Something I do, once or twice a week around dinner time is park my car somewhere pleasant, quiet, out of the way, and compose a tasty salad from items purchased from Woolies. The usual mix is rocket, coleslaw, avocado, lentils and a freshly squeezed lemon. I use my fork (I have three, op shop purchases, each with unique handle) to puncture the lemon - about a third of the diameter, insert it and maneuver the juice out. I also use the fork to punch tiny holes length ways around the avo and twist it, access the luscious pulp. I toss it all together in my large, fluoro green salad bowl (op shop, $3) and eat it while reading whatever book I am into at the time. 

I am currently reading and enjoying John Lyndon's autobio, "Anger is an Energy'. I was reading some this evening, down by the river, but my repast was not the usual salad, but a Christmas eve treat - pizza. It was a vego pizza with extra garlic, anchovies and pineapple - my fave. The plan was to eat half and have the other half when I got home. Of course, that was not going to happen. Num, num, num...

Johnny (Rotten) was writing about a period when he was living in Brixton, UK. He said at the time it was quite a rough area. It made me think of Kings Cross in Sydney, an area I gravitated towards in the late eighties and early nineties. It was definitely seedier then, much more interesting than now, and did have an element of danger to it. As I was driving home, I thought about my own experiences there and tried to remember any dangerous encounters. One that I had not thought of for quite a long time, floated back into my awareness. 

It was 1989, and I was recently divorced. I would frequent a cafe called Michelangelo's which was located right on the corner of Victoria Rd and William street. It had good coffee and focaccia as well as an ample balcony that looked over the west entry to the KX tunnel as well as the ubiquitous Coke sign off to the left. The cafe eventually shut up shop and became a nightclub/bar called Haste. Ten years later, I would again frequent the same location - swapping espresso for mojito and focaccia for kissing girls.

But in 1989, I had not yet graduated to player and was single. I would sit on the balcony in the afternoons and read my book, drinking my coffee. This one afternoon, an extraordinarily beautiful woman, late twenties maybe, sat a few tables away, facing me. She looked like a Cherokee Indian squaw, or the semblance of. She had a very unusual dynamic about her. I was intrigued. She sat alone and we shared some eye contact. I remember as I was eating my croissant, I looked down and consciously tried to mimic her vibe, give off a similar energy - in the way I moved, the pace, the attitude. I was experimenting. Being a little trippy, indulging a bit in a different level of connection. I did not look up at her for a while but somehow felt that she was watching me. 

I suspected that she may have been a drug user, although I can't say exactly why. Something. But, as I said, she was breathtakingly beautiful in her face and body, so much so that it overrode any hesitation or prejudice, wariness I might have normally felt. In fact, I recall, I kind of acted as though I was a user, too, relishing my flakey pastry while high. It was pure conjugation, I had no first hand experience with heroin.

I was pretty startled when she appeared beside me. Truly shocked, really.

'Got a light, have ya?' In those days you could smoke anywhere. I didn't. But the chasm had been crossed. We had connected. She sat down opposite me. Seeing her close up only served to impress and entice me more. She was quite a presence. I felt all kinds of things... attraction, doubt, excitement, challenge...

We talked for about 45 minutes about all kinds of things. Although I felt a little out of my league, I was being as cool as I could and playing the flirtation game. Eventually she said she had to go and do something - but why don't I come down to her place nearby in Rushcutters Bay in a couple of hours for a drink at sunset. She gave me the address. Sure.

It felt weird, actually. Something was not quite right. Was it too easy? Why was she interested in me? There was something about her that I could not quite work out. And yet... 

Did I consider not going? Yes.
Did I consider it for long? No.
Should I have considered it for longer? Maybe.

But I was not to know. I could not possibly turn down an opportunity like this. She was one of the most beguiling, alluring and mysterious presences I had ever met. It wasn't a love feeling, it was more lust, but it was strong. And what could go wrong, anyway? No need to be paranoid. All I was doing was going for a drink.

