Is coming to terms with one's insignificance a good thing or a bad thing?

Not sure. But it certainly frees up a lot of time. 

Regardless of the ultimate futility of it all, I have been voraciously spending six hours a day in the studio working on new tracks. 

Nourishment, it appears, comes from creative expression - same as always - but now add the tasty sauce of productivity satisfaction and you've got yourself some chewable results.

Not one to neglect my art, I spend a minimum hour a day on making new images. And the same goes for my writing: minimum hour a day.

I can almost feel death coming. Not yet. But I am aware of it's eventuality more profoundly than previous. 

It's what we are all racing towards.

I ask myself - am I doing all this stuff to leave a mark? No.

Why then? Cause it is rewarding, feels good. It's how I relate to life. Like all creators; I am compelled.

Fills in the time. Masks the pain. Distracts from the struggle. 

Creating new stuff, for me, is fun because there are no rules and I can be loose and try new things and not worry about outcomes or opinions. It's a relationship with an open minded giver.

It builds internal layers, adds pieces to the puzzle, lubricates thought; centres you.

Discipline is adopted willingly. That's something special right there. 

You can do whatever you want. Putting effort into effortlessness. It's an art. 

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.

​

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!

Writing is a great form of healing and understanding. Often with these posts I will just begin with just a vague notion of something in mind and coax it out gently as I go. Later, I will read it back and be informed by my jottings. 'Oh, that's how I felt! That's what I was thinking! Very interesting.'

I find it's also good to draw out and expand upon memories. These days I will sometimes remember something from decades ago, something that I had not thought of for a long time but that was a big deal at the time and influential in my personal development.

One of those such things is my ninth grade in high school. It was an interesting time. I was thirteen going on fourteen. We had a new teacher to the school - an international boys private school run by Canadian Christian Brothers called St. Mary's in Tokyo - and his name was Brother Robert Scripko. He was in his mid twenties, rotund and powerful. He came in an took over, revolutionised, the English and Drama departments. And he also happened to be our homeroom and English teacher. Everything he did was by the rules - his rules. One thing that was clear to everyone, very soon, was that he didn't take shit. He had a huge physical presence - tall and rotund-  and the booming voice of an orator or a fish market spruiker. On the upside, he had plenty of positive energy mixed in with his dictator-like character and a great passion for both english and drama. 

One of the best things he did was give us each a journal and demanded that we write a page - about anything - every Tuesday and Thursday. On top of that we would fill it with longer, specified assigments, once a week. When we were first told of this, there was a lot of resistance. Filling a whole page without guidance or direction at that age seemed challenging. But after not long, most kids got in the swing of things. We had to hand them in every few weeks and Brother Robert would write comments. He would grade the assigments but not the journal pages. He was sometimes harsh but also encouraging.

I grew to love my journal. I found a great pleasure and freedom in making up stories. As a big reader of comics and magazines, and, more and more, books - it was a revelation to me that you could create fiction of your own devising. It was like a game. A fun game with very broad parameters and unlimited options. One evening, about two thirds of the way through the year, I shared my journal, proudly, with my parents. I waited in my room while they perused it, anticipating high praise or at least positive acknowledgement. Finally, they called me into their chamber. 

"We notice that you write a lot about death. A lot of your stories are about death..." 

They seemed concerned and slightly perturbed. It was not the encouragement I had been looking for. I didn't really have an answer for them. But looking back, since then, I put it down to a few things. 

Death is drama. 
Life is death.
Death is the ultimate mystery.
Death is extreme and elicits an emotional response.
Writing about death is a way of coming to terms not only with it's eventuality but also a way of frame-working life.
Death is powerful and confronting. Writing about it is challenging and brave.

Of course, I knew none of this consciously back then. And I had no satisfying response to their concern. So, I slunked away back into my room. They don't get me. It was clear. 

By that age I had two near death experiences already. One at age nine when I was bitten by the most venomous of spiders, the Funnelweb. I was rushed to hospital and released after a short stay and observation. Having been bitten on the toe, not too much poison entered by bloodstream. It made me unwell briefly but I survived. 

