Lewie JPD
facebook / email
  • Home
  • Love Letters To Japan
  • New Works
  • Exhibitions
  • Music
  • Blog
  • Murals
  • Manga! Pop! Paintings
  • Shirty Shirts
  • Press
  • Short Movies
    • Skull Guru
  • Mind's I comics
  • About Lewie JPD
  • Coaching & Mentoring
  • FAQ
  • Contact

Effortless Effect

13/4/2019

0 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's what we are all racing towards.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reflection

1/1/2018

1 Comment

 
Picture

    I wouldn’t say that I obsess about it. But it is something that my mind keeps returning to.

Like right now, I sit down at the cafe and pull out my iPad. Moments before it starts up, I catch my reflection in the glossy black screen face. Of course, I recognise the visage but, strangely, I am surprised by how old I am. I shouldn’t be. I should be used to it. But it still gets me. I certainly don’t feel the age of my appearance. In my mind, I am mid thirties - something like that. (Just a few decades younger than in fact.)

I know this is not an original topic and even a little boring. I have read articles along similar lines and don’t find them all that interesting anymore.  (Except for one today about Walt Whitman - and how his love of nature was his sanctuary in his latter years.)

But this is different. This is me. I am going to keep writing just to see what, if anything, of interest reveals itself. I like to take lines of self inquiry sometimes and extrapolate. Delve in, peel away layers, sort through the stacks, wander down the corridors and see where they lead.

It’s interesting to wonder - wherever I end up getting to, thought-wise; will it be somewhere that already exists - you know, in there, my mind - or will it be something that could only have been created by following a particular thought paths? Do we pull things from the ether, out of nowhere? What are we accessing - is it fresh stuff or a collage, reconfiguration of pre-existing notions/concepts?

I can’t answer that, obviously. How the fuck would I know! But then, why not me? Somebody has to be the first to answer any puzzle. Existence doesn’t care about qualifications, prior knowledge, who it is doing the speculation. Everything is accessible to everyone. The only limits (in this domain) are self imposed. And why impose limits on one’s self?

I try not to. But, of course, I do. We all do. Fear and doubt and lack of esteem and courage lurk within us all. We are a never ending whirlpool of shifting head spaces, emotions. It always amazes me at how unruly my interior life is. And how constantly demanding. There were times in my twenties and thirties - actually, all through my life - when I have felt on the brink of losing control. Perhaps this is not unusual. Perhaps it varies person to person. On the flip side, my wildly oscillating mind and unpredictable spirit, gift me with a constantly flowing access to creative expression. The tap always works, I just turn it on and the flow is always strong.

Please don’t think that I talk about myself because I think I am great or special. Cause I don’t. I am a soldier in the trenches. I am one of the many. I don’t mind what you think, actually, because I don’t know who you are and it would all be biased speculation (on your part and mine) anyway. But I do feel compelled to point out that, in these speculative essays, I cast myself as a subject of interest. I have access to myself - so that is who I talk about.

I have always been interested in introspection - since about eight or nine years of age, I would say. I like quiet times. I like low activity because it allows internal observation and extrapolation. Is is just something to do, is anything actually ever achieved? I can’t say. It’s just my nature. And you gotta go with what you’ve got.

From about the age of fourteen I began to write a few of my thoughts down for amusement. The added benefit, I have since come to realise is that others, readers, may identify thoughts and qualities in themselves that are similar. Just like reading a horoscope. We all like the - ‘yeah, that’s me’ feeling of identification.

We like it because if makes things feel less random. It helps us believe that we belong. That there is a purpose. Perhaps even a meaning behind it all.

In my humble opinion, however, as desirable as this is - it is unlikely.

But the feeling (and it’s accompanying temporary comfort) is no less valid whether it be true or not. We do all kinds of things - in fact, most of what we do - is in order to connect, feel worthwhile, valued, or consequence.

Like I have said before we are fragile, volatile entities. And the journey itself is constantly different. We want to pin things down, draw conclusions - it’s part of our nature - but the truth is that everything is transient. Even our concepts of reality. Then, as we slowly, or quickly, change form, feelings, opinions, as we drift through an ever-altering landscape there are a few things we tend to grasp on to. We require a feeling of belonging, security, connection to others, peace of mind. We want to function within a limited paradigm - one that we can keep a grip on, feel like we are progressing (in some way) within. (And for most of us, at least at varying stages - this is possible. Temporary, but achievable.)

But when something takes us out of the box, when there is a sudden shift, or when we allow ourselves to acknowledge the actual complete lack of borders and the fact that we are functioning in a completely fabricated construct - partly by reality, partly by society and the rest by our own minds - then things get a bit more funky.