I found the place without trouble. A block of about thirty units, spread long and wide, about three stories high. Underground parking. She buzzed me in. I parked the car - it was actually a Tarago - I had just finished working on a Japanese TVC shoot and had it  for the weekend. I found the apartment, up three flights. When I got to the door, I noticed in the wood, several distinct crescent shaped indentations around head level. Hmmm... they seemed to be made by a hammer. Strange. I knocked and she answered, opened the door. Motioned me in.

Three things struck me immediately. 

One: she was wearing only a bath towel. 
This is like the movies, I thought. I cannot believe it. It's like a fantasy coming true. It's all being handed to me.

Two: her vibe had changed significantly.
I can't exactly explain it, but there was a noticeable shift. Almost like she was a different person. Some of the natural warmth was gone, the pure Indian spirit - and it was replaced by something a bit more calculated, detached. I don't know, maybe she was high, I thought.

Three: On the inside of the door was a second door. A cast iron security door. OK. Yeah. But it's on the inside...? And when I stepped in, she locked it. With a key.

Alarm bells started going off in my head. Not full volume, just muffled ones. 

Come in, come in... She got me a drink. Vodka orange? Something like that. We sat on the couch. I'll just be a sec, she said and got up, went into the bathroom. OK, sure. She's going to get dressed. Don't panic. It's a bit unusual but nothing amazing happens without a bit of uncertainty. The vodka took a bit of the buzz off. Gulp, gulp. I stood up, walked over the balcony. It was sliding large frame glass doors. Perhaps I'll step out, take a few deep breaths. I stepped closer to reach and open them. What I saw, truly shocked me.

They were joined together by a short, heavy duty chain. And on the chain was a padlock. Locked.

Just as I noticed she came out of the bathroom and headed towards me.  She was still in her towel! 

Everything alright?

Ah, yeah. Um... 

Then, to add to the surreal-ness, the tension in the air, as if by magic, her towel fell to the floor. She was completely naked. I didn't want to stare, so I looked away.

Ooops, she said, like Marilyn woulda.

She must have sensed my rising anxiety, so she came and sat down beside me, towel back on. 

Tell me about the job you were on....

My mind was racing. It was all just too, too weird. Now it felt like she was just stalling. Trying to keep me there, distract me.

Something was very, very wrong. I was sure that any minute some dude, or dudes would be arriving and I was going to be in some serious danger. 

"Hey, you know, what..." I said, as casually as I possibly could, downplaying any panic. "I've got some photos in the Tarago. Why don't I go and get them... "

"Oh, that's OK," she said, "you can just tell me..."

I stood up, acted enthusiastic, innocent. "No, no, you're going to love them..." I stepped towards the double doors. She hesitated then unlocked it.

I think she still thought I was good, unaware. Not letting me get them would show her hand.

"Don't be long!" she whispered, touching my face.

"I won't..." I said, keeping the act up, being cheerful. 

I didn't even look back at her. Whoever it was that lured me there had shape shifted and revealed her true self. I had brushed up against desperation, evil.

I got in the Tarago and drove the fuck out of there.

I was lucky. I had escaped what possibly could have been a seriously unfortunate incident. I cannot begin to even imagine what would have happened when the muscle turned up, playing the enraged boyfriend, or whatever the scam was. Important things was, I made it out.

I didn't go back to Michelangelo's. Found a better spot - just around the corner. The Tropicana. I became a regular. There I made some great new friends. And never looked back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I get into my room and close the door and the world is mine. I am away. I am detached. Flying free.

It's not a very big room, or glamourous. Say three metres square - enough room for my bed, my desk, two bookshelves and a small space to stand up in in the middle. The floor is wooden and I've placed a fuzzy black bathmat beside the bed for when I step out of bed. Bit of luxury for the feet, you know.

