Through my writing, I investigate the inner workings of my thoughts and feelings, using words to steer towards discovery, understanding and a degree of enlightenment. ​

I can site down with nothing particular in mind and let the words flow - in the form of a poem, a short story or a short essay, such as this, to reveal what they will. Leapfrogging from thought to thought at times. Sometimes more like sitting on the bank of a gently running stream and observing leaves float past, recording each ones peculiarity as they pass.

I do much of my writing when I land at the cafe, after an hour at the beach where I stretch, walk and swim. So I am invigorated, at ease. The cafe is right nearby and outdoorsy. I have come to get to know most of the staff, who are a particularly good spirited bunch. This adds to my feeling of comfort and belonging - which in turn invites free flowing writing.

My other form of self expression, the most recent addition, is music. I have been attending a creative college called SAE studying music production for the last few years now. The campus is delightfully low key and has wonderful facilities. Each day I have access to any of six studios, in two hour slots, in which I can hide away and focus on my song creation. I use a Berlin based software called Ableton Live, considered to be the best in the world, to craft my tunes. Ableton has a steep learning curve and although I was making sounds pretty quickly, it wasn’t until after two and a half years of study and practice that I felt confident enough with my creations to begin releasing songs. I spend six hours, six days a week in the studios experimenting with new sound combinations and structures; basically, playing around having the time of my life. I say that, but at times it is challenging and takes dedication and commitment to see a project through - especially because sometimes they go awry - like a pack of wild horses - and have to be corralled into some level of obedience.

The third way that I express myself is through my artwork. I first attended art school in Sydney a full forty years ago and I have no stopped making images, in some form or other since then. I have had studios, on my own and shared, over the years working on big canvases and have had twenty five solo exhibitions of my work over the decades. These days, almost all my work is digital. I use an incredibly versatile app called Autodesk Sketchbook on my Samsung Note 8, using a tiny stylus on the screen to create, using collage, an array of textures and brushes as well as Photoshop style adjustable layers (average around fifteen per image lately) to create new images. I spend one to two hours every day on these pictures; usually three new ones per day.
It is fun and relaxing; an exploration of colour, shape and image manipulation. I earnestly seek out fresh thrills - exciting juxtapositions and dynamics. It’s an exercise in free experimentation and thoughtful positioning and ordering of levels. I explore mood and atmosphere. I strive to innovate and create visual excitement. Again; it’s play.

Spending time every day involved in all of these forms - usually eight to ten hours - gives me purpose and fulfilment. Although I have at times made money in each of these areas, I would not call any of it lucrative. My motivation is pure. I just love the act of creation. Writing this now, I realise how lucky I am to be able to exist in this manner.

You could say that I am expressing myself, and in a sense I am, but mostly I just feel like a conduit, allowing the creativity to pass through me - onto the page, into the picture or into sonic wave formations. One can detect ‘my style’ in each of the forms but it is not something that I am consciously aware of.

When I review my work, I can learn a little about my internal workings, but it is not really something I do or am that interested in. I am just happy to be able to get busy with the next project. Like now. I will finish this and immediately embark on some fresh image making. Then I will head into SAE and into the studios to work on some new songs (I usually have two or three going concurrently). What a life, eh!

Simple, serene, expressive.

    I've long been writing poems. It is something that has appealed to me since my mid teens. It's a unique way of expressing thoughts and feelings. A playful way to shine a light on your deeper, more complex feelings. Because you are being concise and using rhyme, you take your time, you sit with things. You are not just saying what's on your mind but you are formulating it into a something that is going to be an entity unto itself. Without getting bogged down or stifled, you aim to let your thoughts flow freely but also channel them into a somewhat structured vessel. It's one of those things that the more you do it, the more you enjoy it.

Poems are personal. They can't help but be. That's the other thing I like about them. That can be perceived as being hyper sensitive, a bit wussy they are, in fact, the result of brutal honesty and bold expression. You think you are too tough, too cool to write a poem? Just try writing something that is your authentic truth and share it with the world. You have to be at very least carefree, if not a bit foolish, with a sound base of awareness and confidence.

Anybody can hit someone in the face - but try doing it with a poem. And not the face - the heart. And not hitting but moving. Being a human is equally tough for us all. A poet will synthesise these universal struggles and encapsulate them in a bite size lyric. To make it look simple, easy, takes a lifetime. And just to be clear, I am not classifying myself as any kind of master. I'm just a passionate enthusiast. That's passion and enthusiasm - two wonderful things to direct towards anything worthwhile. 

Anyway, the poetry writing comes and goes in waves but over the last few years it's quite steadily been one a day. About 44 minutes each one. I don't time it. In fact, time becomes inconsequential. It's an esoteric pursuit. That's one of the good things about it, you get lost in thought. Focus and mind travel transport you to a different plane. You gather and return. Scribble it down - see how it sounds.

Ultimately you're mostly just a secretary for the universal muse. Channeling. If it's any good, it's because you got out of your own way and let it flow. It's a good feeling. That's why I keep doing it, I guess.

