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.

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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.

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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.

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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. 

 It was by no means a planned thing, in the way that most of the good things that happen to you are not.

I was living in Byron Bay. My first place was a share with my best friend (from Sydney) and her new husband (a monk from Queensland) and their new baby (my dearly loved godson). We hung out for a few years and then the house got sold. They found a cool spot pretty quickly but it was a smaller place (as in no room for me), so I had to find a share elsewhere. It came as a surprise and I had to scramble. I found a place in Lilli Pilli. The bedroom was tiny but I got full use of the garage and made it my den, workspace, think space, man cave. The woman I was sharing with was a published, celebrated writer and a member of Mensa (IQ around 140). It was her place and her rules but we got along just fine. Two quirky people, each into their own thing, their own worlds, making light contact on the reality plane every once in a while. There was mutual respect and appreciation with the tiniest hint of attraction. But we both knew the consequences of letting that grow, so we kept the space between us steady. I mean, she was in Mensa, she could work that much out. Sleeping with a flatmate. Er, no. She was too big a personality, too grand and refined a mind, too much someone who is the master of her own universe, I believed, to entertain the notion of a intimate union. It would have been gloriously wonderful. Until the first disagreement. You know? One of those kinds of chemistries. So, after a year or so, I moved out. Again, the place got sold. I enjoyed the time there, made the best of an unusual arrangement and dynamic and I think she did, too. If we had been ten years younger (we were early forties) or perhaps had gotten really drunk one night, things may likely have been different. And not better. So leaving with respect and a mild affection for each other was the optimum result. But I wasn't sure where to go next. 

My friend, the monk, told me there was a small room - a bit like a cabin - attached to the main residence. It had jsut enough space for my bed and my desk. It was vacant at the time and was offered to me as a temporary solution. It was part of a Buddhist temple and Zen Do (pronounced 'doe'). The head monk, from Japan, lived in the main house. There was also a room in there for a monk in training/his assistant and a meditation hall that was used by the monks twice a day as well as occasional visiting practitioners. 

I fit in easily. I grew up in Japan and speak Japanese and, more importantly, know how the Japanese behave. It's all about respect, politeness, deferment, consideration. And from my experience, this is true on every level in Japanese life. Their society is highly evolved and their social behaviour is elegant and refined. Much of my connection with the head monk was on this unspoken level. It's a way of being that is deeply ingrained in the Japanese and it makes for fluid interaction. Of course, on top of that, the master was a man of highly evolved consciousness. I was very much aware that I was in the presence of a special person. What was so special? Nothing out of the ordinary. But after time and observation it became clear that his very ordinariness, his humility, his love for humour and levity, his dedication to his practice... all these added up to a being who had successfully transcended most of the trappings, the entanglements of 'normal' life and was someone to truly admire and learn from. 

I met and spent time with many of the monks. Some would stay for a few days, others weeks, a few for months. I got to know them all. All very different, different backgrounds, different stories, ways of being, reasons for practicing Zen. I got on well with almost all of them, became close with a few. 

Because I remained an outsider - I was the only one there not in training or already ordained - I was able to benefit from their teachings, their learnings and their struggles without being fully immersed or attached. This also allowed them to enjoy my company in a fresh way; I was just a long haired, mellow, artist dude hanging out there for an unspecified time (and reason). 

I have always enjoyed this role. Being part of something but at the same time, not. Being just on the outside of the circle. A free agent. 

Yes, it does mean that the final commitment is not there - which, in many cases - means that full integration, absolute engagement is not possible, which is sometimes risky and potentially unfulfilling - but it's a position I am comfortable with. In some funky, personal way, I find it fits. I like to go 98% there, then stop. It can be excruciating, infuriating (for others), frustrating, limiting. But at the same time, it can be highly rewarding. And in this case, my time at the Zen Do, it was. 

I did sit sometimes, I did consider becoming a monk, I did study and learn some of the ways. But, I knew, it wasn't my path. And beautifully, wonderfully, so did the master and most of the other monks. And still, they allowed me to live with them, eat with them, come and go as I pleased. It was truly a position of honour. 

Eventually, after three years, quite out of the blue, I was offered a chance to travel to the US to create and perform a comedic monologue in a festival in New York. My flight over was covered and a months accommodation. It was an invitation to change tack, a new path to follow. I decided to move over there, do the performance, then go and live in LA and follow one of my dreams and work as a screenwriter. It seemed right.

For the last two years while living at the Zen Do, I had my own comedy radio show at the local station. It involved twenty hours of writing per week for each show. Then, practice with a band of voice actors and ten or more original skits performed live each week. I was into developing and presenting comedic scenes and characters. My time at the Zen Do had given me peace and a place to focus on one of my passions. This gave me the confidence to accept the new challenge of America and to pack up (what little I had) and head West, er, Northeast. 