The walls are covered with my paintings of various sizes and using removable hooks I've hung a few dozen nicknacks. A little Mexican skeleton, a smiling heart, a poker medallion, Indian dream catcher. The ceiling is high; which I like and appreciate. I've covered the window pane - comprised of three single, metre long, opening-out windows (always open) - with a mesh I found in a cupboard to keep out creepy crawlies. There are, however, spider webs in every upper corner. I don't mind them. Sometimes I see a spider and once I saw a tiny mouse.

When I come in here, I almost always close the door. It's my retreat. I eat my breakfast (sliced fruit in bowl - watermelon, papaya, kiwi, banana, passionfruit), in here every morning. When I say morning, I mean my morning; it's actually closer to lunch time more often than not. On the rare night that I am not out at a poker tournament, I will eat my dinner in here (salad or scrambled eggs), too. 

After I have done all my net surfing, research, writing and creative stuff of an evening, say around midnight or one, I will drag the small folding desk away from the wall and closer to my bed. There I have set up some pillows and cushions in the corner against the wall. Instant lounge room. I plug in my TDK cordless headphone jack into the back of the Mac and click open the orange cone logo for the VLC player. From my hard drive I select an episode of my latest favourite series. Could be anything ranging from a Canadian cooking contest (Chopped Canada) to the latest UFC bouts to comedy like Portlandia or Parks & Recreation. If I want a snack, I'll have those rice disks that everyone loves with some hummus. I've been meaning to make my own, but I usually buy it. Sometimes, I'll add a dollop of sweet chilli sauce to customise it. If I am still watching something around two am, I'll make a coffee with one of those Robert Timms coffee bags. It doesn't stop me from sleeping when I am ready. 

I share the house with two others; a girl and a guy, both around my age. We are all peaceful, quiet, creative. Karen designs and makes unique, luxurious garments and Mikey is a substitute highschool teacher and a high ranking chess player. There's a herb and vege garden outside and a roving chicken. There's a caravan up the back and Scotty visits a few times a year. He makes a living on the stock market. We are all single and OK with it. You get to a certain age and realise that being in a relationship is not the redemption, the reward, the necessity that you used to believe. I feel lucky to be in a household with two other decent and compassionate, respectful people.

But I still close my door. I like being alone. Withdrawing. Letting time float by. I like the night. I like silence. I like the feeling of being mildly stoned that comes from just being really mellow and peaceful, solitary. Sometimes I just lie on my bed and think about things. Sometimes I drift into slumber and dream magnificently. Days and nights can blur and blend, weeks can go by without a ripple. I don't mind. I know the path leads nowhere/never ends. I am in no hurry. My needs and desires are minimal these days. It's easier. Nothing to prove, nothing to lose. I appreciate nature, children, humour from any source... I appreciate still being around to see and experience whatever happens. I delight in my own limitations and insignificance. 

In my lifelong struggle for liberation, I have found it in a little box. Alone at my desk or prone on my old bed. Soulful, serene and satiated by simplicity.

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

Keep pushing that replay button

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

We all have them stored away safely

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just saw a picture posted on facebook of a distant cousin of mine. It was a post-lunch shot, out with his wife and mother-in-law. He's wearing slacks with black leather shoes, a tucked-in shirt and a sports jacket. Everyone is smiling and happy. And I'm happy for them. 

It did feel a little formal and forced, however. And it reminded me of times, long ago now, when I would do things like that.
- tucked-in shirt
- uncomfortable shoes
- ironed pants
- attending functions I would rather not

It reminded me that my goal in life has always been to be and become as liberated as possible. We are all bound by social structures of some sort. One way is to accept them and carry on. There is plenty of good stuff within the confines of conformity. This has never been my way, however. I have never enjoyed forced conversations, false politeness, pressured attendance of functions or events not of my choosing....

I realised, looking at this photo, that I have come a long way. 
- I'm almost always barefoot or in sandals
- I wear comfortable shorts all year 
- All my shirts have the sleeves cut off
- I no longer attend stiff or formal gatherings
- I am not expected to behave in any certain way by anyone

etc.

