The appealing thing about watching the Olympics is that all the participants, human beings just like you and me, are living their lives to their fullest potential. They are constantly challenging and pushing their own limits and they are fully participating and interacting with every new day in a dynamic and go-getter way. They face their fears and conquer them. Of course, they, too, are fallible but their attitude towards difficulties is much more ferocious and unforgiving than most of us. They want to be their best. They want to win.

And for many of the rest of us, the viewers, we can relate to that feeling. We, too, want to win. Everyone likes to win. But we don't put it all on the line like they do. They represent the best of us and the best of what is inside us. 

Some days it's hard for me just to go to the post office. It means stopping, find a parking spot, waiting in line... if I don't have to do it that day, I will put it off. I don't need to empty the bin when it's 96% full. It can wait. Why rush it? When it's full, I will take it out. When I say full, I mean slightly overflowing. Sure, clean sheets feel crisp and scrumptious. But when is the time to make the effort to change the old ones? Slept in sheets have their own charm. They've been with you for the last few weeks, they've molded their shape to fit snugly beneath you. They are familiar and accommodating. They don't demand to be changed. It's up to you. One more night isn't going to make that much difference. Besides, who likes doing the washing. Washing machines are ogre-like. They involve waiting. Loading, unloading, and then damp clothes must be hung up. Each article - one by one...

As you may have surmised from my little stream of consciousness rant - I am not an Olympian. I'm an everyday dilly-dallier, a loveable sloth, a lazy dog in the sun, a drifter, a serial procrastinator.

I don't win medals. 

And yet, my pursuits, my trials and tribulations are just as confronting to me as the final 100 metres is to a world class sprinter. It is not that different.

When I eventually get round to vacuuming my room, I feel like a champion. When I drag myself out of bed after falling asleep trying to watch that one-too-many-eps of GOT or 'The Night Of' and make it to the bathroom to properly wash my face and brush my teeth, I feel like I have stepped up onto the podium, medal ready. When I finally finish a piece of writing that I have been avoiding because IT'S HARD, I raise my arms and fall to my knees and sob. No one is watching, it isn't being televised, but that doesn't matter. I've clinched gold.

We are all in the Olympics. Every day. We all try our best, really, even if it appears to be slacking off at times. We fight for survival, we try to work things out, we deal with wave after crashing wave of conflict and drama that sometimes threaten to drown us. We keep our heads above water.

That's the game. We find ourselves here, in it. Quick learners, all of us; we adapt, do our best, carry on. 

I say three cheers to all the athletes, sure. But another round of applause and a 'Whooo!' for all the rest of us, too. There are no losers. If you've turned up and you are taking it on, you're a fucking champion. Don't forget it.

Melancholy and exaltation
Traversing though the emotional spectrum
Saturated in sunshine then
Dark clouds appear when you least expect them
 
White lace and promises
Tattered and torn
Do you remember when you believed in something?
Do you know why you were born?
 
Even in the quietest moments
You can hear the roar of impending
Travesty or majesty
Depending on the pure chance of circumstance
On which door you've selected
On whether or not you're soul protected
 
No triumphs
Never thriving
Nothing more
Than just surviving
Always searching
For that second chance
To make things right
To dance that dance
To walk the walk
Across the line so thin
Try, try, try
Do not give in, never give in
And one day soon you just might win
Win, win, win, win, win, win, win
If that is what you really want
But it seems not
It seems not
 
Melancholy and exaltation
So much to say, no forum to say it in
Immersed in daily detours
Straight out of the spa and into the sewers
Your course was set but you went askew
You've got self-sabotaging tendencies
Evident in what you choose
 
You're going to get dirty - that's a guarantee
The devil, so flirty, will bring you to your knees
Yet despite every knock down
You'll find new resolve, clarity, after all
A breakthrough is not a breakthrough
Till you've hit the wall at full speed
 
Melancholy and Exaltation
The miracle is in the mix
So keep stirring things up
Keep on doing it tough
Till less than you wanted
Becomes more than enough
 

Identity. What is it?

It's a paradox that while we constantly strive (consciously and subconsciously) to formulate our identities, to construct some kind of workable approach and ideology in regards to the demands and apparitions of daily life, that at certain points we come to the realisation that this internal system we have worked so hard to devise and refine is the very thing that is containing and limiting our true being. 