My second encounter with death was when I was eleven. I was in a Japanese hospital for an operation. Being a foreigner there, the doctors and staff were a unused to someone of my age being bigger than expected. I wasn't easy to put out and actually punched the anaesthetist as I was going out. He overcompensated with far too much drugs and I woke up post op, on the verge of an overdose. I was fully tripping out and could feel myself very close to leaving this earthly plane, hanging on by a thread of consciousness. It was an incredibly disturbing and powerful experience - one that left me with easy access to out-of-body perception and an existential world view. 

Aahhh.. but enough of death. Let's get back to life. And the ninth grade. As well as my story writing, I was mostly known for my joke making. Practical jokes, impractical jokes, written jokes, comics, surreal and obtuse poetry... l loved to laugh and make others laugh, too. One thing about school - although I really did not like being a prisoner and being bossed around by a group of, for the most part, mentally imbalanced adults - I did enjoy sharing time and company with my classmates. Any chance for a bit of fun and I'd be in. Fun loving. That sums it up. And I find it hard to imagine that Brother Robert was not well aware of this.

So when it came time for drama tryouts I was keen as mustard - knowing that there was to be a comedy piece (I forget now what it was) in the mix. I recall running to the notice board to see who had been cast in what and was deeply perplexed to see my name as the lead in..... 'The Winslow Boy'. Huh? This is a very heavy, somber play by Terence Rattigan set in the Edwardian era - about a young lad being accused of and interrogated about a petty theft at the Royal Naval College. It had no laughs in it at all! And no death! 

It made no sense to me. So many lines to learn! (Not my forte - not then, not now.) So much seriousness and angst and drama! This was not me. But sadly, by the time I realised what was happening I could not pull out. The boss would not allow it. It was the miscasting of the century and a most mystifying occurrence. I hated every moment of the whole experience - from rehearsals to performance. I was so afraid of making a mistake during the live show that I had a full out-of-body experience for most of it.

The pressure on me was intense because during dress rehearsals I ad libbed and got the other actor to laugh uncontrollably. This made me start laughing and throwing in more funny lines. Soon everybody around us, viewing, behind the scenes and in the flanks joined in with laughter. For a brief moment I was in heaven - making more and more mischievous asides and cracking up the crowd. 

But then - BOOM, BOOM, BOOM! - Brother Robert, in a wild rampage, had made his way down from the bleechers and had crashed his way onto the stage. His face was red and sweaty and full of rage. He was foaming at the mouth. 

"If you screw up my show, you foolish little punk, you will be MUD! MUD!" His voice was booming. It quashed any remaining giggles and only amplified more by the surrounding silence of fear and astonishment from the thirty of forty people present. Bar none, I guarantee you that every soul in that room was thinking - 'I am sure glad I am not him right now!' I was him - and it wasn't good.

Scripko dug his index finger hard into my solar plexus more than once to accentuate his threat and magnify his horrifying presence. I was determined not to cry, not there, not in front of everyone and I didn't. But I was literally shaking in my shoes. I was very afraid. Not just in that moment but until I muttered the last word of the last line on the final day of performance. It was the most intensely unpleasant experience I had had since the near deaths.

Like I said at the beginning of this piece - sometimes this forum enables me to revisit and recall moments from my development that have been filed far up the back of the internal cabinet. This was one of them. I've never been able to work out why it happened - why I was even put in that position in the first place. Just weird.

Fucking Winslow Boy bullshit! I was Neil Simon material, dammnit. I just wanted to laugh. And make others laugh. Oh, and write about death. Is that so hard to understand?!

Someone asked me the other day why I like putting skulls in my art.

I like skulls because they are powerful icons. They represent many poignant things. Life, death, mortality, fear, even freedom.

By making them colourful, ornate, lively, it softens their confrontational power and makes them accessible and almost friendly. After all, every skull used to be someone kicking around on the planet with organs and vessels in a skin sack attached.

They evoke contemplation about the past and the future. In a sense about the whole enterprise of existence. How fragile it is, how temporary, how paradoxical. No one knows what is next - it's life's greatest mystery - but a skull is a reminder - it's coming!

Making them into colourful art is like trying to bring some life back to the dead. Not possible, but fun to try.

You can see some of my recent skull work on this site - click on skull guru. Git some skull into ya!

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

"Miles from nowhere
Guess I'll take my time
To reach there..."

Cat Stevens was a guiding force in my formative teen years. I learnt every word on the album Tea for the Tillerman and would listen to it (on vinyl; end of side A, flip it over and put the needle back down on side B, rpt - a process unknown to more recent arrivals on Planet E) over and over. So many incredibly soulful, meaningful, spiritual songs. All of them as relevant and poignant today as they were when first released in the early 70's. 