And the important thing here is that this is the way I prefer to be. This is how I function most efficiently. The less stress, expectation, pressure: the better. I rarely get mail, my phone almost never rings, I don't get invited to dinners or parties.... and I am so relieved.

It's not that I am shy or do not like people. I love human interaction. It's just I don't like feeling trapped or having things expected of me. When I go to the local cafe in the afternoon, all the staff knows me and we joke around. Same as poker in the evenings; it's very friendly and social. But it's also very accepting. If you don't feel like chatting - you don't. 

I guess I have found a place, sculpted a format of existence, that is well suited to my lone wolf, artistic gypsy temperament. I realised all this, just now, seeing that photo. I could see where my cuz is at. He may, too, liberate himself. He may not need to. He may love his place already. But me, I found that way of living to constricting. I had to get divorced, I had stop wearing shoes, I had to curtail social interactions that were no longer meaningful or rewarding. I had to move out of the big city.

Instead, I spend time alone, thinking, making art, reading, writing, playing games, joking around... all the good stuff. Simple, nourishing, natural activities. The stuff that I have always enjoyed the most. If - or when - I can make a more than just surviving living out of it all - then I will add travel and driving a nice car to the list. Until then I'll count my blessings.

If you are able to claim what you need in life, and you can, then you should. Only you know what best suits you. Find it, work it out, go for it. You'll never have it all - but, hey, you might just find the less you've got the better.

Life.

It's what happens.

I mean, I've been paying attention. Close attention. I've been observing, pondering, recording, analysing, interpreting life since I was a wee tyke. Around the age of nine is when I started asking myself the big questions. Like 'What is this?' 'What are we doing here?' and 'Why?'

I remember one afternoon sitting up on the branches of an orange tree doing just that. No answers were forthcoming but I did eat a lot of oranges.

I remember around that same time marvelling at a neighbourhood girl who was thirteen. Thirteen. Thinking: how? And: will I ever be that mature? Plus, she had a dragster.

This procedure: Life. 

Can't be pinned down. And yet we want to. We need to. We try to give it shape and definition. We need borders and structures and clusters and titles. We attempt to make sense of things. We are by necessity satisfied by whatever we can come up with. Even though it is only temporary and illusory. 

Some people don't question too much. They just get into it. Let the adventure and drama play out around them. Buy into it. Invest themselves. This is a perfectly valid response. What else are you going to do? Sit around all day and try to solve an unsolvable puzzle while in the meantime it all passes you by? Doesn't sound wise. But, but... some of us cannot help but divest from the presentation and take a peek behind the curtains. Leave the comfort of the valley home and trek up that mountain. And the next. And the next. We have metaphysical wanderlust. We are existential nomads. Philosophical renegades. Perpetual travellers. Spiritual scientists. We are drawn to the edges of the accepted realms and driven to stepping that one step, two steps further, beyond the boundries. We need to know. We need to know.

The irony is - there is no rush. All is revealed in it's own time. In many ways it is much, much wiser simply to accept the way things are and enjoy the ride. Life will play itself out regardless of how you perceive, interpret it. Why waste time navel gazing when you could be white water rafting or parachuting out of a hot air balloon?

I took this tack for a while in my earlier years. I tried hang gliding, bungy jumping, scuba diving, long distance running. I spent a year eating only raw nuts, I travelled to distant places, I experimented with LSD, I did stand up comedy, spent time with punk rockers, mental patients, criminals. I got married and divorced. I watched my wife run off with a Japanese Elvis impersonator. I shared intense, fleeting intimacy with girls I met on the beach, in a restaurant, on a bus, on the way to the bathroom. I flew to Paris on love's command after a one night stand in Kings Cross. I was hungry, wild, free spirited. During much of this frantic period I remained slightly detached and philosophical, wrote poetry and recorded my musings, but being hyper involved with reality in a demanding way did lessen the questioning.

But then I slowed down. Gradually. 

