- You see, what happens is I get the rhythm in my head, the rhythm of their words. The rhythm of their words and the atmosphere and direction of their retelling of their journey. And it stays with me for a while after I have bent over the little paper corner and folded the page chunks together - to trap in all the good stuff until I next venture in.

Just like with people that you meet, you connect with varying intensities. With this guy I am connecting strongly. It's not so much about similar experiences - it's more about his expression of his perception of his recollections and the easy going, dot-connecting retelling - that is comfortable and familiar. He has a poet's flow, a writer's eye for detail and an outsider's clarity of the bigger picture, told from a vantage point of complex feelings mixed with a slightly amused detachment.

White Out is the book and the dude's name is Michael W. Clune. I read his previous book - A Gamer's Life - and truly enjoyed it's honesty, perceptiveness and originality. Nothing showy, just his soul talking. I asked the library to get this one in and they did. On the same day that it arrived, so did Dave Eggers new one about an intrepid woman in a bomby campervan with her two young kids in Alaska and I started reading that first, having relished all his previous publications, especially Zeitoun. Alas, Alaska left me cold. Fifty pages in I started skipping. By ninety I was out of there. Open White Out and mmm.... yeah... inviting and familiar. I am a quarter way through. Savouring. (Which doesn't mean reading it slower.) 

The embodiment/mimicking/temporary inhabiting of a character also happens sometimes with movies. I suppose it's not an uncommon thing. The voice gets in your head. It's not unpleasant. Like a visitor. With reverb. It lingers, sometimes for minutes, sometimes for hours. 

It has prompted me to transcribe my thoughts right here, now. I have not been as regular as usual with my logs. (I don't mean poos.) Truth is, I have been busy. I have been seduced in a way. Drawn away from my painting and writing for a time. And what has captured me? Kidnapped my imagination and siphoned off much of my creative output time?

Music.

Over the last six or seven months I have been building tunes on Garageband. Every day. In my usual focused, tunnel vision way, I have devoted myself to the audio invention process and completed over 120 new songs. It's been my little secret. I haven't wanted to speak of it, less it's power be dissipated. But now it's cool. My first CD has been pressed and will be released next month. It's called Lolipopman. Twenty tunes. A mixture of folk, pop, punk, spoken word, old white fella hip hop and ambient. It's a new work of art - just in musical form. The writing is still there - it's relatively abundant in lyrics - but the colours are now sounds. The concepts are compositions. For me, as a comparative novice in the music field it has been a delightful departure. 

It has interfered with my comic, painting and writing output - but you can't do everything all at once. And these songs are like my newest fling. I am captivated. 

There. Confession done. No more sneaking around, making excuses for my infrequent blog appearances. To apologise is unnecessary, but I have felt a little guilty some days. I like being here, translating my up-to-date thoughts and feelings and observations about art and the creative life. Free flowing the little white words on black background from my mind, through my fingers and onto the screen. I like communicating with my friends in the clouds, across the skies, who are, like me, swimming in alternating turgid and serene oceans of their own. I like our conversations. Even though they are more like monologues. But they're not. I can hear you listening. I feel connection. Just like when I read the words of Eggers or Clunes or Carver or Salter or whoever gets through to me and finds a welcome place in my evolving consciousness. I know I am at home with you sometimes. And it feels comfortable, even comforting. Echoes inside us. They lead us closer to our destination. Our every changing destination.

My reading has been almost exclusively autobiographies over the last few years. I read about one a week. Recent ones include the true life tales of UFC fighter Ronda Rousey, Aussie actor Magda Szubanski and... I can't quite think back further than that at the moment... (I have become much quicker at discarding information that does not serve an ongoing purpose. Like a juicer: I extract the potent, nourishing and useful nectar and jettison the rest. Sip, sip.) If a book does not keep me interested, I stop reading. Think of each chapter as a station on a train track. Sometimes, even after the reasonably thorough sifting process done at the library (of which one in three books of interest actually gets carried out), I will still get off a train and switch to another about 10% of the time. 

There is not a limitless selection of autobios available, so I really do, sometimes, if nothing new has appeared, have to dig deep into the stacks and consider random possibilities. I am reading one such book at the moment. I can't remember what it is called, in fact, I don't think I even really cared much about the title - because the synopsis and reviews were enough to snag me - but it is about a guy who has spent his life playing computer games and simulations, beginning in the late 70's/ early 80's with the most basic of such games (in a style similar/based on Dungeons and Dragons).

The interesting thing about this guy's story (so far) is that he was only seven when he convinced his father to buy him one - which was aimed at players 16+ (not due to adult content but to do with development levels). When he talks about how his very young mind stumbled into these worlds and tried to make sense of them and navigate through them, it is truly fascinating, in a large part because, his mind is still that young that he is also still trying to assimilate and navigate through the parallel world of 'reality'. 

The games, in these early days, are visually rudimentary, but involve advanced and sometimes complex thought processes and decision making, where actions have consequences. If a then b. They are often about survival in a challenging two dimensional landscape and are about navigating through conceptual terrains while attempting to collect 'life force' to use against increasingly dangerous foes and scenarios.

One of the most mind-blowing things for him was when, after months of play and having achieved double digits in power, he somehow skipped ahead and ran into a troll who was so fierce that he could usurp power from a player, with one violent pummel that would cost 390 points. He could not imagine such a thing. Until he came across it. The concept of even amassing that many points (and all the game time, processes and procedures necessary to do so) for him at that stage were near inconceivable.

