from my own. But what I love is hearing their voices, reading about their choices and the consequences. Understanding their feelings and motivations in important moments. it is comforting to connect. I acknowledge that they have taken the time to open up - some more than others - and to share what is meaningful and cherished to them. 

Some of my favourite memoirs are the more obscure ones. A guy that grew up in orphanages around Queensland, a woman who fell in love with a Columbian coke dealer, a man wrongfully imprisoned in Lebanon, etc, etc. If it rings true and feels real, it has an impact and value for me.

So, that's possibly one of the main reasons I have chosen to share some of my stories in this blog. Because, frankly, also, if I didn't then there are things that no one would ever know. Huge (to me) life experiences that would be just blow away like leaves in the wind. Of course, there are many, many such experiences that will never be revealed - ones that I choose not to share for whatever reasons as well as ones that simply do not come to the forefront of my consciousness when I am in the writing mood. 

If you really think about it, probably 90% of our internal lives - including the stories we make up about our real life experiences and the meaning we give to them - are never to be uncovered, never reach the surface. They make up the smouldering flame of our deepest, truest selves. They give warmth and flavour to our personalities, they mould our characters.

I remember when I was younger, more social, my friends and I would share our stories. Tell of what formed us. Certainly, my closest girlfriends from over the years have heard some of the most poignant, shocking, elucidating true life tales from my childhood till my 50th. After that, I have gone solo. My new girlfriend is my blog. 

Maybe not. There's no cuddling or sex. But my blog has become my confidante. 

Don't I worry about these things being read by people I know, people I don't know? (Which is better/worse? Hmm...)

No, I don't. We are all the same. My story becomes yours and yours becomes mine. There is no shame in being a human. We do what we can. We do what we must. 

And sometimes, some of us get to share the juicy bits. Like a repast. A delicious meal. Served up and ready to devour. The best food comes from real ingredients cooked by a chef with the right intentions. One who wants to share, one who wants to brings joy, knowledge, passion to anyone who cares to listen/read.

And this blog sometimes serves as my humbe kitchen. My life experiences the raw food. My words the oil and spices.

Feast.

Ask yourself
What would you do if you could do anything?

Me? I would travel full time, visit and stay in wonderful places around the world.
I would make up my days as they came along... be lead into adventures and new discoveries by chance and fate.
I would escalate the surreal element of my reality - move it closer to a dream state.

I would like to find out who I would be if I was granted unlimited access to whatever I wanted.
I imagine I would go wild, then rein it back to simple.
I would like to experience that procedural journey.

And who am I?
Am I the man who is writing this now?
Are these my thoughts?
Do I have any real attachment to them? 
Or ownership?

Or am I just functioning as I must?
Taking one step at a time along the path that is in front of me.
Laid out from birth to death.

Do I care what I think? Am I interested?
Am I smarter that what I write?
Or are my words, as they flow from within me, coming from a higher intelligence to inform and enlighten me?

Do I think too much or not enough?
Is there any measure?
Of anything? Ever?
And what would it be in relation to?

So - no. The answer is - no. There is no measure.
Everything flows. Multiple streams. Infinite streams.
Never standing still. Never the same.

But I am writing these words now. I can see them.
And I hope that one day when I reread them I will have a deeper understanding of the bigger picture.
But do I really hope that?
No. I may never read these words again.
They are just time fillers. Perhaps.
Just static. A recording. Random.

What's the goal here? 
To keep moving, keep writing, until I hit something that resonates. Something that feels substantial, meaningful, essential. 
The artist's quest for truth. The thirst for essence.
From a man in a cave scraping on the wall to a man in front of a computer screen.
I am here, it says.
I am alive now. 
It feels like this.
It occurs like this.

I have eaten dinner, I have swum in the ocean. My need right now, my desire, my goal in this endeavour - the one in which I am investing my time in - is to find a feeling of satisfaction through shining a torch on the cave walls of my own awareness and trying to make sense of the scribbles and patterns.