Living the simple life in an idyllic country town with a population of three and half thousand, I have returned to my ruminations. Attune to nature, mesmerised by it's beauty, surrounded by more spiritually minded folk, I have a precious commodity to play with. Time. Time to think. Time to take my time. Time to play. Time to waste. But I am paying attention. Looking for clues. I am still an agent of metaphysical aspirations. I want to know. I want to find as much meaning as I can. I have more to reflect upon now. More experience to draw upon in my calculations of esoteric algorithms. I have lived more than half a decade. Surely this must assist in my searching, seeking out.

But it doesn't. Not really. I am still a novice. 

I am still that kid sitting in a tree.

I do still love oranges. So juicy!

Living in the county is so much better than the city for so many reasons. But even with all the benefits and joys of things like no traffic lights, no parking tickets, fresh air, big skies, friendly people, laid back pace... etc... there are still plenty of times when you can take the wholesome goodness for granted and still become stressed over daily minutiae and concerns. 

One of the things that never fails to remind me of how lucky and grateful I am, almost on a daily basis, is seeing the cows out in the paddocks. Whichever direction I head in, I drive past lots of them, and I look at them and I feel serenity and acceptance. They are humble creatures. They hang out together, in nature, under the sun. They move slowly, big cruisers, they munch at will, they stay still, look around casually. No wonder the Indians think of them as divine beasts. I have to agree. They are.

As an artist
Uncertainty is certain
Just being is a burden
You wanna break free
Show the world how to see
How much better it could be

As an artist
Vision is pure
You search for your style
The obvious is obscured
By the crap you were taught as a child

As an artist
You yearn and you hunger
You are full of hubris and anger
It doesn't come easy, not ever
To enrapture you endeavour

As an artist
You strive for you own kind
Of perfection
It may look messy, insane
But they are your rules, your game
And nobody can tell you what to do
What's true
What's meaningful
Or necessary
Is that a cricket ball or a cherry?

Some days you hate everything
Nearly as much as yourself
Other days almost heaven
Somehow
It's going to work out
You tell yourself

As an artist
No lies
Except whenever
No limitations
On the number of limitations
Courtesy of society or self imposed 
You lack propriety
You jump on toes
Just to hear the crunch
A shot or a joint before lunch
Some days 

As an artist
You yearn to escape
You need to unwind 
The fucking jumble of gibberish
Awash in your mind
You wouldn't mind
If it wasn't so awful
You wonder what it would be like
To be normal 
Sometimes 
But not for long
You don't need to belong 
You don't want to belong
Now do you

As an artist
Your pain
Is everyone else's gain
Especially after you're gone
You'll be celebrated, idolised
Or forgotten
Who cares
You care
Stay strong

As an artist
You have no choice
But to do what you do
To follow that path to the end
And trust your intuition
That you vision will see you through

Today, at least
Your pain has been released
Onto the canvas
Down for the count
Breathless and speckled
Staring, mouth agape
At the new creation on the easel
A fresh image to appease you

It's easy
As an artist
To tell yourself anything
To sell yourself short
To yell on the inside
To inseminate and abort
In blindingly quick succession

And details too decadent to mention

But at least you have one thing
Of which you can be certain
 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

As an artist

I don't have to tell you what that is
Now do I

The power hungry are eating us up
The money people have all gone insane
They're never satisfied, never having enough
But we never chose to be part of this game

Corruption rules, lies are the norm
A government we can no longer trust
Now we grow strong, the castle we'll storm
And take it back, for the people we love

I wanna see it all come tumbling down
The system smashed
Oppressors cut to the ground

I wanna see it all come tumbling down
Cause it isn't fair! And they don't care!
Those greedy mogrels, those self serving clowns

The production of destruction
We cannot let them rule
Trying to sell us lies, seduce us
Do they think we're all just fools?!

The food is tasteless now
The air is unclean, polluted
The planet far worse than
It ever has been, the innocent deserted

I wanna see it all come tumbling down
We'll do it better the second time round
I wanna see it all come tumbling down

Time has come for the pigs to run
The change is us and we'll act as one
Eventually, after anarchy, after calamity
It's a certainty, we'll be free, we'll be free

I wanna see it all come tumbling down!