This is one from today:


BLUE OF NIGHT

It's cold and grey
Around here today
Still I went for a swim
Got to get in
Got to get in

The ocean calls me
Soothes my skin and
My inner being
One with the world
When I'm wave catching
Even the briskness warms me up

Getting older is a funny thing
Not funny ha ha
But strange and complex
Like a gradual awakening
To a different dimension
Not as hectic
Nor as hyped as youth
More elastic
Not as tasty and it's got less bite
But you appreciate it's truth more
Like sipping fine wine
You can take your time
Cause, more or less, you know what's in store

This may not be a revelation to everybody
But it is to me
Because like a few others, maybe many
I kinda thought that I would be young forever
Well, not really
Just couldn't picture a drop in my vitality and verve
Found it hard to imagine
Health and money and relationships
Would ever need to be preserved

I spent it all when I had it
Wasn't wasted (though I was sometimes)
But nothing saved
I guess I was a bit of a radical
Whimsical, sometimes slightly OTT misbehaved
Fuck it was great
But, as I've learnt, it eventually goes away
Goes away
Dissipates

And you are left
With hair that is grey on top of a verteran brain
Brimming with an arsenal of memories
A body that is still OK but slowing down
Standing in a very different place
With somewhat fewer options
That's just a reality

New things to be learnt
Like grace and pace, humility
Boldness now displaced by sensibility
There's a new kind of vulnerability
A leveling of intensity
Which, quite honestly, is a welcome relief
And there's more self belief
I mean, hell, you made it this far!

Hats off - ha ha - no one cares that you are losing hair
Sure at first there's a smidge of despair
But vanity wanes
As you become more philosophical
You make less complaints - cause what's the point
You can show restraint
And small tragedies just seem comical

So what I am saying, I guess
Is that although some elements do get less
Other things come to take their place
More subtle, more precious, more enduring
LOL
It's called maturing
Can be both alarming and assuring
Even alluring
Take it as you will
Cause what is what is

Funny
It was a muted, bright afternoon
When I started to write
And while I have been focused on expressing these words
Around me I've observed the transitioning light
From the warm orange sunset
To the cool, deep, dark blue of night

And you know what
Everything has its time and place
And it's alright
I do believe that
It's alright

     I was thinking about what I wrote yesterday. About sharing my vulnerability here in my art blog. One of the reasons I include posts like that is because they come up, they write themselves and I feel no need to sublimate or hide them. But, I wondered, later, is it a good thing to include stuff like that - that is a bit of a downer?

And, yes, I decided, it is important to balance the good with the bad. It is utmost important (to me) to be real and raw. That is what this forum is for. What I chose to spend time and energy on. I feel it is worthwhile.
There is too much image, cover up, misrepresentation around. Truth gets shouted over, veiled, manipulated. 

Fuck that, I say.
The more real you are with yourself, and with those around you, the more authentic a life you will lead. And what point fake? Foggy? Clouded? Things are challenging enough as they are.

One of my primary goals with these writings is to be honest and fearless. Share my heart, bare my soul. Having made it to fifty five, so far, I feel like I can be of humble service to my fellow beings by opening up, revealing. We like authenticity, we crave it, need it, need it bad.
The journey is a long one and anything that can illuminate, expound upon, reveal honest sentiments and experiences that will assist us in our voyage is a good thing.
​
There is not point in me just crapping on about the good stuff. Sharing victories, flaunting my art, preaching poetically about the wonders of creativity - as magnificent as they are. We all need some mustard, spice, charred flavours, too. The underside, the mystery, the murky confusion, the fog - for we live there, too. On the downside, the dark side. It is nothing to fear. Not really. Not nearly as much as we tend to anyway.
None of this is news, it's just off-the-top-of-my-head though sharing. 

I'm an ordinary guy. I am complex. Sometimes, I am troubled, lost, destabilised by circumstance. I'm the same as all of us. But I want to speak, I want give voice to the howling wind in the sudden storms, I want to find words for the turgid waves that crash against our row boat souls and throw us to and fro, without mercy, relentlessly at times. I want to make sense of the senseless, throw light on the bleak, put a tattered blanket around the shivering frame of the fragile universal soul during times of stress and spiky challenge. 

To make it though the gauntlets of my own, I want to reflect on the twists, recount the harrowing falls and summit attempt failures, give solace to the exhausted, the weary, the injured elements that reside within us. I am no hero, but maybe, if I never give up, I can close my eyes for the final time with a meek and fragile smile of victory knowing that not only did I withstand the best that fate could hurl at me but that I fucking chewed it up and spat it out, mouth bloody, teeth shattered, face blackened, but like I said, smiling faintly, completely spent, ready to release my sword, drop my pen and fall into the roaring silence.

Ho, ho. I do have fun with words. They give me access to a higher power, a taste of wonder which we all share, a single strand with which to connect to our universal connectedness. ​

Let me be clear then. I embrace it all. I have reached the point where I can clearly see that to do so is the only way. Be immersed but unattached. Sounds like a paradox. Fittingly.

I just had a vegie pizza (with anchovies and pineapple) at the local, old school pizza joint. They mostly do take away but there are two short bench tables up front and one or two small round tables up the back. It's so not trying hard that it's charm is irresistible. And the pizzas are made by an Aussie maestro. Prices are fair (this is starting to sound like an ad!) and they've got Chinotto - a deal clincher for me.