The caveman in me doesn't care. He has ADHD.
He wants to do some killing. To fire up a carcass, eat some hot, greasy meat. To feel the thrill of dominating and terminating his prey. He wants to dive into the river from the branch of the tree. He wants to stare up at the moon, mouth agape, mind boggled. He wants to clumsily dance with his woman, thrash about in her warmth and tenderness, invest himself in her moisture. Laugh with her, escape with her. He wants carnal things.

That's him. Still there. But the me of now. The me of sometimes. Wants other things. Things out of reach. Things out of sight. Things that seem to spring from within. Higher callings. Spiritual lightness. He wants to break through the barriers of common living, he wants to be in the future. Now. He wants to find a way to transcend the limitations imposed upon him. 

He is me and he is you, too, most likely.

If we can imagine it...

It must eventually occur/appear. And the notions of higher self that we all share, the awareness of something so much greater, so much more...

Something is coming next. I think many of us can intuit that it's a spiritual awakening. A mass expansion of human consciousness. This tawdry everydayness that we plod through - well, it's well past it's due date. 

In the meantime, let's celebrate and appreciate what is good in ourselves and those around us and look forward to a playfully profound future.

Reach
Reach for anything
Reach for what you want

Seek
Seek whatever
Seek your heart's desire

Teach
Teach the curious
So they too may be wise

Give
Give what you can
It'll make you feel richer

Talk
Talk about what you're thinking
We want to know, we need to know

Leap
Leap into the unknown
You won't be hurt, you won't regret

The sky
Is your limitlessness
You may not get there 
On the first jump
But eventually, eventually
You'll be out of sight completely

Completely completed
A compliment to eternity
A snicker from up the back of infinity

Until then
Stay focused
Stay in the sun
Stay close
But travel far

Use your imagination, kid!

I love the smell of abstract in the morning.

Some days I wake up after exciting, lucid dreams and feel that I am able to see the world slightly differently.

Every day, I make new images and I have done for many years now. Today, I made five new images. The one above was my favourite. It wasn't quite working at first and almost felt like a discard but I kept with it and let it find itself.

When I was finished, I really loved it. I will often like what I create but only maybe really love one in a hundred images. This is one of those. Makes me feel good. 

I want to state - for anyone who doesn't create images, who doesn't know the feeling of painting or drawing, conjuring up a fresh life force with line, colour, shape, composition - that it's a wonderful thing to do. It can bring immense pleasure. You focus, loose yourself, question things, answer things, experiment, take risks, assess and reassess... It's a mind's eye game. It's a connection with the source. 

In the best moments, you become a conduit for pure universal energy. When you have practiced enough, you learn to get out of your own way and let the flow happen. It can be ecstatic and tantalising. Of course, along the way, and still, on some days, it can also be frustrating and hard work. But for me, generally, these day - I'm free rolling, having a grand old time. Art is my jazz. The picture above is my improvised solo from today's jam session.

Yep, it's been proved, once again, as the title say, 'Art gets me high'.

I've always enjoyed reading autobiographies. These days even more so - in fact, almost exclusively. Recently I have read ones by the pilot of a Qantas Airbus flight over Singapore that had an engine explode, an Aussie ex-SAS who went into Lebanon to extract two daughters snatched by their father, got caught and landed in jail, and Portia de Rossi's true tale of her ascent to stardom and battles with bulimia, her sexuality and fame. I know I am going to enjoy a book when the voice of the narrator is steady and honest: a life story that shares trepidations and triumphs with personal detail and insight. (Three of my all time favourite autobios are At Home In the World by Joyce Maynard, Townie by Andre Dubus III and Burning the Days by James Salter - all exquisite.)