So, what did I learn there? What gems can I share, nuggets of wisdom that were garnered from living in such a special place as a lucky guest?

I learnt about simplicity, respect, humility, patience and focus. I learnt from watching, listening and thinking. Many of the monks, no, all of the monks, were flawed characters. But what set them apart was their dedication and devotion to something greater than themselves. A kind of reverence for life itself. Manifested in a practice of stillness and acceptance. 

Of course, you never 'get there'. Nobody was anything other than a humble being, struggling and suffering in their own way, with their own destiny. But, at times, there was great reward to be found in scuttling around the peripheries of nothingness. There was a quiet, delightful salvation within sight on a few occasions while sitting silently with these most admirable practitioners, these dignified, humble and humbling beings. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is today. New Brighton beach in Northern New South Wales. I snapped this shot before an afternoon walk and swim. While I was immersed in the ocean I thought about what it is that drives me to enter the sea on a daily basis, what the reward is. I actually started speaking out loud about it, free versing while being lapped by the waves, expressing the moment to myself and the omniscient planet soul. I used a retarded Jerry Lewis voice for our amusement. 

What I came up with is this:

You enter the ocean. It is a massive body of energy, the biggest on the planet. You connect with it. You give yourself to it. You become one with it. It is soothing, embracing, invigorating. It is a pure force of nature. You commune with it. Float, frolic, flap around. Play.

Then, above you - the sky. It is majestic and limitless. I looked up and realised that there is no end to where I am gazing. It goes on and on. And on and on. The sky is infinity. It is a window to eternity. Timelessness, a universe. A galaxy. All right there. Up there, above.

So, the ocean comforts and the sky humbles. I am comforted and humbled. This is a good combination. I feel surrender and awe. Giddy with the realisation that life itself is beyond comprehension. But that doesn't matter. All I have to do is splash around. A teeny, tiny little human. Living in the moment. One with the sea and and the sky. One with everything.

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.

I've been in Mullumbimby (pop. 3,129) now for over a month. I used to live in Byron Bay for seven years before a recent four years in Sydney and one in LA. Now, I am back in the area. It feels like home. I am very aware of my surroundings and the environment, geographical and social. It's the small pleasures in daily life, I have discovered as I get older, that bring the most joy. I've been jumping off bridges into the river, going for discovery bush walks, enjoying the long, long stretches of unpopulated beaches. And just breathing in the dense, almost tasty, unpolluted air - courtesy of the thick clusters of native trees and plants. Aaahhh....

One of the things, though, that I noticed quite quickly is that because the pace is slower and the intensity and pressures are less than in the big city, people have time to stop and talk and enjoy each other's company. Even small interactions - in cafes, pubs, with shop attendants, at the petrol station (where they fill it up for you!) - there's a true joy in communion. And always a good laugh.

I've also come to once again, appreciate the old school Aussie spirit and character - which is alive and kicking in the yet to be 'internationalised' areas of regional Australia such as this. It's significantly on the decline, lacking, fading in places like Sydney due to a massive influx of multiculturalism. There's no turning back the tide in the big cities - and there's plenty of upside to the mixed bag of nationalities - but I have found it refreshing to be back in a place that still vibrates with an old school Australian type of character, behaviour and humour. 

It reminds me of the country I grew up in. It reminds me of the uniqueness of the classic, laconic spirit that used to prevail. To find it still existing, to be immersed in it again, is an added side benefit to the other natural positives of life in the Biggest Little Town in Australia. It's a river that runs deep and is an element of this nation that gets dissipated and forgotten amongst the progress and demands of the big city life. It's a dry, wry, hard-nosed kinship, at once stand-off-ish and embracing, that is unique to this land and a great joy to be part of once again. 

Earlier this week I did a reasonably long drive, about 900kms, from Sydney to Mullumbimby. I have a pretty basic car; no luxury, no stereo, auto windows or the like. So it was a bare bones driving experience. Just the wheels on the road and my mind and eyes. 

A couple of things I observed on the trip are worth noting. 

1.) My job was to safely make it from point A to point B. To do this I had to pay proper attention to the coniditions and situations around me. It was very beautiful in some spots and visually a great pleasure to be taking in the wonderful, morphing Australian landscape. I thought about some of the people in global hotspots like Egypt and Syria and thought about how removed I was from those kind of situations - and any other drama unfolding anywhere. My job was simple and confined to limited parameters. I did not have to worry about other dramas - global or personal - because my attention was in demand. It was a reminder of the liberating sensation of travel. The time between your departure place and your destination is reserved for that activity. It's like you have a pass from the everyday issues. It's at once, somehow magically, cathartic and nourishing.