So, I'm right into this book! He also talks about the relationship between 2D worlds and 3D worlds - making an interesting and valid point that 2D worlds are often more satisfying because their natural limitations, in fact, allow for much more imagination and interpretation and, as well, can be less distracting. Where I am up to now, he is about ten years old and has found (when not playing a game) a preponderance to wander, through his neighbourhood for example, seeing maps and worlds and possibilities templated over the existing structure and finding that time has disappeared, three, four hours at a hit, without him being aware. 

As life often does, when you find a new interest in something, suddenly, you discover connections and related offshoots all around you. So I find myself his evening watching on YouTube: the 2016 Isaac Asimov Memorial Debate: Is the Universe a Simulation? Headed by Neil DeGrasse, a panel of five physicists, astrophysicists and philosophers discuss that nature of reality and ask some interesting questions. I am actually just 29mins into the 2hr presentation currently, and actually paused it to write this because my mind was stimulated and I felt the urgent need to say a few things myself (to myself). And to you (reader) as well. But I know nothing of you and cannot with 100% certainty even assume you exist. True, from responses to my past posts, I do know that these pages do get a three or four thousand weekly hits (according to numbers and graphs on my site home screen - which I find it convenient to believe has some basis in reality), so, at least on some level, I can be pretty sure that this will be read. But for the moment -as I compose it - it is just me.

So, what I am doing is attempting to create a simulation of my mind scape, using these words, to convey it firstly to myself, for clarification and amusement - as well as a kind of progression/record - and then secondly to a group of others from my species who will then interpret them for their own amusement, nourishment, awareness expansion and then will extrapolate upon them in their own multiple and limitless ways. Which in itself, is not dissimilar to that kid with his games. This is not technically a game, but in some ways it is. I am doing it for fun. I am making something up. There are set boundaries - it is an artist's journal, a creative's meanderings that has been posted on the internet on Sunday, June 26th, 2016. Did I know where it was going when I began writing? Not really. I had some idea of a theme. So, in a way it is a journey that I am going on. And you are following in my footsteps. You are curious, too. I am curious, interested in, intrigued by the contents of my own mind and how I have processed information from the minds of others - that writer, the panel - and I am putting it into a fresh context and through some original filters and re-presenting it.

How will you process it? I wonder. Will there be some new thoughts sparked inside your consciousness that bring some fresh excitement, new ideas? I'm sure. And so, on and on, we pass concepts to and fro between each other, in an infinite variety. And with the internet, now, it is so much quicker and more powerful. Indeed, within just minutes of my completing this process of my recordings somebody else will likely be absorbing them! No old school time gap between a hand written journal sitting on a desk for months or years, then being edited, assimilated and finally printed/distributed into a shop or library that stores volumes of thoughts collected in 3D tomes for absorption. No, it's now instant. I'm going to click a button and here it is. You have it. (And so on...)

One thing I noticed while watching (listening to - I soon realised there was not much need to be visually attentive and traversed to other tabs with the audio in the background) the panel was how clunky we humans are when we attempt to verbal express things. As well as the distractions of voice, personalities, surroundings, there are so many barriers to expressing the often magnificent complexity of thought that takes part in our minds. Even in the short bit I have seen so far, I can perceive, so much interference and distraction going on and have to sift through for the juicy bits. I do believe that we are actually SO much smarter, more aware and advanced than we are able to actually express. I guess striving to get better at it is part of the fun. And that is why I write stuff like this, here; for fun and stimulation. As well, to connect. We are in it together. This wonderful world, er, simulation, er, whatever you want to call it.

I watched a funny little movie called Eddie the Eagle the other night about a kid who dreamt of being in the Olympics and would just not give up. He was rather fearless, bumbling and extremely tenacious - which is, I suppose - a pretty good recipe for making your dreams come true. Not the only one, of course, there are numerous variations such as quite detached, amazingly focused and very lucky. Or somewhat ambitious, overwhelmingly passionate and knows the right people. (Note to self: continue to concoct these combos at a later date instead of eating custard and watching Masterchef.) (Note to self 2: change 'instead of' to 'after'.)

The film quotes Baron de Coubertin’s foundational ethos for his modern Olympics: “The important thing in the Olympic Games is not to win, but to take part; the important thing in life is not triumph, but the struggle.” And, I guess, in many ways I have to agree with the Baron. The struggle is where the fun is. I mean winning is great - and I especially love doing it at poker, for example - but what it is really about is playing the game - and giving it your best shot. There are always elements that you cannot control - ones that will sometimes determine final outcomes. All you can do is turn up and try.

I've had more than a few big projects that I spent many hours and much effort on that lead to nowhere. At the time, when something fails to meet your expectations, it can be rather glum. But after time, in retrospect, it's like; 'fuckit, I learnt a lot and enjoyed the process, nothing I could have done, really, to avoid that.' Shrug and carry on.

A few of my blazing 'failures' spring to mind immediately. They are not hard to forget because each involved at least a year's work - and amounted to essentially nothing - sometimes less than 'no gain'... substantial loss.