There are times that letting go and floating free is enjoyable (as long as you know you can get back to your comfortable construct again), and there are times when it is decidedly uncomfortable - ie. when everything is thrown up in the air and some of your favourite elements are suddenly no longer. Times like when someone you love dies, you are involved in an accident, or a part of your physical well being is distressingly compromised. These kinds of things send you into a funk.

Nothing like being in sudden danger of losing your life - that of a loved one or your most valued possessions - for you to realise just how much you value your life after all; despite it’s incessant challenges and niggling demands.

Anything has to be better than nothing.

We are ‘programmed’ to believe that. Otherwise, people would be early exiting all over the place.

So we struggle on. Questioning, contemplating, trying things, urgently attempting to satisfy our urges and needs.

When you get older, like 57 older for example, you think back to all the ups and downs you have experienced, the ecstasies and torments you have lived through, the loves found and lost, the younger versions of self that you so fully experienced - you think about all that and then when you see a reflection of your current self by chance - it all comes flooding in.

That’s me. That’s fucking me! This is me. But who am I? Still here - I can see - but so what? Is it going to be more of the same?

No, look - it won’t be the same - it can’t be. You are older now. The wild times that began in your teens and carried on through to your forties - they have waned most substantially. The wild times well, has, in fact, it seems, gotten down to distressingly low levels.

Limits are imposed upon you. Physical limits, at least. This has to be accepted, worked around. Thankfully, though, mentally you are stronger and clearer than ever.

I can still think about things. Get all up there with the speculation about things, with the extrapolations. I can write about the me of the present, in these fleeting moments and maybe capture something, somethings - like fireflies, butterflies, buzzy bees - not capture them to keep or cage - maybe not even capture but just grab at them. Do it to further come to know their simple yet complex beauty.

And I can ride on the coat tails of my previous endeavours, extract the essence, formulate theories, fabricate exaggerated tales (not that I do).

I care what I look like, how old I am - to the extent that if effects my behaviour, my options. But on other levels - it doesn’t matter. I have been lucky to have lived this long, gotten this far - and look - here’s evidence - I may have learnt something - however ephemeral, tenuous, speculative - something worthwhile.

I feel good, for the moment, in the moment. I am glad I have spent this time recording this. There are plenty of other things I could have done - but I gone done this. These words, these ideas punched out it a mini frenzy of thoughtful expression.

I have carved them on the cave wall, if you will. Maybe they will illuminate some thoughts and feelings amongst my fellow cave dwellers. Maybe someone will feel a little less alone, a little less freaked out in their own ageing, their own inner conflicts, state of mind. Maybe getting old really does bring some wisdom. If that is the word. (Sounds a bit fuddy-duddy.)

Could I have written this ten years ago?

Well, I didn’t. So now is now and what is is what is supposed to be. (Now I am just sprouting platitudes.) It is so all just speculation. But we so want it to be more than that! That’s what life is. That dynamic of input, interpretation and conclusion. We settle on something that will serve us.

There is no pinning it down. All systems are go. All the time. And what have I learnt from this outburst? Hmmmm...

My feeling now is that I will finish this short piece - my second coffee has just been consumed - get up - pack away my iPad, go for a walk and a swim (how lucky am I!) and carry on with the rest of my day.

Continue living out the pattern of my individual construct, enjoying the good bits and enduring the difficult. I will always be me, whatever age. I am used to it by now. Sure, once in a while, I will be surprised by the gap between what is and what I believe or feel, but, fuck it, who cares. I’ll likely be back here tomorrow before my swim, having another black brew, spitting out a fresh take on the deliciously devious and delightfully bewildering continuance we exist within.

Tomorrow, though, I’ll try not to catch a glance of my visage.
1 Comment

Meditations On Writing

25/12/2017

0 Comments

 
Picture
You can access alternative reality planes
Without the use of substances or drugs
Your mind has powers beyond the limit of your imagination
And when you journey towards the edges
You can peer over
Keep on going
Your choice
There is no limit
Go as far as you desire
In any direction
Beyond temporal, space constrictions
As far as your imagination desires

You can do it by reading, by just thinking
Daydreaming, meditation
Or you can do it by doing something creative
(And there are other ways, too; music, sports and science to name a couple)
But for now I will concentrate on writing

Because I have an intimate relationship with writing
I get lost in my writing sometimes
Quite often
I find myself again, always
Slightly changed
Renewed, redefined
Enigmatic the effect
Not tangible exactly
Not easily explainable
But I will try