Father and Son
Wild World
Where Do The Children Play
Miles From Nowhere
But I Might Die Tonight
On The Road To Find Out

That's just some of them. I'd have a favourite for a few months and then move onto the next. As a rebellious teen, I didn't get any guidance from my parents or school. I was pretty much left to my own devices to work things out. Real world experiences, friends, a steady flow of books, and a few select albums. Cat was number one. He had it all - the inventive, pure, melodic music with the meaningful lyrics. Other faves were Elton John (Yellow Brick Road) and Jackson Browne.

"Be wise, look ahead
Use your eyes he said
Be straight, think right
But I might die tonight!"

Cat was an anti-establishment, anti-authoritarian guy. He seemed, in his mellifluous, calmly charismatic voice, to be talking to my young teenage self, saying, "you are right not to buy into all the bullshit, find your own way." Some of this I had worked out myself, it was innate, but having Cat back me up, with his wisdom, quiet charm and self assurance sure helped.

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? 

Sitting here watching some old episodes of the tv show The Voice on my computer. I love the emotion of it all. I love how unknowns are given a chance and underdogs are discovered and nurtured by the professionals after they have passed the blind auditions and are selected on vocal merit.

Some of the performances are captivating and deeply soulful. Singers get to express their truth directly, through their voices. It is not something that can be faked. Honesty and soul shine through. 

What caught my attention is in the cutaway interviews, the judges talk about 'being an artist... '. What they mean is performing artist, obviously. But it made me think about visual artists. And the differences between us and performing artists, in particular singers. They make beautiful sounds straight out of their mouths, they enchant, enrapture, transfix and transform people. It is a very powerful talent. It runs so deep and is timeless and profoundly moving. A visual artist on the other hand, mostly labours alone, often in silence; feedback or encouragement is rarely immediate and sporadic at best. We spend years, playing, experimenting, honing our skills and craft, attempting to make images that will express our souls. 

A great singer can sing someone else's song and make it their own. A great artist can only make their own art. What makes a great artist is his or her ability to transcend the norm, transcend the limitations, restrictions, the expectations and create an image, or a series of images, that are so packed full of subtle power, so full of life itself that they cannot be ignored. To do this is extremely difficult and usually takes a long, long time. Devotion, passion, dedication and desire. Desire to journey to the edge of soul and gather up all the good bits, bring them back and throw them out onto the canvas in a act of pure mastery and magic. In it's own way it's just as powerful as an amazing song. Not as immediate, not as flamboyant or as attention getting, but just as moving, nonetheless. 

I've been seeing these images pop up on my facebook page over the last few days by an artist I don't personally know. They are incredible. They immediately move me, I am transfixed and intrigued by them. If I see in a book, or online, someone who's work I really relate to, I will sometimes check if they are on facebook and 'friend' them. Most artists, bless their souls, respond. We don't correspond, really, I just 'like' their posts of new works and vice versa. It's pretty cool and one of the things I dig about facebook. But this guy, the one I am referring to - I don't recall how I came to know his work or when I friended him. I kept seeing his works being posted over the last few days - so many winners! - these were awesome paintings, wow! Thick and fast. I finally went to his page and worked out that his loving wife was posting his stuff. He recently passed away. She wanted everyone to see the beautiful works he had been doing in the last few months, years. It was poignant and sad to realise that he will be creating no more. 

If I think about the feeling I get listening and watching a great singer doing their song and the feeling I get when I look at his works, I realise they both inspire me in different ways. A song, sung in a certain way can bring me to tears. These artworks, on the other hand, fill me with something equally as moving - not as immediate - but more esoterically, more subtly and in some ways, more profoundly. This man is not painting for an audience, he is not performing. He is following his calling, attentively, joyfully perhaps, recording in images his interpretation of the sensation and experience of being alive. He has left behind a beautiful and abundant legacy. I never knew him, but I feel like I do. And as a fellow artist, I respect and admire him for his talent and devotion. I thank him for his inspiration. Conrad Mecheski; you live on through your art, sir, and those of us who are priviliged enough to hear your unique, enchanting song exude from your gentle, complex, captivating images will continue to be uplifted and exhilarated by them for a long time. Thank you.