As a sentient being there is no escape from feeling and experiencing life. We like to believe that there is a reason behind it all, a justification, a validation for our demanding and formidable journeys. But what if there is not? What if this realm is truly just a harsh and difficult existence? One that, for reasons beyond comprehension, has to be experienced? Nothing gained can be taken with you. Any relief from the never ending demands are just temporary and fleeting. In fact, they may only add to the magnitude of suffering that is to come. 

Buddhist teaching says that life is suffering and I have to agree. It just seems almost too hard sometimes. I don't see what the purpose of this enforced series of procedures is. Endure, endure, endure, then die. OK. What was that for exactly? Some lives have extended times of loving and beauty and freedom and joy, but from what I have witnessed; most do not. There are times of comparative relief and short periods within a day or a month or a year or a life that are not stressful and demanding but mostly, it's just hard going.

I have engineered my life to have as few demands and stresses as possible. I try to have plenty of free time to pursue art and writing and thinking and just being. I have time for exercise and connecting with nature and relating with good people and play. And yet still, there is a heaviness, a constant, sublime feeling of uneasiness. Sometimes it's simply because life itself is so much to comprehend. We are mere mortals. Puny. We are specks. Star dust. Flippity-floppety little human entities. What are we doing? What are we really here for? It seems as though there has been a mistake made along the way in evolution, we've taken a wrong turn. If this is of our own spiritual creation, our own devising.... why would it be like THIS??? 

I find it hard to abide. Really. Sometimes more than others. And, of course, I acknowledge the incredible beauty that surrounds us, the dignity of fellow beings, the miracle of life, the gorgeous glory of newborns and children, etc. But I still feel that there is a quantifiable imbalance. Life is not what I imagined it would be. I thought that the struggle during teen years, through the twenties.... and on... would lead to some kind of resolution, a settling. Some kind of peace, mental and spiritual. But I have found no evidence of this. Am I missing something? I live in a great country, in a wonderful, peaceful, friendly small town, I have a supportive family and great friends across the globe. I have my health, physical and mental. And yet...

I'm raving, I know. But that is what this forum is for. An occasional ablution is necessary. Even this writing, though, what is it? Little symbols that form words and concepts. You can read them and get something. You can hear my soul. Is it singing or is it screaming? Am I a madman shouting or an ordinary man who is questioning that nature of reality, one who is not content to turn away, one who is compelled, often despite his own wishes, to face the immense, throbbing, pulsating, infinite series of vibrations and molecular clashes that form a never ending cacaphony of thoughts, images, sounds, sensations and experiences? 

I am screaming. Silently. Am I calling for help? No. Not really. Am I looking for acknowledgement? No, not really, that either. Then... ? 

I am trying to express the complex nature of my relationship with life. It is compelling. It is complex. It is relentless. I have travelled through it for 53 years so far. No bad. It's been quite a journey and there have been plenty of times and experiences that I cherish and am thrilled to have had. Plenty. I am not complaining. I am not bitter or angry or resentful by any means. In fact, I am grateful. But the fact remains, that between when I get up each morning to when I go to sleep each night, there is a series of thousands, tens of thousands maybe, of feelings, FEELINGS that pass through me, some lingering, some flashing, many of little consequence, a few profound.... FEELINGS.... that make up my day. By the end I am tired. As I go through it, I am challenged. I cannot name these phantoms, I cannot categorise everything - although I often try to in an attempt to come to terms with it all. 

I have to believe that surrender, surrender is what should be done. Let it go. Let it be. And I do that. I really do. Still, still, still...! Can you hear me? I am a sentient being hurled into a life form that has become comfortable and familiar, not only second nature, but first nature. I acknowledge that I am a person. Humble, vulnerable, fragile. But with powers to take it on, whatever. With a will to live and endure till the end. A will to survive, to thrive. I am weary, I am wounded. I admit that this brand of reality is not what I would have chosen. I'd like something more like heaven, all the cliched juice with a bit of sauciness and some thrills. I'd like more of the good stuff and less of the pain. I'd like better endings, more satisfying middles and unlimited new beginnings. I would like, you know, utopia. Bring it on. Seriously. Like now, already!