At the moment I am reading the memoirs of Biz Stone the guy who co-founded Twitter. It's a bright and interesting read. The thing that stands out about his is his attitude to life. He likes thinking outside the box and making up his own rules. When he was in high school, he realised after two weeks that with his after school Lacrosse practice, plus his part time job, couple with a minor learning disability that if he was to do his nightly homework with any level of diligence that he would only be getting three of four hours sleep. So he made a decision and the next day went in an announced to his teachers a no-homework policy. He explained why and they eventually accepted his reasoning and promises of trying extra hard within class to keep up. Reading this reminded me of my own special deals made during high school.

It was junior year. St. Mary's International School in Tokyo. Day one of physics class, first class of the morning. The teacher was Mr Tong. I was sitting up the back. He was rambling on up front. Within minutes, I zoned out. After a while, I thought: a year of this?? I leafed through the pages of the text book. It looked complex and dry and held no interest for me whatsoever. Tong was a nice enough guy, but he was hard to understand and it was evident that he wasn't going to be bringing this text to life. I made a decision. There was no way I could endure a year of this. And first class of the morning, too. No way.

I hatched a plan. I wrote a letter to the principal explaining that I would be much better off doing extra Japanese language and kanji study in the library during this period and that I would devise a format with the Japanese teacher. I can't recall my reasoning for not needing physics but strongly expressed that more Japanese would be much more beneficial and rewarding for me. He read it, with some skepticism (I was a known scallywag), but eventually agreed that if I made a curriculum of study and got it signed off and checked weekly by the Japanese teacher that I could proceed. I took it to her and presented it with zest and optimism. She signed it and Brother Charles gave me the OK. So, part one was accomplished. 

I think I did the first week and got a form signed. Maybe even two. It soon became apparent, though, that I could let it slide. I stopped doing any work and took to just reading magazines in the library. It seemed that both the J teach and Bro had forgotten about it. Eventually, I realised that I could actually come in school a little later, since it was first period. So I started coming in ten, twenty minutes later and going straight to the library. Then I began the ritual of having a cigarette in the toilet by the window. Then my Aussie mate, Gordon, once he found out, would regularly ask for a toilet break from Mr Tong and come in a join me for a few puffs.
It was a successful transition from being stuck in a boring, useless class to having a full period every morning all to myself to relax. It was a triumph.

It nearly all fell to pieces, though, when I asked Gordon if I could borrow the keys to his motorcycle one morning. I had my Japanese bike license by then but was yet to afford a bike of my own. Gordie had helped me learn and was a generous spirit and chucked me the keys. "Get some practice", he said, "just try and be back in time for our smoko time." I was elated. I snuck out of school and into the bike parking area, put on the helmet and started it up. I didn't go too far afield. I did this a few times with great joy, a sense of freedom and success. Much better than being stuck in some dumb class. I had cracked the paradigm. Broken free. In an effort to share my elation with fellow students I drove along a side alley, past the window of the class I knew Gordon was in, three or fours stories up. I tooted the horn. He recognised it and rushed to the window. I went round the block and did it again. He waved. The next round, I beeped more and there were few students. The next one, there was half the class, all waving and cheering. Then, kids from other classes were also rushing to the windows, going ballistic. It was a celebration! One of us was free, had escaped. I was a symbol of liberty and freedom.

Obviously, I hadn't quite thought it through, because when I went past the front of the school on the next round, I was waved down by a very angry teacher. I made up a story about how I was late for school and just beeped once. I apologised for the disruption and promised to head immediately to class (or not-class in my case). I went to the library and sweated it out, hoping the principal would not hear of it and take away my privileges. Luckily, he didn't. All was cool. I kept my first period freedom for the entire year. Initiative was rewarded. Rules are there to be bent and broken. Make your own freedom. Lesson learnt!

I always wanted to work in the movies.

When I was fourteen or fifteen my father formally called me into their bedroom for a discussion. I was having a few issues at school - trouble with accepting authority, occasional truancy, playing class larrikin, detentions and suspensions. My grades weren't great, I rejected the concept of homework (they can make me go to school but once I am out, my time is my own), I chose not to participate in after school sports or clubs.