Hear you, LB, I hear you. As I get older and accumulate wisdom and knowledge and a wider perspective world view, I can see with increased clarity just how much suffering is involved in living.

When you are younger, it is easy (and natural) for youthful vitality to carry you through the years of exploration and adventures. It's like riding a wave. The velocity doesn't often allow for you to take time and really inspect life as it rushes by.

But hit fifty and, wow, things change. No more free rides, no more yelling and screaming sans souci. Contemplation descends upon your existence. You cannot ignore things as easily. You cannot ignore the throbbing truth of reality. This too is a natural occurrence. You are more or less ready for it. 

Usually a bit less than more. 

So you have to dig deep. Truth is harsh. Things don't turn out as you imagined. Romance fades. Notions of beauty and magic wither. And yet, you can not let yourself become jaded. You have to find what goodness you can amidst the wreckage. You have to not only continue to survive but you have to use whatever skills and energy you have to somehow rebuild a version of yourself that is less idealistic, less consumed and consuming, less charged. You have to accept your mortality. You are reminded of it more often now. 

You need to see the bigger picture. Divest from ego. Jettison a large trunk of self serving activities and realise that the time for taking is gone and the time for giving back is nigh. This will be a large part of your salvation. This will make the sting of the realisation of lost youth hurt less. 

There is still time to grow. Still plenty to enjoy. Sink not into the morose. Be not a victim. But do not ignore stark truths either. You are heading towards the exit now. But on your way out you can still slap a high five, scratch a pithy caption on the wall of the corridor. You can even blow a fucking hole in the wall and make a window for those to come!

So lament not. Feel the sorrow. Express it. Release it. And accept the kiss of each morning's sun with a steady, kind and open heart. It's a new day. A new day for everyone.

Yesterday morning when I got up, I went to the bathroom to evacuate my distensible membranous sac and as I stood there looking out the window at the late morning light hitting the trees and leaves, I was profoundly aware of the omniscience of life and the exquisite grandeur of this planet. Simultaneously I felt suddenly aware of my own relative tiny-ness and insignificance. 

Certainly, within my own mind, and body, within my personal reality-construct, I am key, larger than life, the central player. As we all are in our own consciousness. But in that moment I realised with quite a powerful peeling back of the layers, that one humble human life is such a minute part of the gargantuan and infinite mechanisms of the world and the universe. And not just as a concept - I actually felt it vibrationally.

I greeted my revelation with a mix of fear, surrender, wonder and awe. It was truly the first time so far that I have completely without any pondering or meditation, focus of thought, experienced such a wave of pure obvious truth. 

I have had out of body experiences since I was nine years old. The first one came about while sitting in the back seat of an old Beetle VW on the way to hospital after I had been bitten by a deadly funnel web spider. I remember looking out and up at the tops of the trees and the sky and thinking, well, this could be the end of the line, I may be skyward bound myself in a few hours. 

A few years later, in a Tokyo hospital, I was given a near overdose of pain killers and tripped out so heavily that I remember hanging on by the thinest of threads, slipping in and out of consciousness. I realised then, that life itself is tenuous at best, unpredictable and well beyond our mortal control. 

At 17 with a good mate and some fresh hashish, during a deep and meaningful, relaxed dialogue I felt a wave of deepening connections to the omnipotent forces and a depth of understanding beyond my tender years. I cried and cried, at the beauty of it all. Sobs of joy - and then the munchies.

In my twenties, I experienced some magnificent, delightful and astounding revelations on my first ever LSD trip. Subsequent ones never equalled the first, so I curtailed my intake.

In my twenties and early thirties, I sometimes felt my awareness/consciousness was like a wild, wild horse. I did my best to remain on it's back, but a few times, I felt fearful. Never one to shy away from looking over the edge, occasional violent gusts of wind, would make my mouth dry and my head spin. Close calls were rare, but disconcerting. 

Around 33, things spiralled beyond my control and I began to experience fully fledged anxiety attacks. I endeavoured to ride them out, work my way through this stormy period, but my doctor at the time said she would refuse to see me if I didn't get immediate professional treatment. She was convinced it was necessary, so I acquiesced and enrolled in a weekly group therapy to curb the escalation of panic attacks. It was most entertaining and eye opening, and more importantly, it equipped me with the techniques to stop the escalation. I have not had one since. (If anyone reading this has them, I strongly recommend these anxiety management classes.)