What was once crucial to our survival, adaptation, becomes a hinderance; almost a prison of sorts.

And in the moment of this understanding there is a wild feeling of despair, confusion and even anger. WTF, we ask ourselves. I have worked so hard. And all that, all struggling to work things out, all the coping mechanisms that I patched together from available strands of inner strength and learning- the-hard-way lessons... all that has become obsolete, useless?!
What am I supposed to do? Start again?

But, no. You have advanced. It's just that at certain points you plateau, then eventually arrive at the base camp for new ascents. For this you need new tools and strategies. Sure, it's admirable that you made it this far. But you have done so only to face an even more formidable level. And so it goes on.

It creeps up on you. The moment you get too comfortable.

That, in fact, is a good indicator that something is going to change. 

Some people, try to pre-empt the challenges by never letting down their guards, constantly attacking new slopes. It is an admirable technique, one that does offer some success, but it is not infallible and neither does it let you escape the inevitable curve balls, hidden trap doors, pratfalls that we all must endure.

Some go the opposite route entirely and try to minimise everything. Limit feelings, stick with routine, play it safe. This may seem to work for a while, too, but not for long.

So what can we grasp from this? Life is struggle, life is challenge. However you approach it, you are going to be tripped up, tested, put through the ringer. Assuming this to be true, then accepting it, what approach is best?

Hell, I don't know!! Ha ha ha. I'm no guru. I'm no expert. I'm just a minion, a foot soldier; muddy faced and bruised up - lucky still to be alive. Not sure, why I am even writing this. Like I've mentioned before, I just sit down and let it flow. Sometimes there is a resolution, a sensible form, and others, well, they just leave you hanging. 

Everything is a journey into the unknown. A step in the dark. We just tell ourselves otherwise in order to feel comfortable, to cope. We make habits, follow routines, stick to schedules. It seems to help. Chaos has a format and it is called 'Life'. Make up theories and rules and overlay plans and structures as much as you like - it makes no difference in the long run. 

Pop! You are born! Psst! You are dead!

The stuff in between is marshmallow.

​

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What a surprise.

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

Drink from the river
Breathe in that mountain
Make your skin quiver

While you can, while you can

Follow the new path
Taste the unknown
Step up to the new task

While you can, while you can

Shake yourself silly
Run naked at midnight
Be ready, be willing

While you can, while you can

The dying man was angry
He had let too much slide
Squandered his birthright 
Kept too much inside

Learn from his rage
His pain is your lesson
Whatever your age
Don't let it go missing

There's nothing worth saving
Spend your soul, open your heart
Go hungry, push the whole way
Give everything, go hard

Life is but an instant
A flash from a star
Dive in and taste it
Don't live from afar

Push all your boundaries
Find your truth, perfect your plan
You are in it; so win it

While you can, while you can

Don't bother to hold on to anything.

Not your things, not your concepts, not your

It's all impermanent. Like everything; forever changing, evolving. And, in fact, it makes sense to surmise that the quicker you evolve the stronger you will be.

So much, so much, holds us back. Mostly things that we ourselves feel we can not let go of. 

I am speculating here, not giving a sermon. I am going with the flow of my own stream of consciousness to see where it leads and, if perhaps, there is something worthwhile at the end of it. 

Writing as discovery. Writing as play.

As a side bar, since we are talking about writing, I borrowed a big fat, squat, chunky book from the library last week called 1,001 Books You Must Read Before You Die. I actually took it out for some sketch ideas for my comics, but as I have been leafing through it, it turns out to be a fascinating compilation and even in a single page synopsis, reveals much about each piece of fiction and it's author. What struck me is how most of the featured writers are visually eccentric, charismatic, striking or mysterious. Writers create worlds that did not previously exist. They bring mini worlds into our world. They offer up places to go and characters to get to know. I have found this book to be immensely inspiring, insightful and motivational. What a noble pursuit. What a gift to humanity, a wonderful legacy a well crafted and enduring work of fiction is. 

Anyway, I have taken a tangent. I was talking about holding on and letting go. I was riffing on the subject. Seeing if I can surprise/educate/liberate myself with some automatic writing.


As you get older, your priorities shift. Your motivations change, your needs morph. You are lying in bed and thinking back on activities a decade or two ago, some still fresh in memory, present in influence on current character/behaviours, and you realise that since those times so much has changed - circumstance, cast, location.... reality! ..... that it may all just be a story. But it was only just yesterday! It happened! I was there! 