I get the medium and I leave two pieces. That is just the right amount. One extra piece and it's too much. Two extras and I feel heavy. Working out that this is the ideal size and amount took a bit of trial and error.

Anyway, driving home (it was 8:06 on the dash), I reversed out of the spot right in front and drove home, approximately 6 minutes away, through the centre of town. It's a Sunday. Along the way, I saw a total of three other cars. No people.

That is the first thing I like about living in this little town. (Population 3K and change). The second thing is that there are no traffic lights. None. There's one roundabout - but it never gets too busy.

The third thing... and I haven't planned this out, I am just going with the flow... is...

Meh! Do I really want to talk about living in a small town? Nah. I mean, it really is good. Not stressful, friendly, accessible.... etc. But I don't feel like writing a list or even thinking about it anymore. So, I'm going to change topics. 

I had a nap a little while ago. And after I woke up I thought about how refreshing it is to break the mind continuum by throwing in a sleep. During a day, you have to keep track of things, you have to deal with realities, schedules, other people, driving, weather conditions, communications... And it can be a little wearing. It requires concentration. That's fine but at a certain point, sometimes, you just want to opt out. And what a wonderful way snoozing is to do so. It's like floating. Your cares and concerns drift away, you can shut down for a time. Refresh. Seriously, I'm a great advocate.

I do believe that I have a naturally busy mind. Not only do I pay close attention to my surroundings and events, nuances and formulate thoughts and opinions from them, but I also am constantly thinking up new ideas for creative projects: stories, songs, books, movies, plays. On top of that, I tend to regularly observe my own thought patterns and tendencies and speculate on them, assess them and note them. I step back and look in from the outside. Why? Because it's interesting and it's something I have always done. It's like being a scientist of sorts, unpaid and unheralded, one who's job is to investigate the mind of himself. It can get quite wild, murky, disturbing at times. But it is something I have always done, so I am reasonably comfortable with it. And I learn things. I adapt. 

It is not foolproof, of course, and there have been times when I have spiralled. This tells me that I am fallible. And that, also, I am not fully in control. Even of myself. Sometimes, I just try and ride the wild horse. I just have to hang on.

This is true less and less. The older I get the more tame my mind has become. Or is it just more familiar. Are we old friends now. Does it care for me?

The interior life, eh! Some of you will be able to relate. And outsider will observe a person sitting in silence. But, oh, the goings on inside! My god! 

This is why I am so grateful for creativity. It is an outlet, a focus. It gives me a form in which to channel much of this electric, pulsing energy. Because we are so much more than just our basic entities. We are mini-universes, each of us. And yet, to the outside world, we present such cultivated tiny packages. 

In some ways, I guess, as a species, we are just now learning to open up more, be more expressive, more exorbitant, more truly representative of our complex souls. There is no need to hold back, to cloak, to disguise or restrain. We're all from the same crazy source. We're all facets of the one. The more of ourselves we release - the more it encourages others. And on and on. We can grow together, be free together. Release ourselves and each other. 

Not just us small town dwellers... but everyone!! 

Lately I have become aware of the importance of writing only things of substance. My pieces, I have recently decided, need to have merit. If they are going to exist, be created, and read, then they need to be worth the time. This doesn't mean they have to be exclusively serious, it just means that I don't wish to waste any one's time.

Once you begin reading something, you usually commit the energy and time to stick with it. You are searching for something. When you read the headline or the title, the opening paragraph, you are deciding whether or not to proceed with the piece. Will I find nourishment? Will I learn something new? Is there information here that will advance my understanding of the subject? Or, even, will I be distracted in a pleasurable way, entertained?

We are not in fucking school anymore. Nobody is making us read anything. (And curse them for doing so back then!) We read what we want to read. We don't want to waste time with fluff or bullshit, lies, misinformation, tackiness, didactic trash. We want to be educated, uplifted, fostered, cultivated by the stream and tiny black symbol clusters. We want to be transformed, even just incrementally. Ideally we want a little bit of magic.

And words can be magic. It's one of those things. I think the word I am looking for is; ethereal. 

We may not even be quite sure what we are seeking before we begin to read something. We just know that we'll know when we find it. We become like detectives, sifting through the evidence in front of us, searching for clues that will add up to a reasonable deduction. We want to crack the case and the case is life itself. Cause, face it, we are actively living in and fully engaged in an ongoing mystery. One that is yet to be solved. Who knows what we could stumble upon in our investigations - through reading, or writing for that matter.

Writers are adventurers. Leaders, mostly solo, the advance party, trackers. We are curious, we like to analyse, build, invent. We work with concept. We are fuelled by imagination. Often we enamoured by the musicality of words and phrases. We ride the sets of thoughts like a surfer does the waves. The more practiced and adept we get, the bigger the surf we take on. Unlike the physical realm, there is no fear involved. Nobody ever got injured writing down their thoughts. But it is about confidence. The more we write, the more we are able to attempt with the next one. We get bored with what we have done, said, thought and written already. We seek new horizons. Not always new, though, sometimes it's the familiar that holds the secret riches. In this case we go deeper. We delve. Nice word: delve.