In the early nineties I was involved in a TV show pilot for Japan called 'Coo-ee Australia.' It was a zesty, inventive travelogue style show (in Japanese) that presented a number of engaging and interesting events and activities from around Australia. Stuff like - the first big dance parties (RAT parties) held in Sydney, 'Mud Bash' racing in the outback, surfing safaris and interviews with young Aussie creatives. I was the host (which was a lot of fun) but also became equally involved with the producing, directing and editing with the other two partners (who became great mates) Rob Mac and Neil Sloane. We spent close to a year getting the whole thing together - doing deals for free equipment and use of editing facilities along the way on the strength of the show's potential. It was good enough that we had a big launch and press conference before heading off to Tokyo with the finished project in hand to try and land a deal with the Japanese networks. In retrospect, there were two main problems. One: we were creatives and not businessmen. The showings in Tokyo went well and we were buoyed by the response - but locking in a deal was beyond us. I was the only one who spoke Japanese but they had just watched me being goofy and wild on video. We should have had a Japanese business manager/partner. Also, the style of the show was just slightly ahead of it's time - by about two years. It was a little too colourful and loose for it's time. Eventually, the format we used became mainstream - but not at that time. It was too much of a leap of faith for the execs.

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

Later, mid-nineties - I had a big solo show at a new gallery in Bondi, just off hall street. The owner was a Canadian guy I had known from around Bondi for many years and when he invited me to show, I was thrilled. I had a year's work ready to go, made up of twenty four or so large and medium canvases. I was working out my studio in Brighton Blvd (next to the old Brown Sugar) and it was my best work to date. Hanging went well, leading up to the opening night. The only problem was that I met his brother - and business partner - and got a bad vibe from the guy. He just felt wrong. My lovely girlfriend at the time, over coffee, also got a precautionary feeling and suggested I not have a show there. But what could go wrong?, I thought. It doesn't matter. I'll have my show, sell some works, get paid my share (70%) and get out. 

The opening night was a success and great fun. Six or seven pieces sold. And over the next few weeks a couple more. The work was taken down while I was away on a shoot somewhere to make room for the next show. I apologised for not being there (it hadn't been a set date), but the owner assured me it was no problem and they would store the works out the back, ready for me to pick up on my return. 

Then I got the call.

There had been a fire. Almost all my paintings had been damaged or destroyed. They were sorry. It was a big accident. But, no fear. They had full insurance.

It was pretty depressing, going to collect the remnants. What was left was charred and soggy. Not a single piece was salvaged. Apparently they had been stored near the kitchen up the back and somehow...

Anyway, the whole affair with the insurance dragged on for months and months. Visits, letters, phone calls. They were saying that the insurance company was stalling. After a while, something seemed very wrong. I went there to confront them. Turned out they had got the money (of which 70% was mine) - and spent it all! There was almost a punch up. The lies and the cover up had been piling up for months. The dirty weasels offered to pay me back some paltry weekly amount until I got back what I was owed - close to 20K. It was outrageous and insulting. They said they were bankrupt. I was gobsmacked. Before long, the gallery disappeared, as did they. I never saw a cent.

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

In 2001, I published my first book, a collection of humourous writings, poems, haiku and short stories called 'All I've Ever Wanted Is What I Know I Can Never Have'. I was very happy with it and it sold quite well. So, pretty much straight away, I commenced work on the next one, tentatively called Karma-Rama. I moved up from Bondi to live in Byron and worked on it every day for a year and a half. Eventually, I was happy with the finished project; 250 pages - ready to go - input into Quark - print ready. The only problem was I didn't have the funds at the time to do a print run. So, I waited. Six months later my Mac (one of those colourful bulging ones) died. I lost everything. No back up. Oops.

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

Cut to six years later. I was doing my radio show at Bay FM, 99.9 in Byron Bay. We were broadcasting out of what was basically a shed, by the side of the railway tracks on Butler Street. There was a wonderful camaraderie there, amongst the broadcasters, DJs and volunteers. I loved it. Hearing that the station would soon be moving to a much more modern and luxurious location in the new Community Centre, I decided to capture the new and the old, the transition and the amazing spirit of the place. Somewhere along the line, I met a cool dude from Austria, who had just graduated from SAE, as a director/producer. He and a partner had a small, local production company with all the equipment. I proposed my idea to him and we agreed that for 40% share of the project he would give me full access to the filming equip, plus the editing facility and a cameraman and editor (same guy) for the duration of the project. We shook hands.

We filmed a few days a week for about 6 months. Then we began editing - with more shoot days in between. Eight months into the project, the Austrian guy had to return home to Europe. While he was gone, the other partner turned up at the editing space and checked out what we were doing. He was very impressed and positive, liked what we were doing. Three months later (of shooting and editing four days a week) we had a rough cut. It was to be called Bliss Jockeys. Through a contact in Sydney, I arranged a copy to be sent to SBS. They said it showed promise and expressed initial interest. Around this time, the other partner, a South American guy, showed up and said he wanted to have a meeting. No probs.

He said that he wasn't happy with the 40% and felt that his company should be getting 50%. I wasn't thrilled with this ( a deal is a deal) but after contemplation, agreed that as long as the cameraman/editor (who was working for just a tiny retainer and had been wonderful to work with) got 25%, that I would be OK with it. All good. A few weeks later, the South American guy came back and said that he wanted 60% total. Oh, and also, that he wanted his name - not just in the credits but as top billing - as in 'A film by ....' (him!)

WTF. Right? He had had no involvement in the project whatsoever. He was working on things of his own - but nothing of any merit. Once he sniffed the possibility of being broadcast and some money (probably only a modest amount) - he became bossy, demanding and controlling. He said with the Austrian overseas, it was all up to him. 