By forming words to describe your headspace
You are actively sculpting
Something that you are not sure of
Your instinct and intuition guide you
After some practice
You just keep going
You move out of your own way
No judgement
No editing

Word after word
Become phrases, sentences, paragraphs
Then eventually you have something of substance
Something with meaning

May just be a description
May be a collection of opinions
May be an astute observation
Or a combination of them all

You get into a rhythm
You fingers syncopated with your breathing
Your blood euphorically pumping
Because it knows that you are leading
With your heart and mind
Creating
Something that your soul responds to

But also being lead
Somewhere
Somewhere different to where you started
A short distance from your your departure
But increasingly further the longer you continue

It is very much like going on a journey
Without physically going anywhere
It involves trust and exploration
Invention and imagination
What is coming up?
What’s next?
Impulsiveness and consideration go hand in hand
Personal opinion and universal understanding
Side by side
Integrated

There are moments of pause
Quick decisions, choices
Go this way or that?
Swerving, scaling, chasing...
It’s just a game
Best not to be too serious
About anything
But put your heart into it
Commit
And carry on

I like to write in cafes
Look up
In the moments in between
Get distracted momentarily
By a beautiful figure passing by
An alluring waltz in her step
Perhaps
A ragamuffin mutt
Distractingly cute
Or
You will pick up
A voice that can’t be ignored
The curious glance of a stranger
Soft toned enquiry from a waitress

Grab an instant out of reality
Integrate it, maybe
But usually not
Just dive back in to the river
Continue down the stream
How sweet it is to have access
To such a silky self created dream

I really do recommend it
To everyone, to all
It’s a wonderful, simple pleasure
No discipline at all, really
Just practice
Practice, practice
And more doing, doing, doing
But when it is like this
Something that you love so
It’s enlightening and rewarding

And how many things
Can you say
Provide you
With both of those at once?

Without getting to preachy
I do believe
That we need to aspire
As human beings
To loftier heights
We are born to explore, extend
Elevate ourselves and each other

And writing is such a simple
Magnificent
Process
Available to all
No rights or wrongs
Say what you want
The way you want
When you want and how you want

Whether or not
Someone will read it
Does not matter
The act itself offers the greatest pleasure
The purest reward

It allows you to ask the questions
To consider unthinkable options
To shake up existing notions
Pull the covers away from rustling theories
Buried deep beneath
A pile of daily distractions

It allows you to delve deep
To hypothesise
Envisage
Suppose

In some ways it offers
So much freedom
That it can seem overwhelming
So what to do?
Don’t worry
Start with anything
Just get going

As you carry on
You will discover
That what needs to be revealed
Will be

It’s mystical
It’s magic
Spirit is involved
Soul accessed

I am doing it right now
Nothing fancy

And I want to encourage you
To do the same
Write anything
Give yourself a chance
To discover the sweetest of nectars
A most noble of enterprises
An entree to self expansion

It’s exquisite
Let it take you
Where you may otherwise
Have never gone
​
0 Comments

Like Life

24/9/2017

1 Comment

 
Picture
I was walking along Brunswick Heads beach late this afternoon. There were not many people about as it was nearing sunset and also quite windy. The wind was heading south, giving me a push as I walked towards Byron - not with the intention of going that far - nooo!, that’s way too far (for a daily constitutional) - just heading in that southerly direction.

Beach walks; always love them. A daily thing, regardless of weather conditions. Clears the head, good for ideas, good for sorting things out, good for the lungs and other equally impressive organs. (We have many.)

Why am I sharing this? Big deal, right?! A man goes for a walk on the beach…. At least I am not taking photos of my food and posting it. Or telling you about my dreams from last night. Or lamenting about a bad break up.

But is there a point to this verbal stroll? Yes.

As I was walking back, in the last few kms, I passed a small group of teenagers ambling in the direction I had just come from with the wind at their backs, enjoying the water, the shore, the openness.

And walking past them with the strong wind resisting my advancement, I considered the metaphor between the walk there and back and life itself. The first half you have the wind behind you, momentum. On the walk back you are pushing against it. It’s not as easy.

The youngsters don’t know the difference. Not until they reach the turn around point. Then it becomes apparent.

It’s like life. Is there any point in advising them, that their return trip is not going to be as effortless, I wondered briefly. They won’t be aware. Like I wasn’t on my way downwind. I may have even shortened my journey south if I had known how up against it the journey back was going to be, comparatively.

And then I wondered; would I like to be heading downwind again. And the answers was no. Because you just have to come back again.

Like life. You move on, move forward. It becomes more challenging but you keep going. Even if you could go back - why would you? You’ve got to face what is happening where you are at when you are there.