And the whole time, whatever it is we are doing, writing about, we are rewarded with tasty treats that pop into our heads and are expressed though our hands. Our minds get to reflect their magnificence. Our higher selves are offered an outlet. If we can get out of our own way, we can occasionally tap into the sublime, the wonder, the exquisite soulful limitlessness that resides within us all but is mostly disguised and interrupted by the static of daily living.

In this sense, writing is truly of the most pure pursuits available to us. In tandem with reading, it is an activity that can lift us up out of the ordinary and transport us, offer us a bridge from what is to what could be. We have to return eventually, to our homes in the physical realm, but for the time that we are away, we are liberated, suspended in the divine dimension of unlimited possibility. 

And that is a nice place to be.

​     I'm now an artistic machine. A very human one, indeed, but a machine in the sense that my artistic involvement with life, absorption and output is constant, synchronised, automatic.

I paint and write every day. I think about projects, current and future, the much of rest of the time. Even when I am not physically producing, I am inputting and assessing things from a creator's standpoint. I notice what I am noticing. I store thoughts, ideas, observations for future integration.

When I use the word machine, I do not intend to de-humanise my process in any way. If anything, I am even more organic, fallible, sentient in my approach than before. It's primarily the output to which I allude and the churning nature of my inner mechanics. Over time they have been constantly updated and fine tuned to my circumstances and environment. They have been put through a steady stream of rigorous tests, physical, moral, emotional and metaphysical. They have been pushed close to the point destruction numerous times and because of it, through adapting, have become stronger, more streamlined, with more clarity.

I have stubbornly surrendered my bold and reckless feelings of immortality and replaced them with new sentiments of acceptance of limitations - temporal and physical, gratitude and 'make the best of what you've got to work with' attitude. As do all, eventually, I have had to face some hard, hard lessons, my knees have been buckled, my belly has been sucker punched, I've had the air knocked out of me. I've been on my knees, begging, flat on my back, bleeding and in the wilderness, stumbling, utterly lost and distraught. 

And yet, here I am, still. My resolve has hardened, my outlook has broadened and in-look has substantially deepened. None of this I asked for. It was thrust upon me. Life! Life! I've got one. It is messy, ragged, precarious and precious. Fewer things now are taken for granted. Essentials: like my teeth, my eyes, my hearing, my digestion, my mobility and my consciousness. All of these things have been put in jeapordy over the last half a dozen years. 

When I look in the mirror now, I cannot fool myself. The open eyed and open minded young man who for so long commanded the helm is no longer present. He has been replaced with a more hardened facade. One that is wrinkled, sand blasted, worn. Youthful zest has been replaced by weathered knowingness, the slightly weary and wary gaze of a survivor.

Of course, none of this is unique to myself. I know that. It's a rite of passage. What I am doing, is expressing the process and outcomes in my own away. I am recording my experience of this stage of life passage. Sharing it. The reason for putting it in words is two fold. One: it's an interesting challenge for me, one that helps bring form and clarity to it all, adds to my insight, fractionally lessens the burden. Two: for eventual readers of these words and thoughts there will be, for those who have been through or currently going through similar, a comforting and perhaps fortifying assurance. We're all the same, we're all one - that vibe. And for those who are younger, yet to reach this point, these messages can serve as a harbinger, a map, a parable that may serve as a guide, a foretelling. 

Cause this whole fucking experience goes way beyond what you can imagine. Each of us is tested not only to our limits but beyond our limits. Who knew? Who signed up for this? We all did, apparently. And then what? Mission completed, we vacate. Game over. We return to the vastness.

But in that gap, in that time between eating dirt and turning to dust, during the few years or decades left, in which I currently reside we are treated to a fierce new flavour. My mouth is full of it right now. My head is, too. It possesses me, in fact. It informs my decisions and choices, artistic and otherwise. It's a whole new stage. There is no manual, per say. You've got to pick and forage for your plans and strategies of your own. But as long as the passion has not died, as long as there  are a few more "fuck you"s to mutter, a few more dreams and aspirations to not give up on, a few close and meaningful individuals to care for and about, as long as there is breath, there is hope, there is reason to carry on, to continue to grow, build, make and materialise. 

You learn that as long as it's not one of those times when you've got no choice - then you've got choices. And you know now, you've learnt; choose wisely. Or recklessly. As you see fit. It's your life trickling through your fingers... make the best of what you've got left. 

I've been painting most days recently, banging out a new canvas each week. On reflection I realise that when I paint I have absolutely no pre-conceived idea about what is going to appear. I have no direction, no concept. I just put down some colours and get started. I am not doing the painting, I am just following it along, being guided by instinct, impulse, lead by the spirit of the work itself. 

It's an interesting way to work and suits me. If I try and do anything with any structure or enforced direction or content, I immediately feel uncomfortable. I like to just cruise along, chuck down some colours, some lines, shapes - you know, see what comes together.

This way, there is no pressure. No wrong or right, no expectation. I am experimenting, playing, going with the flow. It's a pleasure. 

And that is why I paint in the first place - to enjoy pure expression. 