In my forties, I moved to Byron Bay and lived in a Buddhist temple. I was a temporary guest of the head monk, initially, but was invited to stay on, even though I elected not to astutely follow the path to ordainment, due to an aversion - from an early age -  to imposed structure, expectation and assesment. Instead, through a impromptu, self-evolved hybrid technique of meditation, solitude, quietness and self investigation, I lived in harmonious tandem with the monks with a strong mutual respect for three years.

The through line here reveals a predilection for exploration of the mind and consciousness; the spiritual journey. It is something that comes in waves, spirals, peaks and troughs.

So, when I felt that stuff, yesterday morning, it was with a mixture of surprise, near overwhelmingness, amazement and, eventually acceptance. You are exposed to what you need when you are ready for it. Also, I realise, now that I am in my early fifties, I am well past the half way point of my journey. I am heading towards a period where one can ruminate over life experiences lived - celebrated and endured - and use the colourful maker pegs of the highs and lows to assist in the speculation of what is to come - or more aptly - what 'is'.

I feel lucky to be an artist, somewhat of an outsider in society, because it avails me time and freedom to pursue nefarious things and ponder questions regarding the true nature of existence. We are an evolving species, now faster than ever, so to be able to step away, step back, view from a distance, the immense madness and divine chaos in it's infinite variations is a blessing and an honour. 

That sounds a bit like the ending of a speech. But to who? And what for? Everyone is much too busy with their own whirling, constantly demanding realities. And, each is so important in it's own way. Otherwise, it would not be. So, acceptance.

I realise my own need not to get to spaced out or esoteric. I do things to keep it simple and true. Eating, walks on the beach, swims, laughing with friends. It's such an incredible ride - sometimes you just have to hold on and hope for the best. Other times, you can sit back and watch in wonder. Wherever you are, whoever you may be, I, as a fellow human am communicating with you my own truth, as best I can, in an effort to connect and commune. I am telling the tales of my adventures. Whilst many of them are in my head, they are no less real, and no less worthy of sharing. 

I am encouraging you to have no fear. And to get to know yourself, to find and forge your unique place in the world, then to share your truth in whatever way suits you best. 

Always on the lookout...

I realise that some of my inner dialogue is with my younger self. From a young age I asked myself countless questions about humanity and the nature of being. From about the age of fourteen onwards my journals are full of musings and wonderings about what it means to be a person and the implications of existence. Much was unanswered, of course. You have to live through life to get a better idea of what it is really about. 

The irony is that by the time you can come to understand some of the depths and complexities, you are most of the way through it. Much of the boundless and dynamic energy of youth has rescinded and the horizon of unlimited options is much closer and it is obvious that some terrains are inaccessible, some destinations - one's that looked idyllic from a distance perhaps and undesirable.  


As you look back on paths chosen and where they have lead, you can't help but wonder that if you had known then what you know now... (that old chestnut!) ...and how deceptive free will and easy decisions are. What it actually looks like is an ambling through a more or less pre-destined course. One that leads you to... here. More speculation. More questioning. More soul searching. But now with a soul that has some noticeable wear and tear, interesting texture, an aroma, imprints...


One begins, slowly at first, then with greater ease, to accept. To hold briefly then let go. Of everything. Because one has come to realise that all is transient. It's not about what you thought it was at all - it's not about acquiring anything or becoming anything or getting anywhere - it's about moving on. And on. And on....


A brief dream. A brilliant, complex, bittersweet illusion of epic proportions. How could one ever, EVER, conceive of comprehending the infinite, the unknowable. Not. Gonna. Happen.


So, you accept the limits of your own tiny place and begin to acknowledge, explore and celebrate the beauty of the vulnerable, impermanent, imperfect, tentative, changeable, ironically humorous entity that you embody. 


Some of the questions that you asked earlier have by now been answered. But in their place have come a hundred fold more. And each a thousand times bigger. So what to do?


Give up? Settle? Stop asking? No.

While at once accepting and embracing the glorious absurdity of at all, marvel in the illusion. That complex, challenging reality that appears in front of you each new day is your dream, your construct. You've spent a long time making it to this point. Why not see what comes next? It's never going to be boring, at least. Find the things you need to have and do for your basic well being, surround yourself with warm buffers of emotional resonance (aka human beings), immerse yourself in nature (the more pure the better) and face each day - ready to take it as it comes. Always ready for more pudding. Cause there will be some coming. Eventually. And won't that next bite, that new first one, be sweet?