No escape. No point in lamenting. Head down, face to the wafting opposition of nature and move forward. Where to? The next challenge. Is there any other way? No.

Like life. Just keep going.

What I would have appreciated, though, when I was in my downwind segment of my life, would have been to have realised this - what I have just said - and appreciated the comparative easiness and natural boost of youth. It’s been said before, by many. And I probably did read it more than a few times back then. But, really, you can’t fully get it until your time comes and you experience it. It’s just the way it is. Ironic. Youth is wasted on the young, was the quote I remember. Not wasted, but, you know, would've been good to have been able to save a bit for later.

Not lamenting, just observing. If you get me now, if you are on your own walk back, you’ll understand.

​And if you are still in the first part of the journey, heading with the wind behind you - enjoy it! Savour it! Be free!
​
1 Comment

Improvisational Speculation

15/7/2017

0 Comments

 
Picture
It’s morning and I’ve just woken up and I’m going to write.
People write for all different reasons.
I like to write in a free from, musical kind of way. Jazz style.
I like to improvise. Let what is there come out as it will and then build onwards from that.
Thought to thought in sequence. Sentence to sentence link.
I like to coax out my message.
Invite it for a visit.
What is it you would like to talk about today, dear subconscious?
What is floating around in there that wants to appear, be expressed?

Often I will write poems. They are a little slower than free form writing. They involve a similar flowing approach but with the rhyming involved, they tend to take turns and make unanticipated leaps. A key rhyming word at the end of a phrase will appear like an arrowed sign on a pathway - saying go this way - pointing off track - maybe towards the seaside or deeper into the forest. Poems have a magical air about them. Like you are being led by fairies, or leprechauns or some kind of local friendly beast, perhaps beckoned by a shaman. They involve trust and a sense of curiosity. A bit of courage. You are being led somewhere new - so you follow.

The reason I write, primarily, is self discovery. I want to allow my voice, the one beyond my regular function voice, the voice that is partly my present self but partly my guide, my higher self, to bring forth something. Some suggestions, some observations, some directions. It really is an amazing thing to be able to do, if you properly consider it. These little symbols that have meaning. String them together into something. Something out of nothing. And it’s effect can be significant. Meaningful. Even life changing.

It’s free and available to all. That’s another nice thing. Anyone can do it. You just get started. I’ve seen and read some truly amazing pieces produced by some of my students in creative writing class. We do a lot of 5, 10, 15 and 20 minute automatic writing exercises. I will give a starting line - something simple like ‘I remember…’ or ‘The day was dark…’ and then each student just goes for it. Pen to paper - never lifting, never looking up. Almost like transcribing to an inner dictation. The editing can come later. The fixing up. The making sense of. While we are doing the exercises, it’s all about going for it, getting out of your own way and getting it onto the page. Sprint drills.

I has some students that never really wrote much before who produced some surprising and delectable pieces. They would shock and delight themselves as much as the rest of us. At the end of each exercise, one or two people would read out, share. Some are, at first, a little reluctant, shy, but it’s a safe environment. We are all in it together. Common cause. At the end of the reading, others can comment; if something comes naturally. Often just smiles, or grunts or ‘ooo’s. Nothing negative. It’s not a critique. So, yeah, I remember some really wonderful stuff - from both newcomers and more experienced writers alike. The point is that really, what we are doing is allowing a light to be shone on our souls, we are accessing a true element of self, one beyond our daily functions. And in there lies the wonder.

Now that, it seems, I have briefly put on my teacher’s hat - I encourage everyone to do some free writing of their own. It’s absolutely rewarding. It’s as invigorating as a walk in nature. And just as good for you.

How amazing that we can teach ourselves, learn from ourselves! What a system! And the more you think and express and observe about your self - beyond the superficial level - the more you realise that ‘you’ are not just the ‘you’ that you know. ‘You’ are part of a much bigger network, a much greater knowing. That’s just how it is. We function as individuals but also as representatives of the species. And what species is that? Humans. Humans we are called. But why are we here? What are we doing? What is the purpose of it all? The whole game?

These are things to think about, to write about, to ponder and prod. Of course there is no ultimate answer. It’s all just about finding a flavour or a feeling, one particular to you in that series of moments, as you create - that will express your unique take on the question. And in producing that you make something that other humans can later appraise, absorb and respond to.

‘Ah, yes! I know that feeling!’ Or ‘Hmmm... what exactly is being said here?”