We could not come to an agreement. I suggested we call in an outside mediator. There was a big serious meeting. I just wanted to keep moving, so I finally agreed to accepting 40%. But I would not accept this guy getting top billing. It did not feel right. Tension. Finally, OK, OK, he said. End of meeting. 

The next Monday, I got a call from the editor. The guy had come into the editing suite, removed all the equipment and taken all the tapes back to his place in Coffs Harbour. Weeks were wasted trying to get it all back. No go. It was one of the rare times I have actually considered going to find someone and causing them physical discomfort with direct connection between my fists and their face. The man was a lowly, dishonourable pig.

End of project. One year: wasted.

Eventually, I discovered by chance, all the Byron Bay based, non specific footage (aerial shots, underwater shots, shots of a mermaid, surfer shots, scenery shots, etc - that we had compiled and creatively composited) on this guy's You Tube page - claiming it all as his own. He got lots of hits and nice comments. Luckily for him, I never saw him again.

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

So, back to Eddie and the original Baron quote. In these cases, at least - plenty of struggle, very little triumph. 

What do I take from it all? Am I still angry? Nah. I just kept going. What can you do? I wasn't going to waste time with the judicial system. It would have only made things worse. I felt a simmering rage at the injustice for a few weeks/months after the gallery/video projects but then just dropped it and moved on. I am lucky; I always have a new creative project to focus on. And it's what I love to do. Make stuff. Make shit up. I love the process. Sure, a rewarding outcome is desirable (and has been gifted many time), but in the end, I wouldn't swap the joy of making, being creative for all the money in the world. 

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.

It pains me to think about all the books I haven't written. There are so many in there. So much waiting to come out. Intricate plots and characters diverse flow through my mind on a daily basis. I love books! I love reading! Hell, I even love writing! So where are the books? All the books I haven't written?

Will they stay in me until they come out? Or will they fade gradually, disintegrate, dismantle, vanish in a crowd of other things called distractions, called living, called demands of daily existence?

New ones seem to appear quite easily. Ideas, at least. Maybe it's all incubating, just waiting for my burst of rigorous self application, dedicated word production. 

I can live with that. I can believe that, even. Like a spring being pushed down... when the time is right... release! Book one, two, three.... Soaring up and out into the consciousness. All the thoughts and feelings, concepts and scenarios that reside inside me, along side me, abide my lenient, procrastinating ways.

An artist needs time. An artist flourishes with an overflow of non-commitment, excels at leisure, jerks at pressure, winces at expectations, scoffs at demands. Even from self. Leave me alone. If it's going to come out, it's going to come out. 

Who gives a shit about ambition? It's a fucking joke to imagine that you gotta strive for success. Fuck success. What we want, what we need more than anything is authenticity. Is real. More real than ever before - felt, lived, experienced, conceived - and then, at the right time, in the right light, with the right intentions, pure intention - expressed. Like the birth of a new sun. A new universe. 

To be false in any way, to be motivated by anything other than divine inspiration is just chewing time. And chewing time is fine, practicing, partaking in things that humans do; no worries. 

But the real stuff has got to come from the source. And that is not on tap. That is not accessed through will or demand. That is given to the worthy few who have shed enough skins, who have suffered their share, who have practiced and practiced and practiced their craft until they become conduits. Conduits for a higher purpose. And that purpose is enlightenment. The advancement of human consciousness. A worthy pursuit. A rewarding escapade.

So, what of me and my books, I wonder. What of the hundred millions other meez, all thinking and feeling the same thing. Will we find salvation? Will we finally pen our personal, poignant, powerful tomes, the ones that reside inside us?

It does not really matter. Because if we don't, another will. Then when we stumble upon their works we can smile and sit back in comfort and glee, content with a reflection of our own inner voices that while not a splitting image, is damn close enough. Yeah, we can all relax, you see. Whatever needs to be will 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.

For me reading is an integral part of my existence. I find the actual process of reading - rushing across letter, bouncing from word to word, sucking them in with your eyes, letting them swirl around in your brain and amplify into meaningful sentences, paragraphs... concepts. Munching on delicious combinations of adjectives and nouns, inventive, rhythmic phrase clusters that titillate and delight the cerebral neurons like cheeky pixies.

I began really loving reading around the age of ten or eleven - comics were a big part of it, of course, but also magazines like Time and Newsweek and books. The Hardy Boys series was a huge favourite. Those cliffhanger chapter endings! My love for books really kicked into high gear around the age of fourteen when I started reading adult fiction in paperback form. I would buy them second hand from a local second hand bookshop in Tokyo. The shop was filled with Japanese books, of course, but there were about three or four shelves of titles in English. I chose very carefully. To buy a book and not be able to read it, legitimately enjoy it was something I only did once or twice. I hated to think of the title I had missed or excluded that would have perhaps opened a new world. So, I ended up spending one, two hours in the shop sometimes, before deciding on my purchase. As a discipline, and because I wasn't very cashed up, just one at a time. Unless there were two amazing ones, guarenteed reads that I didn't want to miss out on.

It was a thrill to be able to read 'adult' fiction - whatever I wanted from a young age. It helped me mature, formulate my world view, learn things about the world and it's inhabitants. Authors like John Fowles, Alistar Mclean, Woody Allen and on, that guy who wrote The Joy of Sex, all contributed to my development. 