Meaningless. It's gone. Life has shifted. Everything is different now. 


You have to catch up with yourself. You cannot linger too long. What about now. Now is going to be the memory of ten years from now. Are you making it worthwhile? Or are you wasting time re-running old clips?


Take stock. Be rigorous. Be ruthless. Don't keep what is no longer of any use. And that includes concepts. In fact, especially concepts. What use are the old ones? This is now, now, now!

Past a certain age there is more and more that cannot compete with the highs of youthful delights. You can't be as wild, you can't fuck as much, you can't ride high on ego and delusion and drugs and induced micro oblivion sessions. You can't run as far or as fast - to things or away from them. You can't delude yourself into believing that you are going to change the world. You can't get caught up, lost, in romantic notions, fantasies of perfect results or days of wasteful, hedonistic indulgence. You just cannot. You have come head on up against one of the undeniable realities of existence - we get older. Then we die.

And at a certain point of getting older, even getting older becomes something precious. You want more of it - as challenging and, in some ways (if you are using the old, un-adjusted ways of thinking) less ostensibly enjoyable (on the surface level) as it is - because well, the next phase is... is.... death. And no matter how diminished it may be or may get, it has to be better than the alternative.

Right? The inevitable alternative.

So, between being young and being old (as in debilitated level old, compromised old) there is a stage of reckoning. 

I was this and that. Now I am. 

A level of acceptance is necessary. One could call it a degree of surrender. A letting go.

All that is left is what is to come.

Let it go. Face forward. Peer up ahead. Not too far. Not the edge of the cliff. What's left of the journey. Do you want to go somewhere in particular? Amble? Rush? Take it as it comes? It doesn't matter. 

But what does matter is what you feel matters to you is treated with respect and reverence. You need to honour your higher self. And you can do that by bolstering your present self with as much dignity, passion, thoughtfulness, care, time and joy as you decide is necessary.

The game is not over. Not by any means. It has just changed completely. Its not that the rules have been rewritten. It's that you need to rewrite them. Gulp. Right?

What did you expect? Easy? Nah, save easy for when you are dead. 

Now is the time to really awaken and embrace all the fucking beautiful and wonderous shit you can.

Be astute, be open, be willing. 

You have been given a second chance. 

Sure, in some ways it's not as loaded up as the first chance, but at least this time you know it's not going to last. So you can make each moment count more.

Ready? 

You were born for this!

You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything.You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything.You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything.You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything.You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything.You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything.You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything.You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything.You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything. You can do anything.

A good friend said this to me on the beach this afternoon. I was surprised. As I continued on my walk, I felt bolstered by his comment and considered what he had said. 

I believe him.

On my way back, I repeated it over and over to myself out loud. It felt good.

The first step to being able to do anything, is believing that it is possible. 

Makes sense, right? It's kind of a prerequisite. So, the second step, I reckon, is being open to the next thing that comes along and presents itself in that kind of new and challengy way. Dares you to take it on. Looking forward to it. 

I'm ready.

Reach
Reach for anything
Reach for what you want

Seek
Seek whatever
Seek your heart's desire

Teach
Teach the curious
So they too may be wise

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

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

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

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

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

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

Use your imagination, kid!

Just a little spark is all I need
Like this morning
I was awake
More awake than some mornings

Just a little spark
I read a word
Just a single word
That lit a fuse

Ignited by passion
It's not a predictable thing
Passion lives in a world of it's own
With it's own rules
With no rules

I think of Raymond Carver
His words
Chosen
Select
The effect
Sublime

I think of the artist
Say Picasso
No, Van Gogh
Or Hockney, yeah, Hockney
The colours presented
A miracle to behold

I think of a lifetime
So much struggle
By the time we realise
It's not the game we thought it was
It's too late
Too late

So any spark
Be it in the morning, at night, at twilight 
Forget the cocktails
Get up from the patio
We're gonna dance
We're gonna dance
Cause this may be the last chance we get

I always wanted to work in the movies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. I have to answer. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes!"

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

"About working as an usher."

She checked her big red diary. Slight frown.

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

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

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

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

I was working in movies!  

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

Keep pushing that replay button

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

We all have them stored away safely

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

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

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

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

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

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