Not your ideal student, I now see quite clearly. But at the time, I was instinctively rebelling against what I perceived to be injustice and domination. I did not choose not belong. I did not belong. The rigid, intense, result-oriented system did not integrate well with my free spirited, easy going nature. Teachers attempts to force me to comply only resulted in a stronger sense of anarchy in my young spirit.

I wish I had been there, the me now, to support and nurture that young fellow.  He wasn't a trouble maker, not really, he just had a sense of freedom and fun. He truly had not interest in chemistry or physics class. He knew that studying those subjects, as well as Latin and Religion, were a waste of his time. I would have said - if he has to be locked up here, why not just let him do art and English, drama and choir all day. And a long lunch. Maybe leave a bit earlier. Come in a little later. Four days instead of five.

I know now that the me then, was essentially the same as the me now. I wasn't someone who was going to be changed or melded by a bunch of strangers. Especially not by austere, sometimes deranged, sadistic, even perverted, assholes.

In the few subjects I had good hearted teachers (English, Art, Geometry, French) my attention giving and grades were pretty good. I just found it impossible to tolerate bullies and dictators.

My father, bless him, was a very different kind of person to me. He was an achiever, he thrived on rules and structures, he did not mind following, behaving. I was, in his estimation; a failure. If not already, then destined to be one if I kept up with my rebellious behaviour. I know this because he told me so.

"What do you want to do with your life? What is your plan? What do you want to become?" were the questions I was asked that evening, at that meeting, which felt serious and important, formal. Both my parents were there but my father was leading. They were worried about me, he said. The school had rung again. (The truth is mostly I tried to keep out of trouble, ie, not get caught. And  mostly, I succeeded. The reprimands and punishments I received were a minor fraction of my actual infractions. So, I was actually, in my own way, quite canny and intelligent. I also was aware of having been selected for and invited to attend a special school for advanced intelligence children after testing. I decided I did not want to go, when given the choice, because I did not want to leave behind my friends. Regardless, we soon left Sydney for Tokyo.)

"I want to make movies", I replied, after giving it some thought. The answer felt right, in fact, it felt like the only possible answer with any veracity. At that stage of my life, I also liked collecting comics, listening to radio drama, drawing, writing stories... but I loved movies. They were powerful and captivating things. Enthralling. If I had to be involved in some sort of formalised activity - well, that would be it. At least it wouldn't be boring.

"Movies?" My father scoffed. "How can you say that you want to make movies? What makes you think you can make movies?"

Oh. I have to answer. 

I had actually made a few Super 8mm films by then, but nothing elaborate. I did not have any feature credits to my name... In fact, I did not even know exactly how the process worked - screenplay, rehearsals, actors, director, producers, art department - I just instinctively responded to the question with honesty and optimism.

"I love movies." I said. And do what you love, right? Wrong.

"Just because you love movies doesn't mean you have any talent or will ever be able to work in movies. It's a very specialised industry. I'm talking about work. A job. What kind of job are you going to be able to do when you leave school? If you keep up the way you are, you'll be working in Woolies at the checkout. Is that what you want?"

"Er, no." I replied. (Thinking: it wouldn't be that bad. Standing behind the till. Playing with the machine. Chatting with people...)  But I said no. And it wasn't my dream, nor my goal. 

"If you don't start behaving and doing better at school, you will end up nowhere, with very little..."

The meeting was adjourned soon after. I agreed to try harder. I accepted that my answer to the question of what I wanted to do with my life was not acceptable.

I feel sad now. If only I had been encouraged. If only in that rare, important moment, when I was point blank asked what I wanted to do with my future, I had been listened to, heard. Things could have gone so differently. Why ask a young boy that question then squash his heartfelt, impulse response? Obviously it did not fit in with my father's agenda and world view. It was not about my life. It was about his life. And about curtailing the disturbance that my behaviour was causing. And, just like the teachers I hated, trying to make me into something I wasn't.

That moment was a very long time ago. That was the moment that a father inadvertently condemned his son to a life lead with an attitude of underlying defeatism, surrender, displacement.