I was known around school for always having at least one, if not two, paperbacks in my blazer side pockets. The commute to and from school was close to an hour - three train lines, two switches - which was two hours a day of extra reading time, thanks very much. There's no question I learnt more from reading books of my own selection than I did from set scholastic studies. It's possible, likely even, that my respect for and love of writing stemmed from my reading passion.

It's a habit that continues today. I always have one book on the go that I will read from cover to cover over a week or two period. Then there are the 'circlers', two or three that I pop in and out of. As well, there are the 'chancers'; ones that deserve a chance - a chapter, 20 pages - if they keep my interested I keep going with them. 

These day fiction writing mostly doesn't cut it for me. I visit the library several times a week - generally gravitating towards the art books, of course, but then the auto biographies. Mountain climbers, creatives, criminals, soldiers, inventors... a good yarn told in the first person - particularly one that is honest and illuminating - is satisfying and often inspiring in some way, insight into the headspace of a person who has done something extraordinary.

So, yeah, to me books are beautiful things. Powerful, mysterious, full of promise - teachers of the best kind; they lay it out there for you to discover for yourself. No pushing. No hard sell. A simple invitation... come along for a few steps... if you are compelled to continue, well, let's take the journey together. At completion you will be a slightly different person. You will have evolved.  

As one chapter ends a new one begins.

After creating 5,000 images over the last two and a half years on my Samsung Galaxy Note 1 - like the images the have adorned the posts of this blog - I have changed tact and have begun to work on my recently acquired phone - the newly released Note 4. I'm working on a series of black & white drawing and comics that I plan to publish next year in a book. 

I really enjoyed the daily, accumulative process of creating the colour works and often wondered how long it would go on for. But with the exciting new purchase of the exciting new portable studio - with it's fancy, fandangled technology and crisp, clear screen image quality - I found myself naturally drawn to creating clean and simple greyscale sketches. I have done a couple of hundred already and plan to present the best (and the worst) in a simple paperback style tome early next year in a small, self-funded print run. 

It feels good to be working on a fresh project and with the knowledge that the pieces will be published and shared via good old fashioned printing on paper methodology. I have always loved books of all sorts, so the prospect of making one of my own is exciting. In 2001, I self published my first paperback - a collection of writings called 'All I've Ever Wanted Is What I Know I Can Never Have.' I did a small run and sold out quickly - a large percentage at the launch in Sydney. For many years also, in the 90's - I self published and distributed zines of my line work and writing under the titles - Free Spirit, Script Head and Hip Shots. One day I plan to release a best of compilation of these, too.

One day.

I like those words. Not today. Not tomorrow. But not just any random future day either. One day. It is so full of hope and fantasy. It may of may not come. But if it does, it will be beautiful. It's good to have one days.

When you take snapshots of yourself and select your favourite - what are you looking for? Are you trying to see/portray yourself for who you are or are you trying to capture/present a version of yourself that most fits your ideal self image?

Makes sense to do the latter, of course. But a selfie is just the cover. What really is important is what's inside the book. And what is equally important is that - this may come as a surprise - that YOU READ THE BOOK.

The book of self. New pages everyday. Some bits you write, others are written for you. All you have to do is record them. Some bits get erased. Some segments are abbreviated. Some are drawn out. 

What is your story, though? 

These days there are lots of book covers being flashed around but there is less and less content being revealed. Why is that? 

There's always so much going on that things like long, intimate conversations with lucid friends, meaningful connections, investments of time and energy in those in need, etc - have become less prevalent. 

Character. Personal morality. Philosophy. Discourse. Ethics.

In this money focused, ambition driven society there is less and less time for these things. Perhaps because the world has become so thick with information (and disinformation), in addition to entertainment and various forms of distraction (facebook, twitter, insta for starters), it is so easy to just drift along on a raft and never have to paddle or pull over to the shore and stake a claim or make a home. We are overwhelmed by complex systems, wheels within wheels; social, political and physical.

The world now takes it's own selfie, every day, every minute, every second. And we are not sure what to think. It is always changing! It's alluring, dangerous, stimulating, confronting, familiar and foreign all at once. Are we part of it? Have things gone beyond the point where one person, any given single entity - with their views, opinions, feelings, thoughts, outlooks - really matters? Is it all too much? Is the river now a tidal wave, a tsunami? Are we all just hanging on and hoping to land somewhere safe?

We take selfies to benignly assert our presence in the modern day. Look! This is me! Having fun, acting cool, being silly, sexy, wild! I exist. I am living the life. Whatever that is, at the moment. Don't ask. Questions make for discomfort. Questions stir things up. Especially questions we avoid asking ourselves. Those ones. The ones we are not sure we are even equipped to answer. Why bother? It's easier to just float along from day to day. Things will work out. 

Thing is - who are you?

Don't you want to get to know yourself? Look at yourself? See what you are made of? Get to know your true essence? 

If you do, you can, and you won't regret it. To find, you must seek. And the answers will only come once the questions are asked. And no one is going to do that for you. Not once you are an adult, anyway. It's your responsibility. In some ways, it's your primary one. To get to know yourself. Beyond what is on the cover. Beyond the presentation. Open the book up. Look inside. There is a world as grand and magical as you can imagine. There are things there that might make you uncomfortable, even fearful. But the truth is there is nothing to be afraid of. It's all you. 

And you, my friend, you're a flawed and complex, sentient being. Just like us all. Do not judge or condemn. Accept and embrace. Discover. Uncover. Allow. Once you can do it for yourself, you'll be able to do it for others. 