So, if it lays up ahead for us all, waiting to surprise us, reward us for our hard work, our labour, if it is our destination. Well, then, OK, I will continue to endure this weird blend of exquisite suffering until then. But seriously, it better be there up ahead.... or I'm going to be one disappointed corpse!

When I was in my early teens, we were living in Tokyo and my Mum was a member of CWAJ. Christian Women's Association of Japan - it wasn't a religious group, from memory, it was more about women empowering women through cultural exchange and events. The members were about half expats and half Japanese nationals. One of their main things was that each year at The American Club, near Ropppongi, they would hold a wonderful exhibition of the new works of contemporary Japanese print makers. This would include silkscreens, etchings, lithographs and woodblocks.

There would always be a couple of hundred awesome artworks to purview. The first year, my brothers and I were dragged along kicking and screaming, but we quickly came to enjoy the range and invention of the works. Well, I did, for sure. 

There was also, always, a full colour catalogue that had every print included. I would often pour over it at leisure, studying my favourite works. At that stage, I had no idea that I would go on to do three years of art school and become an artist but did know that I liked art. 

Woodblock is the most traditionally Japanese of the printmaking forms. My Mum actually studied it for quite a number of years with some top notch Japanese tutors. Over the years she became very proficient and created some wonderful and popular woodblock series of her own. (Good on you, Mum!) 

It's quite a labour intensive process. Each colour within a print is carved from a separate block of wood with special tools. Some prints will have eight, ten or more blocks. Then the printing involves the application of the ink, the lining up of the pre-prepared special paper and the rubbing of the paper so that the ink penetrates. It's a delicate and technical process - enjoyable to watch. (Once.)

Over the years, my parents collected many dynamic prints from the CWAJ shows and also from small galleries. I also witnessed things like the choosing of frames, decisions on where to hang them, etc. I did not know it at the time but these things surely influenced and enriched my art head space. Tokyo is tight on space and homes are smaller scale, so prints were generally much more prevalent than paintings. In fact, I recall coming back to Australia to live at seventeen and noticing paintings in homes and being intrigued and enraptured by them.

My uncle Dick, I now recall, a wealthy man, had one of the country's pre-eminent private collections of Australian art. He even had a granny flat full of them and would take us on a tour with animated and learned commentary included. He had originals by Dobell, Whitely, Nolan, Boyd, Crooke, Drysdale and Klippel as well as many others. Visiting him was an art lesson in itself. Funnily, even them, after doing the tours more than a few times in my teens, I never considered that I may one day myself become a painter.

It really wasn't until I had dropped out of Sydney Uni, first year, and returned to Japan to see my family that it even became a possibility. I was eighteen. Uni was not for me. I was doing a BA, studying Literature, Computer Science (!!!)(it was 1979), Japanese and Psychology. These were all areas of interest but I simply found the format of education too dry and personality lacking. A large lecture hall with one guy telling everyone what to think. Boring! More than I could bear, in fact. I quickly began cutting classes and going to the movies. Then later, visiting a sweet girlfriend. Two areas I was much more naturally passionate about. And that taught me much better.

So, I was back in Tokyo to see my family. It was the day before I was due to head back to Australia. My parents convened a meeting at the Okura Hotel. We sat in the lobby. The point of discussion was 'what was I going to do?' I was drawing a blank. The only thing I knew for sure was that I didn't want to return to University. Time ticked. There was some tension. Off the cuff, my Mum said, 'What about art school..? You've always liked art...." 

Ping! What? Art school? They have those? That is an option? I seriously did not even know. But now that I heard it, it was like... er, yeah! Next day I was on a plane back to Sydney.