2.) Even though I was giving 100% attention to my driving, a few times I would get on a pleasant or rewarding stream of thought - about a new creative idea/project or a mental recount of a recent series of interesting poker hands - and at the end of the sequence I would realise that ten or twenty or thirty minutes - and 40 or 50kms had gone by. Fully functioning on a couple of levels at once. It reminded me of a few times in my 20's when I used to smoke hashish and drive. Similar. But these days I don't need the drugs.

3.) I don't mind travelling alone. I get on with myself well. I take care of myself and enjoy my own company. This is obviously a good thing. It has always been true to a degree, but now after having done it for many decades, it is even more true and more apparent. There is plenty of world out there to interact with. Having said that, on arrival, I was delighted to see my dearest friends and spend precious and rewarding time together. It's about a healthy balance. I do acknowledge, though, that as an artist, quiet time/alone time is an essential and important aspect to the creative living process.

4.) This trip is not just a visit for me. I am moving from the city to the country. It's a reasonably big change. Before I have resettled, I will have stayed in and moved out of three or four different abodes, some familiar, some new. There has been plenty of box packing, lifting and loading already and more to come. It is a time of change and transition. It is packed with highs and lows. Because you are destabilised and dealing with new surroundings, boundaries and situations, experiences and emotions are heightened. Amongst the turmoil it becomes a little easier to notice one's essence. The un-changing. It is interesting to observe. Life never gets easier. You just get a bit more used to being around the process, challenges and demands of change.

As a teen growing up in Tokyo I used to listen to FEN - the Far East Network - an English language radio station - everynight between 8pm and 9pm. They would have fantastic radio plays like 'X minus One', 'Dragnet' and once in a while, some Monty Python. 

I'd lie in the dark and let the worlds come to life through sound. It was great escape. The imagination would augment the audio and build complex worlds.

I would also listen to the famous Wolfman Jack and Casey Kasem's Top 100 shows. This was in the days when even Walkman's were yet to be invented. Seems ancient now.

Anyway, I grew to love the medium of radio and in the back of my mind always wanted, one day, to maybe be a disc jockey. 

When I was living in Byron, I spotted an ad in the Echo for radio presenter training night classes. I signed up. It went for 8 weeks, I think, a few times a week. I learnt the basics. It was a little non-creative and dry and also, due to one particularly grating fellow participant, I nearly quit before the end. 

The instructor said, "We are going to pair up and do interviews together now. Choose someone and..." I was sitting next to the woman I found it hard to bear and thought to myself - if I get stuck with her I am walking out. It looked like it was going to happen when...

An angel from across the room, shouted 'I want him!' I looked up and she was pointing directly at me. I didn't know her but her name was Claire. She thought I was funny, she later explained. And some of the others were annoying her. We had a lot of fun with the mock interviews and they were the hit of the class. (Claire and I became great friends and still are.)

Bay FM, 99.9, Byron Bay's local radio station held auditions each year for new presenters. Something like 40 applicants for 3 spots. As the final part of the course, we each got to do a  half hour, live to air show, after midnight. I worked hard at writing and preparing mine and used it in my application.

To cut a long story short, two spots got filled and the third was a head to head between me and another hopeful. They re-interviewed us both. I nudged in. Victory! I was euphoric. 

My slot was late Sunday nights 10pm to midnight. The show was called 'The Wonderful Thing.' It was a live sketch comedy show with laid back music interludes. Each week I would write an hour of new material, rehearse with one or two local actors (Claire also joined us many times) and then do the show. It turned out to be a very popular show with some avid followers. The thing I loved most was when people told me that they tuned in while driving and had to pull over they were so riveted. 

I started out in 'The Shack' a funky old caravan but later the stationed moved to all new premises in the Byron Bay Community Centre. It was luxury. The studio was state-of-the-art, cosy and audiolicious. I loved going in there each week and making stuff happen over the air waves. Lots of laughs and great tunes. 

The station had an extensive CD library and each Friday I would go in and spend hours choosing that week's playlist. Obviously, it took a few weeks to really settle in - technically, one has to be quite aware and adept to handle all the switching, levels, etc - but after some hilarious blunders - it was smooth sailing. Truly a world unto itself. The kid inside me was smiling everytime I sat in the chair, put on the cans and whispered my intro speech... We have lift off...!

By the time I left to head over to the US, I had released three compilation comedy sketch CDs which are still being played occasionally by the new crop of presenters now.