Components. Segments. Fractions. Sequences. Events. 

Our lives are divided. We function by making multi-layered compartments and dealing with them in tandem. Running strings of incidents and perceptions, emotions and outcomes together. Like music. When the event/day is proceeding as planned, on key; it's harmonious. When not: discordant. 

We put everything in it's mental file folder. Or leave a shambles on the desktop of our psyches. All a part of the process. 

What is amazing is that we have so many options/choices in every moment and yet somehow manage to carve a unique and (somewhat) comfortably personal single path out of the zillion possible directions. Over and over. We do it consciously and subconsciously with both awareness and complete ignorance. Even as full adults, we are relative babies. One lifetime, ten generations; nothing! A droplet. And yet, there are moments/days/sequences that for each of us are so engaging and or demanding that it feels as though every iota of being is being called upon to attend.

It's the good old fashioned, timeless paradox of existence!

So, how to cope? What to take from this brief speculation? 'Go with the flow' is about the best I can come up with. It too, as a course of action has been around forever and has withstood the test, the infinite tests of universal incarnations. It means, to me at least; allow yourself to be guided by a combination of intuition, judgement and behavioural modification based on surrounding situations and occurrences. It means: don't freak out, stay a little detached, but get into it, as well. Sage advice from unknown origin with unquantifiable results. And yet, it's as good as there is.

The painting on paper which serves as the background for this piece is a large drawing/painting that I did way back in the 80's sometime. It is called Childhood Memories, no. 1. It depicts the view of the hill I ran up towards our house after I had been bitten on the toe by a deadly funnel web spider. I remember feeling something on my bare foot as we were digging in the dirt down by the creek. I flicked my foot to shake it off. It was then I felt a very distinct bite. Shit.

We all knew that funnel webs were killers. And back in the sixties there wasn't even a proven antidote. As I ran up the hill, my friend, Dom, shouted 'It's a funnel web!' Just to clarify fully the urgency of the situation. My little heart was beating, pitter patter, as I ran inside and told my parents. They got me into the back of the VW beetle and we headed towards Hornsby hospital. I remember looking at the leather seats closely and seeing great detail. And the green of the leaves in the trees as we rushed past - they were glorious and alive. I knew I might die. It was strange. I wasn't panicked but I had to consider my own early demise. It stretched by perception to a new level completely.

Everyone at hospital was really nice. I was put into a bed and kept under constant observation. It turned out that, luckily, it had been a not-as-poisonous male - and that also I was bitten on one of my toes - so the poison didn't fully enter the bloodstream. I was released the next day. Alive. It was good to still be around.

Today, I added Death himself, sitting there smugly, over the top of the photo of my original art.

I used to really enjoy reading Creepy comics, Tales of the Unknown, Weird Tales, Eerie, etc when I was in my early teens. Also got into reading paperback books that were about witchcraft and the macabre. I don't believe this is too unusual. It's an age where that kind of thing is full of mystery and scary thrills. It's also about realising that death is part of life and an inevitability - a way of coming to terms with the bigger picture of what a life is. 

When I was 14 or so, in grade 9, our teacher, Brother Robert (Canadian brother/teacher of English and Drama) got us to write regularly in a journal. Two stories a week, plus a longer one every two weeks. I still have mine somewhere. I loved it. I was an avid reader of books and comics from an early age and enjoyed trying my hand at creating some fiction of my own. 

When I showed it to my parents one day, they called me in for a talk. "Why are so many of the stories about death?", was the concern. I had no answer. I hadn't realised that it was featuring so blatantly. 

I know now that it was just a fascination with a very powerful and foreboding aspect to living. I was grappling with making peace with the concept by facing it front on. Plus, as mentioned in earlier posts, I had already experienced two near-death encounters - one at nine and a half and one at eleven. 

These days, now in my fifties, death is nearer, obviously. At least on a chronological inevitability level. I have eluded it a few more times since my teens. I still have a relationship with it in my mind. I don't fear it per say, but, like most I am happy to delay meeting up with it for as long as possible. And in the meantime, while I am still here, I will continue to mull over it and symbolically represent it in my art and writing.