What does this mean in real terms - beyond the new age slogans? I don't know. It's different for us all. What I am saying - to myself, really - is that there is a need for more substance, more fibre, grit, integrity. What good is it to simply exist, without allowing your character to grow, to be revealed, to be celebrated in essence? Why not at least try to sort through your shit and dust off your dreams, pick up the book you have neglected and start to make up some stuff that you will proud of one day. Make a story, live a story, that you want to read. It doesn't matter what the fucking cover looks like, it's what's inside that matters. We want laughter and tears and meaningful, wonderful events to occur. Substance. You hear me? 

One of the joys of keeping an artist's journal like this is that there are no plans or pressures. I just start writing, whenever, whatever and let the flow take me where it will. It is oft times as revealing to me as it would be to anyone else. Of course, I have a more intimate knowledge of myself than anyone else, and yet, due to the complex nature of consciousness, psyche and psychology, revelations can and do still appear out of nowhere.

By now, although an amount of ego still remains (mostly dormant, reading a book in the shade), I act predominantly from other areas of self. These writings for example, although about self are not recorded in an attempt to elevate my self opinion or baste my ego. They are done as means of introspection and revelation. I use my self as a case study of sorts in an attempt to dissect and understand the nature of being human. I happen to be this person, so I observe him and make reports. I am glad to be him, er, me, because, if nothing else, as a specimen, I am unique and can be amusing at times. I mean; he is.

The other morning when I awoke, I got up and went online. I noticed how quiet it is, to sit at your computer and sample the internet. I realised that this is one of the things that I like about using my computer. It is quiet. Almost silent. Peaceful. 

A list of some other things in life I really appreciate:

solitude
serenity
as few demands or expectations as possible
freedom
self devised schedule
few time constraints
staying up late
sleeping in
commune with nature
library visit
reading time
thinking time
creative time

I have directed/constructed my days so that there is an ample amount of these things in each day.

My phone rings maybe once a week. This suits me fine. Even less would be better. I used my phone - a large screen Samsung Note 1, with a stylus to create artworks in a program called SMemo. An average of three hours per day which yields four or five new works. I create these works mostly in a cafe or at the library. Sometimes sitting in my car.

My car is from the 90's. It's small, rusty, rattly and lots of things don't work. But it gets me there. A nice car is something I would really like and I do spend a fair amount of time imagining the joy and luxury of owning a Range Rover Evoque, a Lexus or a new model Merc. These are fantasies akin to those that a hungry man on a desert island would have of unlimited access to a bountiful and succulent buffet. They get me through the rocky ride home. And still, I am grateful to have a vehicle that takes me to destinations of my choice.

I live from week to week. My income is at the poverty level. I have enough to rent the smallest room in a share house of four, buy fruit and veges for the week and put petrol in my car most of the time. A few times a week I will have a meal out, the average budget is $11. My favourites are the Sunday curry, which I eat sitting in my car by the river at sunset, the bean nachos from the tiny, rowdy small town pub which I eat while reading my book, surrounded by unruly, loud and friendly old school ockers and the mid week small pesto and pumpkin pizza at the RSL club, which I supplement with a generous amount of apple sauce from the condiments table. These simple treats give great satisfaction.

Although I would, of course, like to have more money to do things like travel, buy big canvases and lots of paints and update my technology (and the car), I am not willing to trade in all my freedom and time for it. I have lived for decades now with very little and have come to appreciate the glorious things that are free. Like the beach, friendships and family, exercise, creating, writing and reading. A characteristic of my personality is that I require a pervading low pressure zone.

In some ways I am a social outsider, living on the fringes, but truth is, it's better here. Society, mainstream society at least, although filled with mostly good hearted and well intentioned people, has some priorities, expectations and demands that are excessive, misdirected, unjust and antiquated. I don't feel like I fit in, so I stay out. Luckily, I am an artist, so I can do this. Compared to a more conventional modern existence, it may appear lacking, but it isn't. Like many fine characters I know, I can't do normal. And, hey, that's OK.

I was thinking the other day, while walking on the beach about just how many projects there are that I have conceived or started but not finished. There are so many! Ideas come to me fast and thick and are never ending. The ones that come to full fruition are only the tip of the iceberg. One in a hundred or less.

There are multiple reasons for this. Timing, circumstance, attitude... Even if I was a hyper achiever, I'd still probably only be able to execute 5% of what I cook up. Sometimes I justify not doing more by telling myself that it's just the kind of person I am, my destiny; to enjoy thinking things up - and then letting them go. I do very much find satisfaction in the conceptual part of a new project. It's all so potentially perfect, so grand, so unrestricted. Often, I will have an idea for a book/movie/creative project that I will see appear in the public realm five, ten years later. I'm sure this is not uncommon.

On the other end of the spectrum, many times I have attempted to make things happen, to manifest ideas - and reality has just not cooperated. For example, in the late nineties, after studying screenwriting at UCLA, I spent two years full time writing screenplays. I completed a total of six feature films - one for young teens, a chick flick, a feel-good indie, a fantasy film, a comedy and a coming-of-age action/drama. After they were done I spent a year trying to get interest/sell/get funding for them. I concentrated mainly on the last one - which I think is the best and has the most commercial potential. I am not, however, a great sales person by any stretch, and nothing came from any of it. They sit in a box in storage. It was disheartening, I cannot deny, and yet, I did still get great pleasure in the act of writing them. Of course, I have continued with my writing and had subsequent success with radio plays/ comedic monologues and short films. But screenplay number seven is yet to be.