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

Cut to me at twenty. At art school. Living in Sydney. I still loved movies. A year before, I had been to every cinema complex along the main street in Sydney seeking employment. Just fill out the form, I was told by unenthusiastic lady ticket sellers. I never heard back, of course, from any of them. It was a closed shop. Those jobs paid well, vacancies were rare and often handed to friends and connections. Being an usher was considered working on the fringe of show business. It required wearing a bow tie and a fancy jacket, dealing with the public with class and efficiency. Nobody walking in off the street was going to get in. That much became clear. Still, I really wanted to work in a movie theatre. Better yet, a multi-theatre complex.

One afternoon, while with my brother and my girlfriend, perusing the books at the old Gould's book shop in it's original location in George Street, directly opposite Hoyts cinemas before heading downstairs to Crystal Palace to play some snooker, I had what I can only describe as a moment of pure, unfiltered inspiration. I was zapped, nudged by some energy, given a specific mission.

"Wait here guys, I'll be back soon." I said, and ran out the door. I crossed the street. Entered Hoyts. "I am here to see the manager!" I pronounced with premeditation. 

"Do you have an appointment?" the lady asked. 

"Yes!"

"What's it in regard to?" she asked.

"About working as an usher."

She checked her big red diary. Slight frown.

"You're a bit early." She harumphed and climbed off her high stool. "Wait here." She trudged half way down the corridor of ticket sellers and disappeared into a doorway. She reappeared with a message. "Mr Cesarro will be out in a minute."

Whoa. I can't exactly say things were going to plan, because I didn't exactly have a plan. Well, I did. I wanted to get a job there. But I hadn't exactly anticipated speaking to a manager. He appeared, beckoned me. We went in through some glass doors, then another security door to his office.

Suddenly, I was being interviewed for the position. My instincts were honed enough, from years of talking my way around a subject and out of trouble at school, that I was able, much to my surprise, to charm my way into an immediate job offer. I was to start in a few days time. Two shifts a week, Friday and Saturday nights, to begin with. I was to go immediately to see the head usherette, Laurel, and get fitted for a bright red jacket and receive a call sheet, instructions and a torch. I walked across the lobby, almost floating. I was nearly there. One final test to get through. The manager had called ahead, so she was expecting me. It all went smoothly. I winged it. I was in.

Mook and Bianca could not believe it. How??? Really? Yes, it happened. They were happy for me - and it also meant free movies for them, at least twice a week. And I loved it, too, even more so. I had accessed an environment, an institution that I had long desired to infiltrate - the dark pantheon of cinematic wonders, the arena of entertainment, manufactured fantasy. It wasn't yet the level of actually making movies - which was still my ultimate goal - but I had forged through the first protective industry layers of obstruction, using will and wit and temerity. I was no longer just a paying member of the public, I was in the club. On the fray of show biz. Movies were free, now - all you can watch. Not just at Hoyts, but due to a reciprocal agreement, at any and every cinema across the city. Not only that, but I would be surrounded by cinemas (seven), immersed in film, connected more closely to the world of my early predilection. Finally.

I was working in movies!  

I woke up this morning and suddenly remembered, completely out of the blue, performing in a Japanese TV commercial back in the early eighties. Don't know why it popped into my mind but it did. Of course there was no internet back then, no USB sticks, not even DVDs. I may have received a betamax copy or a VHS of the ad, but maybe not even that. Thirty one years after the event, I realise I may be able to find it. A bit of digging on YouTube and - voila - there it was.

It was a big deal at the time. I was living with my then girlfriend from art school (who would eventually become my wife, then my ex-wife) in Tokyo. We were both on the books at a modelling agency and she got a call to come in and audition for an ad that required dancing. She had written down dancing as a skill. (I hadn't. Mine were 'heavy thinking' 'abstract expressionism' and 'space invaders'.) I tagged along with her. It was in a dance studio. There were hundreds of people of all nationalities trying out. I may as wel join in, I figured and asked our manager to put my name down - said that of course I could dance! Any style! They shrugged and figured, why not. If he gets in too, it's an extra commission for us. Everyone loves an easy 20%.