After each one is finished, I'll spend some time with it, over a few days, weeks or months and get into it. I'll put the fresh ones up somewhere that I can see them and enjoy them on another level - as an observer. This brings another, different, round of interaction. I know that  I made the image and can look back at different areas and choices I made in the process and recreate how it came together, consider what I have created.

In many ways, it's quite an esoteric procedure from start to finish. From blank canvas to a complex, living visual personality. I may not know what I am going to say when I commence but they each certainly say something, at once distinct and ethereal in the end.

I don't try to analyse. My appreciation is purely visual, emotional. The colours are tasty. The shapes are interesting and playful. There's a mood, an atmosphere. Something exists where once there was empty space. 

The artwork will then go on to call out to others, show itself - and from each viewer elicit a personal and unique response. Because when making it, I had no concept in mind and it wasn't until the work was complete that it claimed an identity, I do not have any investment in how people respond to the work. Once it is done, I'm an equal viewer. Of course, because I was there for the whole procedure I have a unique relationship with it but it's common for others to derive a lot more pleasure from my pieces than I do. And that's great.

I love to try to imagine what others see and get from my paintings. It's such a complex and emotional response, unique to each, that I can only do just that: imagine. Paintings evoke intricate and powerful feelings. That's part of their charm. And their openness to interpretation. They don't have a manual. There are no guidelines, rules for responding to an artwork. You look at it as you do, see what you see, feel what you feel and in those minutes that you are doing it, well, that painting is all yours.

Sometimes it's best if I just start writing here, as soon as I get home. The moment I sit at my computer. Because if I start to read emails or check out facebook, I will often get distracted. My head will get filled with things not of my choosing. That is fine sometimes but it is important, too, to empty your head. To throw a bucket attached to a rope, throw it in, let it fall deep down. Let it splash on the bottom. See what you bring up from the well of your subconscious. 

Writing is as easy as that sometimes. It's just about doing it. Getting started. Hopping on the bull or the horse, or the bike, or whatever imaginary mode of transport you wish. Just get started and keep going. Whether what you write will be any good or not, of interest, of merit - well, that is a separate issue. But at least you will end up with something. Something that you can work with. Something that you can later edit, craft, into something better. 

It is sometimes called 'automatic writing' and it's a technique used by many. I used to employ it, prodigiously, in the creative writing workshops I ran. It was interesting the way some would take to it immediately, like runaway trains, and others would balk, resist, be their own worst enemy. The trick is to let the right side of your brain take over. That's the creative, expressive side. Hush the left side, tell it to sit quietly, go to sleep, it's time to be critical, to judge, to impart it's need for order and perfectionism will come after. It will get it's chance at the editing stage. Right now it's all about non-judgement, flow, release. 

When a writer (or an artist of any sort, for that matter), is able to get out of their own way and do it with ease, that's when the good stuff is allowed to come out, that's when the magic appears. It's the sweet spot, the zone, satori. Like everything worthwhile, it takes practice, lots of it, but it's worth it. You find yourself as a conduit, the voice, the hands of a higher power. You no longer even have to really think after a while. You just do your job, your duty; you just keep on writing whatever is there.

And because it is so smooth and easy, there is a great pleasure in the act itself. You are no longer questioning or judging - you are just as much enjoying the natural thrill of riding a wave as any surfer, relishing the free fall as much as any sky diver and getting lost in the moment of complete focus as any athlete of calibre. It is a thrill, it is a magical experience - available to all, I might add. I've had people come to my classes who started out stilted and clumsy and uncertain and left with a new outlook, a fresh confidence, a love of the play of the mind using just teensy letter and words sprayed out in sequence. I witnessed some amazing transformations in just a short period, when students where coaxed into dropping their guards and letting their minds dance, freestyle and ungainly at first, with their pens, only to eventually find that within them was insight and intelligence, poetry and lyricism, well beyond what they ever imagined. 

I believe there is no, should be no, separation between good writers and bad. There are only those who do and those who choose not to. My job was to encourage the 'um, maybes' into walking to the edge of the plank and just diving in. It's an addictive thrill.

Of course, some people have natural talent, some are more practiced, inclined, and that is why we have great books. But everyone, has the opportunity, the talent, to at least record something of merit, surprise, meaning, joy, if they want to. Some of the most amazing pieces came from the least likely candidates in those workshops. After a few hours of exercises, we'd do twenty minutes of free writing, with minimal direction and guidance - just a few starting words. Some were reading out jaw droppingly good short essays and stories. Or provocative. Like the masseuse and artist, in her late twenties, who wrote about her sexual encounters. Boy, did she wake everyone up during the readings. It wasn't so much the sex that invoked attention, it was the HONESTY. (And the sex.)

Like the bike courier, who had never written before, who wrote with such gorgeous flow and cadence in such a free and enriching style that the whole class felt like they were witnessing the reincarnation of Dickens or Poe. Like the old fella, what was his name? He shocked everyone. Had he really done that? The story he just read out - it sounded real. Too real to be fiction almost? Him? Wild and crazed urban adventures like he said? And he never let on. Was it him or his imagination? It didn't matter. We all just want to escape. We all want to believe. Writing transports us. And when you are the writer, you are driving the vehicle.