I have also written full outlines for a three character one-man-show and a grand scale musical over the last few years, but they, too, remain concepts - unreleased, not invested in, scribbles in a notebook. 

Sometimes, I do the work to manifest something and it is blocked at the last stage of realisation or snatched from my hands. A documentary about Bay FM radio station, Bliss Jockeys, that I wrote and directed was snatched from my hands by a megalomaniacal/paranoid producer at the very final stages because of ownership disputes. After a deal with SBS fell through, he ran off with the tapes and chopped them into segments, put them up on his YouTube channel as his own. That was a full years work. 

In 2002, after self publishing my first book, 'All I've Ever Wanted Is What I Know I Can Never Have', and getting satisfaction and encouraging feedback from it, I embarked upon a follow up, 'Karma Rama'. I spent the next 18 months working on it. Once completed, I fully designed the front and back covers, and got it print-ready in Quark. While I was busy trying to scrape together some money for a first run, my computer died. Salvaging it from the hard drive would have cost more than I had at the time. The book never happened.

All sounds a bit sad, in a way. But it isn't necessarily. For me the best part of a project is in the thinking up and the creation. What happens with things after that is a bit boring. Of course, it is wasted effort and disappointing when they get so close to fruition, but I am so quickly onto the next thing that I soon forget.

As an evolving creative entity, my lessons and greatest joys are in the actual doing of things, the initial spark, the first rendering, the birth of ideas. From nothing to something. What kind of somethings they become and whether or not they solidify a place of any distinction in the world is not where I put my attention.

My journals are full of things that could have been. Books, movies, exhibitions, shows. It's not too late. Some may still find there way back into the process. Who knows. But most of them are just part of a wild and zesty creative machine gun process. Benign bullets billowing in the air. With a charged-up and staccato-laughing genius/madman alone on the beach with his never-ending supply of artistic ammo, filling the horizon with new thoughts and concepts that take shape and form for a time, then, like the clouds, drift off into the ether, the endless blue.

Hey kid,

You're a very sensitive fellow. But you are also very thoughtful, observant and wise. Your instincts are good - continue to follow them and believe in your own, unique, world view. 

You have to put up with a lot of crap from figures of authority. They are often wrong, as you suspected, and are really just stupid bullies. You fight them and lose because they hold all the power. But I admire your sense of righteousness and low tolerance for injustice. Don't let those fuckers break you! (They won't.)

Although you have a naturally positive and adventurous, hopeful outlook, you are often deeply saddened by your circumstances. You feel misunderstood and misaligned. You don't really fit in with conventional ways. This will not change. 

Your curiosity, love of reading, love of exploration and FUN are a centre point to your being. Your instinct is to do what makes you happy. This is a good thing. Stick with it. 

You love people - good people, open minded people, playful people, big hearted people. You are a champion for the under dog. Heck, you are the under dog!

Much of what you learn is though interacting with others - outside of the school system. You instinctively seek and find slightly older mentors who offer you new insight, support and reassurance. This is a good thing and will continue into your thirties. 

You love of romance and woman will continue to grow. Aren't they amazing creatures. As best as you can, treat them with respect and kindness. They thrive on attention and emotional connection. A few will try and get the better of you, but don't worry, they will soon fall away. 

You will be lucky enough to have some wonderful, exciting relationships with some truly beautiful women as you get older. Don't worry too much if it doesn't always turn out right for now. There's plenty to look forward to.

I remember you sitting on the steps, alone, outside the dance or the club, on occasion and feeling alone, sad. Wishing you could find someone to have a heart connection with. Don't worry, kid. They will come. 

You will marry, too. It won't last but you didn't want it to. She wasn't the right one and you knew this before you proposed. But, ironically, getting married was the only way out. She was a tough one to shake. She had emotional power over you. It wasn't until you become husband and wife and she cheated on you that you could sever the ties and walk away with clear conscience and freshly empowered. 

Your thirties are when you will really have some hugely rewarding love affairs and relationships. Some that last years, others months and a few for only weeks. But, kid, believe me, you will not be disappointed. 

Later in life, in your fifties, you'll remain un-remarried. After a promising relationship in your late forties that turns sour, you decide that being single is actually your preference. You love your freedom and independence. 

From early on, you choose to be a free spirit. You do not like to be pinned down, committed, or stuck. You like to sleep when you want, wake when you want and do as you choose with your time. This makes holding a job quite difficult. And after trying a few in your late twenties you decide it's not for you. 

After all, you are an artist. An artist and a writer. Did I mention that? Yes, it's true. Your love of books and art and movies never wanes and you begin to express your own truth. You go to art school. You study film making. You write and publish your own poetry and stories and comics. You even publish a book when you are forty. It's called 'All I've Ever Wanted Is What I Know I Can Never Have.' Nice title!

You study screenwriting at UCLA and end up writing six feature films. None of them get made, so you kind of give up and go back to painting. But you continue to make short films and write journals and poems and comics, of course. You've always loved comics!

You do stand up for a while. Solo and as a duo. You tour briefly. It's a tough road. Not for you. You also have your own comedy radio show. That is good. You always wanted that! You create some great characters and really enjoy writing and performing. You even win an award for you comedy writing! And cash!