Bianca did a great job, she looked great busting her moves in her leotards and long socks. (Guess what dance movie was a massive hit that year. Starts with 'Flash...') She got in on the first round. Easy. They told us it would be a three day, away shoot. All expenses paid. Plus a significant daily rate. My keenness was amplified. They only needed a few more from the callbacks. What I lacked in formal training, I made up in wild abandon and goofy charm. I made it in. I was the last choice. Yahoooo!

Break dancing was only just starting then in the US. They brought out four of the best from LA and NY. And they were amazing! I remember watching their moves, popping and locking, and being in complete awe. It was super cool and inspiring. 

The shoot, for the new Nissan Bluebird, starred a Japanese singing superstar. I forget his name now. Maybe Saijo Hideki or Julie. He was a nice guy. Wore a cool gold suit. Don't remember much about the other dancers. It was a fun few days, though. Being on set in this kind of ad usually is. Got to stay in a nice hotel with Bianca too. And everything was paid for. 

As well as the TV commercial they did some massive billboards in Ginza. I remember seeing it, towering about us, at the main intersection, as we exited the subway one afternoon. You could just make out the top of my head, jumping up like a popping Sex Pistol, and Bianca's right breast. We were famous! Well, at least rich. (Compared to before the shoot anyway.)

When I found the ad on my computer this morning, I was delighted. How funny. I had to rewatch it multiple times to even find myself. You can catch just a glimmer of me, twice. The one in the yellow singlet slightly left of the left side headlights around the 2' mark and again at the 22' mark. Bianca is behind me around the 4' mark, in her glorious purple sequined  one piece. I laughed when I saw it. Good times. Funny. And how cool to be able to wake up, remember it and be watching it minutes later, thirty years on.

My brother Mook sent me this picture of a parking lot in Tokyo yesterday. In it's place, up until recently, was Roppongi Square Building. RSB housed five or six nightclubs, a tiny cafe and a sprawling, ground floor game centre. I spent much of my youth in that building. 

I was a regular at the cafe, afternoons, after school, I would ride my motorbike there and hang out with the cool twenty-something Japanese dudes drinking coffees and puffing away on Seven Stars. I was the only foreigner there, somehow I had been admitted into the congenial gang. Sometimes we would saunter into the game centre and play the latest low-tech, novel amusement machines - bingo pinball. 

I had completely forgotten about playing these machines but suddenly I was reminded how much I loved playing them. They were quite difficult to master - many decisions and stratergies and also ball control with gentle tilting and jousting with the machine. I wish I could play it again. Right now. Getting the ball down to 23, 24 and 25 - sometimes crucial -was a major task and then navigating it into the exact number you needed to line up your bingo - well, when achieved was an ecstatic moment.

The game centre had plenty of electronic games, of course. This was mid to late 70's, so it was all about Space Invaders, Mission Control, Car Driving Games, Pac Man and the like. During the day, on weekends, my brothers, Mook and Rich, and I would go there, if we weren't in Shibuya - which offered more great games centres PLUS pachinko (upright Japanese ball bearing game) PLUS movie theatres with the latest releases. 

At nights the Roppongi game centre was very popular with post dinner visitors and pre and post disco and nightclub revellers. I can smell and feel the boozy, smokey atmosphere right now. Even at their rowdiest, Japanese are quite contained and always polite. It was an awesome place to grow up on so many levels.

And many levels is what RSB had. My favourite discos - Nepenta and Giza were housed there. I would go there at least one night a week. I had a three piece suit and cowboy boots. It was the disco heyday in Japan, Saturday Night Fever created a frenzy and nightlife boomed. I had so many experiences there, across the threshold, that I plan to write a book about it one day soon. I saw things, did things, was immersed. I grew up there. From kid to seasoned night crawler. Roppongi nights. Like no other.