In some ways, it's the freest you'll ever be. Am I trying to turn you on to it? Yes. Why? Because it's a delicious drug. Somewhat addictive. Is it harmful? Fuck no, it's good for you! Too good to be true? Yes. Just like the stories that are in you, waiting to come out.

Sometimes I start to write an entry and I just can't.

Maybe I will know my topic and find it too challenging to get into it, or maybe I will not know exactly what I am intending to say and things will not gel.

Sometimes I even begin an entry and then stop halfway, either due to lack of direction, lack of conviction or lack of motivation. 

These things do not happen often. But they happen. 

As one who questions things, I have to ask myself, 'why am I writing this?' And, if the answer is not satisfactory, I will cease. I don't like wasting time. Not mine, nor yours.

And when I say yours, when I refer to you, I, of course, do not even know who you are. I will know some of my readers personally, for sure, but others not. I also do not know who reads any given essay, even amongst those who I know sometimes pop in for a gander.

But it doesn't matter. Because I am actually, really, talking to myself. I am talking to an element of myself that wants to understand how I think, how my mind works, how I put the world together, take it apart. 

I am curious about every element of existence. Strike that. I am curious about the things that I am curious about. There is plenty of stuff that doesn't interest me.

I have strived for more than forty years to gather as much information and life experience as I can, at every opportunity, through interacting with people of all sorts, through travel, through absorbing books and music and art and films. I dive in deep when I am into things. 

In the late seventies and early eighties, movies were my passion. I made an effort to see as many as possible. I would go to revival theatres and watch double bills - movies like Performance, El Topo, Dog Day Afternoon, Midnight Cowboy.... Films by European masters like Truffaut, Bergman, Fellini... Japanese greats; Kurosawa, Ozu, Imamura... plus Kubrick, Altman, Lindsay Anderson...etc, etc - I just wanted to soak it all up. 

I was studying. I also did the same with books. Less the classics - more the contemporaries. And music - I recorded onto cassette thousands and thousands of hours of stuff. Art, too, of course; I could not get enough.

And my point? I realised today that I have been loading up big time for a long time. I have been a perpetual student of the arts for decades and decades. It's all self study, a vary loosely structure curriculum. ie. find what ignites my interest and get right into it. Go deeper and deeper. When it gets boring - move onto the next thing.

So what is to become of all this knowledge? Am I full yet?

No, of course not. I continue to stock up. But, what is becoming apparent now is a growing urge, need, to use what I have learnt to make some good things, some lasting things, some inspirational things. Stuff that will fire up the young meez of the future.

Naturally, as well as absorbing over all this time, I have been consistent with my output as well. But I believe I am yet to really reach my pinnacle. I am yet to bring it all together into something wonderful. But now, the time has come. I am getting nearer and nearer. I can feel it. My output - of paintings, of comics, of ideas and of writing has increased considerably. Things are taking form more easily. Purpose is becoming more apparent. 

Cause, seriously, let's face it - at 54 - I can't wait around too much longer. I've got to go for it. And I think I am ready. I am ready. 

I cannot say yet, right here, exactly what form it will take - because I am not precisely sure - but I do know the roads are converging. I am tuning in more accurately. I have created - through data input over my creative lifespan to date - a massive repository of all kinds of artistic and expressive notions and techniques and sensibilities. I have stockpiled, in fact. The warehouse is full. The factory is oiled and ready. Production has begun. Even I know not what will appear out the other end - but I do know something - it's going to be absolutely wonderful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I remember in high school when I saw the reading list for the upcoming year at the start of year ten or eleven that it included James Joyce's Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man. 

I got a little bit excited, thinking; this could be good. Surely a young artist is going to do some wild and crazy things. There's got to be some controversy and fun stuff. Maybe I'll even get some insight into the creative mind.

How wrong I was. It was truly disappointing. Boring with a capital B.

Cut to present day, I see a link on facebook to a page with the title, The Ten Stages of the Creative Process. Worth a read, I thought, and massaged mousey's shoulder to click and open. It wasn't great. No soul. I didn't even finish reading it. Drivel, essentially.

But it did get me thinking - I can write a better list than that. So here it is. I changed the title a little. And the content is completely different. Not a single point the same. I wrote down my ten points first and then filled in the blanks. 

Creating something is an exhilarating, rewarding process. It involves an array of feelings and processes. It is a synthesis of multiple procedures interlayed with emotional and cognitive ups and downs. What is that process? Can it be explained? I don't know for sure. But I will try...

1. Initial impulse

Who knows where they come from. They pop in to your head and buzz around like a wild bee. They flick on like a spotlight in an abandoned dance hall. They fly out of a drainpipe and soar skyward at full flap. They make have lineage, they may make know sense at all. But when you get them - the burning, crackling, electric first notions - you feel a zing. It's like feeling the pull of a fish on your line. It's a big one! Stay cool.

2.) Further thoughts

Once you realise that you are onto something good, you stay with it and mull it over. Might be for a few minutes, hours, days or weeks... depending on the size and scope of the project. You give it further thought, venture down different tracks, consider potentials, options. This is an enjoyable stage because anything is possible.