I looked up Art School in the Yellow Pages. The closest one was East Sydney Tech in Randwick. I turned up holding a portfolio of portraits I had done with a biro, mostly copied from comics. The year had started a few days earlier. The selection process was completed months before. And yet, somehow..... I got to show my portfolio to the head of school. Theo. He liked it. Someone had dropped out that morning. Theo shrugged. "You're in group B. Next door. Start now." I was in. It was truly something that was meant to be. So random. So spontaneous. So glorious! I loved it. Three years. A double major in painting and photography. Many, many wonderful classes and experiences. I was on my way....

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.

One of the things that comes with the territory of being an artist is a constant questioning and mental investigation/exploration in the essence of being. As well as creating images on a daily basis, I find myself constantly contemplating the nature of existence. Why is life like it is? What is the meaning/point? Is there a way to evolve through astute consideration/cogitation?

My lifestyle is simple. I make pictures, I do some writing, I take long walks. My haunts are the library, cafes, the beach. One of the great assets of being an artist is that you have time to think and time to just be. Daily life is incredibly demanding for everyone, some more than others and it is rare and valuable to be able to withdraw from the constant demands and stresses to take time to think in solitude. 

It is not something that I necessarily like all the time, but my mind strives to come to terms with the nature of reality. Why is it the way it is? What is the point of everything? Where are we headed as a species? etc etc

These kinds of questions are tackled by philosophers, poets, writers and artists. In a way it is our job. It doesn't pay - at least not in money - but it is still important. Vital, in fact, to the evolution of mankind. By not being busy all the time, we are allowed to zone out of everyday demands and attempt to truly comprehend what being human means.

It's a fucking hard job. Some may call it navel gazing and a waste of time. But I don't think so. By not being distracted by work demands, schedules, timetables and common social considerations, thinkers are able to mentally float free in search of new horizons, new ways of looking at things. After all it's all about perception and perspective. There is no one way. There is no correct answer or single response. Time moves on, and yet, it is timeless. 

Any given event can be recounted by even a small sampling of observant individuals in any infinite number of wide ranging ways. What is the reality? There is none. It is all story. Which story is it that you wish to believe? Are you game enough to make up your own? At what point does illusion reveal it's true nature?

One can go round in circles thinking this kind of stuff and at times it seems pointless. Why bother? Why not just get on with things? But then, why not bother? Why not TRY and work out the eternal mystery? Of course, it won't be solved, not by a mere mortal - there is no solution - BUT - what is wrong with attempting to scale one hundred fold Everest? Each of our lives is to do with as we choose/ are compelled to/ are lead to believe we should. 

An artist is a kind of anarchist. He is a malcontent. He is a fighter in the cause of truth and meaning. He wants to take in everything life presents and ingest it, grapple with it, be seduced by it, be immersed in it, dance with it, get punched it the stomach by it. Then, he will take it all and make something of his own devising from it. He will say, I don't know what the fuck it's all about, but somehow, by spending time with words or colours or sounds, I have created these things. They may translate as something comprehensible to others, enjoyable perhaps, provocative maybe. They may assist in the journey of others to find and redefine their individual meaning of what life is. If that happens, then sweeeet! It it fails to translate or adds no substance, well so be it. It won't stop him from trying. 

An artist is born to make art. That's all we can do. This in itself is kind of wonderful. At least we are not killers, or corrupt politicians, or greedy business people, or sadistic military or police. We are mellow. We are peace loving. We are searchers, adventurers, gypsies, nomads, explorers. 

We care about people and have time to listen and empathise, to learn from our fellow folk. We love life. Yes, it's a struggle but by asking 'what if?' and 'why?' and by considering 'how about..?' and by spending time with the simple and pure elements of life and nature, we may be able to contribute to making this world a better place. 

We are weirdos, yes, by some definitions. But we see well beyond the restrictions of labels and opinions. We reside in the realms of pure existence. We have a place in the world. Our job is to keep things real by being unreal. Yeah, that's it. Unreal, man. Unreal: man.

After all, it's all just a dream, right?