We lived in Nishi Azabu. Our modest home was positioned right in between Hiroo Station and Roppongi Station on the Hibiya Line. Before I got my motorbike and started riding to School, I used to walk down to Hiroo (pictured above) and catch the subway and two trains to school. In the bottom right hand corner of the picture, downstairs, B1, was a tiny black leather, atmospheric cafe called Eruza. But everyone called it Comos. It was where the girls from Sacred Heart International School would go after school to hang out, drinking brews and smoke. A few of the boys from my class would go there after school also, arriving around 45 to 50 minutes later with commute. I was lucky to live close by and would almost always be part of the last group to leave around 5:30 or 6. I could just walk up the hill, Zaimokucho, to get home from dinner. It was the most education I got, down there in that dark, moody cafe. The banter, gossip, information exchange, romancing and friendship that were created and nurtured down there were priceless. 

Even at the time, I remember feeling so lucky and grateful being able to have such a valuable after school outlet for personality exchanges and general youthful exuberance and conceptual rebellion. We smoke ciggies, drank iced coffees, told stories.... there were tears, uncontrollable laughing sessions, serious arguments. But we were cohesive. A core group of about a dozen girls and half a dozen guys. My best friend, Jenny, a Hawaiian girl, was a cheerleader, sports star, academic achiever and very friendly and popular. She was an essential part of my belonging and maturing. She was very kind and beautiful on every level. We never dated. She went out with my friends and I went out with hers. The friendship was more precious, too precious to risk loosing. I was, even back then, in some ways an outsider, a joker. I had long hair and would risk getting in trouble at school if it meant getting some good laughs. In fact, I remember more than a few times, being suspended from school, and riding my motorbike to Comos, spending the day hanging out there reading one of my ever present paperbacks, waiting for the girls to arrive. Jenny would see me there already at three and know I had been mischievous. 

She was equally as playful in spirit but managed to avoid reprimand. We shared a love of fun and people. Her acceptance and embrace of me got me in with the rest of the girls, too. (I was 9 months to a year younger than everyone in the year.) There was a Texan, a Korean, some Japanese American halves, a Brazilian/Japanese at the core. I got close to them all and learnt SO MUCH from them about the workings of the female species. Many times, it was just me and the girls. I would just sit back and listen, absorb, throw in a joke now and then or answer a query, as best I could, about my own gender. It was almost like being a spy. But I never betrayed their confidence. Not once. I had too much respect for what I considered in many ways to be the superior sex. They were certainly more mature and wiser. Plus, they definitely looked and smelled better. I loved being around those girls! I think I kind of knew how lucky I was but tried not to make a big deal of it. Looking back now, I realise I was REALLY lucky. Insights gained then have taken me far in relationships and in generally understanding and appreciating humanity.

Ah, all these memories from a picture of a parking lot. They pulled down the building of my youth but they can't touch the priceless and golden alter of my friendships and experiences.

Fragments of memories of experiences long gone
Fading but not forgotten
Fortune's favourite song

Keep pushing that replay button

Did you ride high in the sky that day?
Did you holler with pride, screech with joy?
Was the whole world yours for that moment?
Tell me, was it unreal, did it haphazardly happen?
Your one of a kind, unique and special favourite story?

We all have them stored away safely

Some shouted out in barrooms 
Some still secret between just you and them
A few even made the papers maybe
Some just make you want to go back again

But you don't get second chances
In this showreel, fluttering, fleeting
And no returns, no two time burns
The drums just keep on beating

So move on to new peaks and pinnacles
You haven't finished until the end
Do not be dragged down by the mundane or the clinical
You've got the reputation of your lifetime to defend

Fire up
Loosen out
Grind and grind some more
Chin up
Crush the doubt
Power aid your core

With every thousand new dreams
One true adventure is born
Honour your primitive need
To be ignited, invited, reborn

You are still breathing, aren't you?
Then there is hope, there are chances
For in the end, you want to be there laughing, wild eyed
As your skeleton does it's majestic final dances

I was walking along the beach this afternoon, thinking. Thinking, as I always do. I try to trudge out any noisy, annoying, negative thoughts within the first kilometre or less, so that I can get to some useful cogitation, some thoughts of substance; elevated mindfulness. 