You move to Byron Bay for seven years. Then get invited to perform your original comedic monologue in New York! Cool, huh?! They pay for you to go over, so you pack up and go. NYC isn't your style so you move to LA. It's good there, but, once again, you are an outsider and despite some elements that you really enjoy, you decide to return to Australia. 

You love your country more than ever and eventually end up back up north. This time in Mullumbimby. There are cows and chickens in the backyard. The sky is big. The sea is close by. You visit every day - you've always loved, indeed, needed the ocean. The air is clean and fresh. Country living, the simple life suits you.

You don't have much. An old car, an old computer, a small room you rent and a storage shed full of painting from the 25 plus art exhibitions you've held over the last 30 years.

When I say you don't have much, I mean, of course, material things. You have plenty. Health, freedom, imagination. Your future is open to possibility... 

It's hard being an artist. Especially one that isn't motivated to self promote. Still, every day you create new works - two, three, four, five.... You love seeing what comes out. It reminds you of the comic covers you so used to enjoy as a kid. You've got plans to publish a book of your own recent comics - you've done over 200 of them over the last year. That will be good, huh? 

Anyway, gotta go now, kid. Just thought I'd say hello and tell you some things. Of course you won't get this back then. 

But you've got it now. Take it easy.

Remember?

We used to go poetry readings in the Cross, late 80's
Listen to Steve read his lucid stories in his accent
Frank would ramble, highly intelligent obviously, but still a rambler
We were captivated by the passion, the character, the honesty
We were enthralled by the words

The words selected
For their mystique and power
The words connected
Hubbed together like a daisy chain, droplets in a shower

The words intersected
Colliding with force
Voices rode hoarse
Arms swirling
Verbal symphonies
A concert of concepts spinning and twirling

Peter was one like that
He'd go into a trance it seemed
Some would be read, the rest ad-libbed
It was poetry his stuff, real poetry
Melodic and moving
Hypnotic and grooving

Joe was funny ha ha hilarious
A barrister, retired early
He'd write outrageous letters to council
Pompous tones
Read them out with the responses
Those suits got owned!

Others were good, too
Renee, the tree Davids, Captain Angus
Rob, of course, sharp as a whip
And Marla who danced with no undies at a party
In Bondi, in front of the full length mirror

Sometimes the surprise newbie
Talent like lightening
Out of nowhere, sharp and bright
Lots of red wine, from the cask
Two bucks in a plastic cup
Ciggie breaks, mostly rollies
Sprinkling of drug use
As habit or just to enhance, to amuse

Remember you'd get nervous
Before you went up those few stairs to the stage
Mouth dry, hands clammy
But once you made it to the mike
And got started 
It was like an old bike, riding downhill
Wind in your hair
Giggling on the inside
Suddenly unselfconscious, but intimately self aware

The Aquatic Club, on the hill there, mostly
Upstairs at a restaurant in Darlo
Sometimes at a pub or in a basement
Didn't matter
We were loose comrades, bygone bohemians
United by aspirations, dreams, love
Of ideas and spirit expressed in word
Tuneless song

It was a much simpler time,
No mobiles, no net, and yet
We communicated so much more
And with beauty and grace
Exposed, fearless and raw
Liberated and protected by prose
Uplifted by staccato rants
Seduced by mellifluous chants

We made it up, line at a time
We shared of each other
Gave what we had in syntax and rhyme
Those were some good nights, eh?
Just big kids at play - the outsiders, the rebels, the fray

My word
And yours
Something to listen to
Something to say

Things are different these days
Yeah, everything is different these days

I was lying on my mattress the other night watching a open-hand-size huntsman repeatedly navigate the upper levels of the four walls of my room. He's been around for a week or so now and we've decided on a mutually beneficial 'no provoke', silent, arachnoid/gentlemen's agreement. Still when he saunted up to the roof and crossed over into a space hovering directly above my head, I decided it would be wise to move temporarily to a different spot.

Lying there, I suddenly remembered that I used to read and collect National Lampoon humour magazines in the mid seventies. I used to really enjoy reading them. I don't know what happened to my collection - lost in transit, I suppose. I've lived in and moved out of thirty or forty abodes since then. I now live in a rented room with my computer, an open suitcase and a mattress. Streamlined, you could call it.

Since my teens, I have always been a high input person. Books, comics, magazines, movies, TV series, the net... I like to absorb - concepts, words, visuals, stories. I always try to find stuff that is quality. Stimulating. As a teen it was paperbacks found in the second hand store in Hiroo, Tokyo, by writers like John Fowles, Alister Mclean and James Clavell. Comic titles like 'Challengers of the Unkown', 'Sgt Rock' and 'Swamp Thing'. Then there were mags - National Lampoon, Reader's Digest, Time, Esquire, Details. Mixed in with all this was Japanese game shows, comedies and kickboxing shows.

Around 18, I discovered with great delight the art film, late night double feature cinemas and saw groundbreakers - and lifechangers - like El Topo, Eraserhead, Performance, Clockwork Orange and Nashville.

I also have always loved, sitting and watching people. From Shibuya station in the early days, to nights on the streets in Kings Cross in my twenties (observer, not hooker) to walking through neighbourhoods in the US, South America and South East Asia in my travels. To this day, I spend hours at a time in libraries, wherever I am, several times a week: absorbing. I also love their serenity and solemness.

Point is, it's little wonder my visual art output is voluminous. (3,000 plus artworks in the last 22 months).  A lot goes in. A lot comes out. It needs to. I really enjoy making pictures. From nothing to something. A simple magic. Soul soothing.