3.) Consideration

Now. Is it really worth doing? Is it worth the time and effort? What is really involved with getting this project from idea to finished piece. Would you be better off spending the time on an existing project or a different idea? Some ideas burn bright but then don't have the fuel to last to conclusion. Some ideas are out of time. Sometimes they come to early, sometimes too late. Some are simply not worth the effort. But don't judge too harshly.... it might be worth hanging on, testing it out further.

4.) Ideas pinging

You are going to give it a shot. Now it's about what is going to really work. What you need to do to give it your best shot. You are excited and ready. The ideas are popping. You're inspired, motivated. This is another great stage. It's the height of the foreplay. After this, the pants are coming off.

5.) Realisation

Action time. You are into it. It's about releasing all that conceptual energy. Letting it flow. Manifesting your truth. Making, building, sketching, writing.... piece by piece you construct your vision. Like Michelangelo chipping away all the bits of marble that are not part of the sculpture waiting inside the block to be revealed, birthed.

6.) Expansion 

New things come into play. It's impossible to anticipate everything. Improv is a big part of any great work. Using what pops up, throwing away pre-conceived segments that may have looked good in concept in the planning process but now somehow don't quite fit. 

7.) Consolidation

Bringing it all together takes confidence. And trust. Trust in self. Doubt is common. This is the stage where the unsure, those lacking commitment, conviction, have been known to give up. Eighty to ninety percent of the way there. So close. But so far. The last ten to twenty percent can be the hardest. There is no more whimsical behaviour. This is the serious end of things. This is where you tie off all the knots. You commit to your vision, you clarify, pull the threads all together. Pieces become a whole. It's a thing now. Birth has been given. There is crying involved in this stage. Pain and struggle are not unknown, either. This is where you face your demon and conquer them. 

8.) Refinement

"Kill your darlings," is how Truman Capote put it. For writers they must jettison bits they love, bits they worked on extra hard, bits they are proud of. They must trash anything that does not serve the story. Same with an artist, a dancer, a musician. It's not only about what is there. It's about what isn't. It's about empty space. Pauses. It's about allowing the viewer, the listener, the reader to fill in the gaps. Doing this part well is a learned skill. It's something that one truly gets better at with practice. It's difficult but rewarding. It's about aiming for perfection. It takes time. And sweat. But it's worth it. So worth it.

9.) Presentation

You've done it. You have completed the creative process. Well, mostly. You have done all you can do. Now it's time to present it to the world. Set it free. Share it. Show it. Sing it out loud. How it is to be judged should not overly concern you, for your job is done. If you are happy, that is what matters. But to not heed the response of others, too, is unwise. Every one is a potential teacher. Each can see or hear things that you may not. Listen and learn from feedback. Positive and negative. it's all the same.

​10.)Assimilation

The project is over. It's now history. It now has a place in your scrap book or worthwhile pursuits. A part of you is in it and it is a part of you. Look back on it objectively if you can. See what you have done. Feel proud. See the small mistakes. See what you would do differently next time. Don't be too hard on yourself. It will soon be time for the next great thing. You are lucky. You can create. You're a god. Small g, sure. But still. You're fucking lucky.

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

Maybe if Jimmy J comes back and visits the future, he will read this and rewrite his solemn tome with a bit more zing and zest. Maybe, he'll come back and visit and get so caught in all the distractions of modern life that he won't even get around to writing at all. One can only hope. The bastard took such a promising title and did it no justice. As an artist, I doth protest.

Hold grudges? Me? Still raving about and resenting a required reading book from forty years ago!

Now, that's funny. I raise my whiskey glass and propose a toast, Jimmy J!

To the tormented artist! Like I said; we're fucking lucky. Jimmy J? Jimmy J? He's passed out. 

I have started a few entries over the last two weeks and have left them unpublished, as invisible drafts.

One was too negative (although realistic about circumstances), the other I can't remember what stalled it's publication.

Many other times I have sat down to write something and just shrugged off the notion altogether - a mix of laziness, rebellion and ennui. Sometimes I can't muster up the positive energy to commit to forming a sentient, honest, current expression of my head space. Living it, it seems, is challenge enough.

I don't need to write stuff down because....

It's too complex.
It's too obvious.
It's too personal.
It's too confronting.
It's mundane.

There are always plenty of reasons. Plus, I ask myself, what is the point of doing it at all? Who is it for? What is it for? What am I trying to achieve? 

And these are good questions. 

When I am actually into it, writing one or having just finished writing one; it all makes sense. 

It's about uncovering truth. Investigating the depths and recesses. It's about detaching from my attachment to self and observing and reporting on what is occurring. 

This can be beneficial because it offers insight and clarity. 

It takes courage to speak out, to reveal one's inner workings. A bit of courage. And abandon. And trust. And devil-may-care attitude. In the end, after all, we'll all be dust - so why be precious. Why not mine whatever the present presents for some nuggets of interest?

Having a dialogue with one's self is amusing. It can be elevating.

Because time keeps moving on and we continue to evolve - nothing is set in stone. Nothing is permanent. All the notions and conceits, the dreams and delusions - grand and petite; all leaves in the wind. Clouds. Raindrops. 