The early part of the walk, the downer thoughts usually have to do with the sadness I carry around. Sadness that comes from childhood. Sadness to do with the lack of love and support I received as a kid, the inner struggle that was ever present, the loneliness, the insecurity, the tears.

I try to see beyond, to make amends, to forgive, forget. But I can't. Sometimes I feel like I am damaged goods. That I am doing the best with what I have got, but that I could have been so much more. Other times, I just, shrug and say fuckit, carry on. Expect less. Accept. Surrender. 

Waa, waa, waa. Isn't everyone just the same, though. Aren't we all fallen angels, broken machines, injured souls. I think so. So it's really about coping. And carrying on.

Anyway, I was walking along today and on my way back, I mentally compared life to the beach stroll. At a certain point, you turn back. On the way back you are covering the same ground, but you see things differently. Just like when you hit your forties or fifties, you have lived a fair chunk of life and you can actually use it to look back on and consider who you are and what you have done. When you are in your teens, twenties, you just go for it. You have no perspective. 

Obviously, things slow down as you get older. Some things you have done hundreds, thousands of times. You are well versed in the everyday requirements and expectations of being a human. (Hopefully.) Your needs and urges wane. Your ego has taken countless beatings and can now shut the fuck up sometimes, take a back seat, maybe even disappear. 

You've most likely been through at least a few wonderful relationships that end, either badly, terribly or not very well. You've seen the ugly side of yourself and others. You have tried and failed. Tried again and failed again. You sometimes get lucky and somethings work out alright. 

Mostly, though, you realise that life is not all fun and games. It's a challenge. And it keeps on being one. The parameters shift but the rules stay the same. As hard as it all is, you wish it didn't have to go by so quickly. There are many, many things you would do differently, given the chance. But you don't get second chances. Not really.

Strangely, there is a certain calm, acceptance that comes with age. You probably believe more in destiny. You know what you can do and can't do. You know how to make do with less. You know how to enjoy more from little. Nature appears more vividly and has a bigger place. Children offer delight, hope, warmth and a reason for still caring, still fighting. The miracle of existence, as a whole package, can be appreciated more often and readily. You know you are going to die. You've seen it happen to people around you. You may or may not think about it much, but you definitely know it's coming, getting closer. This can be a comforting thing or a frightening one. Depends on the individual, on the day, the circumstance.

Sometimes, not today, but every few weeks, I look out onto the horizon, while on my walk, and think, every picture I have ever done, even if it was expanded to 1,000 times it's size, would only fill the tiniest fraction of a single percent of this vista. Every day, every hour, the glorious outlook; the sky, the ocean, the beach changes and delights. A dynamic, breathtaking, living work of art. What I do, making little pictures, well, comparatively, it's just laughable. Of so little consequence. Why do I bother? It will never amount to anything. It is of absolutely no significance. In fact, my life, is of no significance. Not in the long run. Not really. Not when you realise and understand that it's all just a self created illusion. Not one of us is more that a grain of sand. So why bother? 

See what I deal with on my daily walk? These are the kinds of things that go through my head. And looking at me, from the outside, if you chanced to see me walk past - you'd just see a dude taking a stroll. You wouldn't look twice. But in the silence, behind those squinting eyes - a battle rages. The struggle of self. The coming to terms with the quagmire of existence. The never ending questioning. Like the waves crashing on the shore. Relentless. And yet, soothing. Somehow. Kinda soothing. Comfortable. 

One step at a time. Down the beach and back up it. A dip in the ocean. A frolic in the waves. The sun shines on skin. The seagulls jeer. The spirit is uplifted after a commune with nature's essence. The petty concerns washed away with the tide for another day. 

I'll be back tomorrow to do it all again.