This is not me. 

This is just me at the moment.

Tomorrow I will be different. And the next day again. And on.

So, it's amusing to carve a few scratches in the wall. It's something to do. It's a passing conversation. On record. It's the voice of one of billions. The tiny peep of a little bird. A glint in the sky.

This evening, after dinner, I lay down and fell asleep. I woke up and felt rested. I had gone far, far away, in dream. My slumber erased the day, the thoughts and feelings, and left me with a clean slate. It was refreshing. 

We want to live and we want to experience but we also want to be fresh and ready for what is to come. It's such a complex, miraculous system. There is no real way to properly comprehend or explain what life is. We just keep going.

We think we know but we don't. And yet, somehow, we kind of do. Rather exquisite, confounding, tantalising. 

Like this brief monologue: something but nothing.

I created my art website three or four years ago and have slowly built it up. There is no one-button-sale process integrated into it, so it's been more of a viewing space than a sales producing site. 

Two years ago now I realised that I could write a blog and have it attached; so I began. Tentative and sporadic at first, after a few months I started to get into the swing of things. Now it has become an important part of my artistic life. Once or twice a week I check in and spill the beans - or plant the beans. Whatever is going on in my life, in my mind, in my world gets a summation and commentary. I am pretty casual about it but focused when I get a post started. My aim is to be free flowing, honest and playful. For me there would be no point in recording anything other than something that is 100% authentic. I want to represent who I am and where I am at when I decide to express it. Later, I can look back and it will be an accurate road map of my headspace journey.

I like the way each short narrative is a building block. I am not sure what the structure will look like when it nears completion. I just keep going, focusing on the quality and placement of each new brick.

Which reminds me...

In the mid eighties, some creative friends were part of a casual group called 'The Spiritual Bricks Society'. We had a gold (yellow) painted brick and placed it in a visible spot at each of our regular gatherings. There was no real agenda or rituals involved - it was pretty much just a group of like minded, arty individuals and their friends convening to enjoy conversation, drugs and alcohol. We also took part in a group art show called 'God's Favourite Artists' held at the Bondi Pavillion Gallery. The main core of the group are still my friends today. I don't see them very often but the connection is strong and positive. 

Some things I have done for a long time:

Written poetry
Stayed up late
Slept in late
Gone to the beach
Felt deeply
Tried to sublimate 
Loved laughing
Loved good writing
Loved movies
Loved women
(this is not in order of ranking, ladies)

I was going to write more on that list but now I have been distracted. Just by mentioning women. Ah. How they delight and confound. 

In some ways, being older, and having extracted myself - or have I been exiled? - from the romance game(s), I have opened up a lot of space and time for other pursuits. 

Namely; being free. And I must say, it's pretty good, actually. As Larry David would say, "pretty, pretty good." I sleep in till I wake naturally, I go for long walks on the beach, I play cards most nights with the lads, I rarely tidy up, I go where I want, leave when I'm ready...

The list goes on. Am I trying to justify how much better it is? Am I convincing myself? Hmmm.... not sure.

Anyway, like Stalin always said, "You work with what you've got." ("Until we take it from you," was the second part.)

Gotta say: LOL

Just watched a few seconds of a clip of a guy on facebook who is standing in a mall with a tamborine on his foot, a drum on his back, guitar in hands and a horn coming out the side of his head. He's making a lot of growling, singing sounds as well as all the other noise. It is not unpleasant - he is adept at his craft - but not what I felt like listening to in the moment. 

What did strike me though is his powerful and urgent need to be heard. That is his driving force. That is why he practices and performs. He wants to be seen and be heard.

Last night I watched a downloaded ep of The Voice UK on the computer. I was surprised. It was enjoyable and uplifting - full of personality, good humour and encouragement of talent and expression. There was a part when a truly original artist with vision, talent and the courage to be different (himself) didn't get the judges to turn around (and allow him to continue in the competition). Will.i.am realised his mistake later but it was indicative of how you need to be creative and out there - but no too much. 

I felt other feelings while watching the show - like as a visual artist there's rarely an outlet for have a large group witness the effort and dedication you have put into your passion. Unlike music, where you instantly connect with the audience, art is done in silence and mostly appreciated in silence - and also by one person at a time. There is no applause, no whoop whooping and no standing ovations. Would it be encouraging if there were these things for the artist? Yes. Especially the whoop whooping. I'm even uplifted by writing it. Slightly.

Back to the original point - about our need as humans to be acknowledged by others of our species. It's a life affirming thing. It's a form of positive connection. It also reflects ourselves back to ourselves and says; we think you are OK - good - or great. We like how you've been spending your time and approve of your results. Keep it up. Solo passion and drive is a great thing and can take you far but it's a fact that the praise of others will boost even the most self sufficient of creators. 

On the other hand, one has to be careful not to actually do things just to get this attention. That is foolhardy and takes the power away. It has to be real. And it has to come from within. The true purpose of any great work - in any of the fields - is to move and uplift on a emotional/intellectual/spiritual level. It's not going to do this if the intention of the creator is not pure.