It may be written work, a painting, a drawing, a comic, a song - anything. It will be a reflection of life. It will be a manifestation, a symbol. One that can be shared and enjoyed by others. Others in exactly the same boat - or, more accurately - their own vessel on the same seas. One that they will observe and respond to and possibly be inspired to create their own version of. And how do they do that? Just by deciding to. You can do no wrong. It’s easy (in a sense) - all you need to do is tap in to your true voice, your true feelings and express them.

It’s about truth. Honesty. Transparency. We are all looking for clues all the time to add to our infinite internal databases. We hunger to know what life is for, what it is about, what our purpose is. We want to be immerse, engaged, connected. That is our nature.

And being creative, freely, and without self judgement or censor, is one of the simplest and most profound ways of doing that.

I just had a little go right then. Start, go, finish. You always end up somewhere. And, almost always, you feel a little better than when you left. You’ve made a mini journey without having to go anywhere. You traversed time from a solitary position in space and did so while on a mission. So, in a sense, by the very act of doing what you did, you answered your own question. What am I here for? To write.

But what does it mean? Ahhh… let somebody else try and figure that out. ​
0 Comments

Enlightened

16/11/2016

0 Comments

 
Picture

​Take a holiday 
From the malady
Of being constantly
Ruled by currency
Constrained by surety
Drowning in uncertainty

There's so much more to be
To be drawn to see
Exotic and illogical
Phantasmagorical
Attainable independently
Ready, set, go: free

But for access first 
You must control that thirst
For financial fecundity
And focus beyond normality
To options without formality
Random and of borderline sanity

Invite yourself to a magical realm
Step up, step up to the sea sprayed helm
On a new and unchartered journey
Where discovery and learning 
About intimacy and challenge are 
An engaging daily occurrence
That will keep you grounded
And take you far

You won't know yourself
For the first time ever, over again
It's just what happens when
You muster up the courage
Wake up your latent desire
To forage through the thick
And curious forest stacked 
With untold manifestations
Guaranteed to carry you higher
Than even in your lucid dreams aspire

Once you get the hang of it
Living free, need no diagram for it
Making it up as you go along
With all the changes you'll have undergone
You'll wake up fully liberated
Emotionally emancipated
Confident and flowing strong, knowing sure that you belong
In a consciousness uncomplicated
A reality that's heightened, newly ventilated
You'll finally find yourself: enlightened

0 Comments

ambitious abandon 

12/7/2015

0 Comments

 
Picture
Success.
Do you really have to go out and get it?
Really?
Aren't there enough people already out there, trying to grab a hold of their self conceived, righteously perceived bounty?
Too many.

What if you don't like crowds? Bustling, hustling, rustling feathers? 
Business lunches, scheduled get-togethers?
What if you're adverse to taking calls, meet and greets?
And you never bother to update post or send out tweets?
What if you're the kind of person who prefers to read... books!? 
Prefers to eat alone, think in peace, avoids the crowds, do as he pleases?
An outsider, an observer, a dreamer, a foot soldier... gone AWOL, never to be found?
One of those spectres, the ones you don't see round.

What if he is all that but still would like to taste...
Victory for a change.
Could that not be arranged?
Why, his dues are paid - well in advance.
Sure, when he was younger, you say, he had ample chances.
Did he waste it? His youth?
Did he squander it?
Tell the truth.

He didn't. He has never stopped trying.
He has invested his soul and his time in creating his works.
He has devoted his being to seeing what works.
He experiments, pushes boundries, believes in what he is doing.
Don't you see that? He's devoted, he's focused, still searching for true meaning.
The man is a poet, he's a painter, a romantic, for chrissake!
Give him some hope now, come on! - give him a break.

He's one of the good ones, he cares, he's authentic.
He's not going to beg, though, or compromise his beliefs.
Maybe that's the problem. Too principled, idealistic.

He still reads comics, you know. 
And he talks to himself. 
Sometimes, he cries. Shhhh...
If this was a dating site, these admissions may help.
But he refuses to seek romance that way.
Yeah, yeah, an idealist. A dreamer, a romantic. Ho hum.
What is this shit, anyway? This whole thing?
Some kind of bla bla bla? For who's sake?
For god's sake, wake up, lad! (In an Irish accent.) (With or without face slap SFX.)

He's decide to free write. To let it out. To not stop. To not edit. 
Not a good idea, some would say.
But he doesn't listen.
You should have worked that out by now.
But he does listen. Especially to things worth hearing.
Like birds. And the sea crashing to shore.
And melifluous voices, especially if accompanied by an alluring face. 
He's going mushy! 
The whole exercise is going to shit!
But does he care? 
Not about images. Except the ones he makes. And looks at. Artworks and the like. Art galleries, book stores.
This has become a dating site! OMG.

James Salter died this week. James Salter - he was a real writer. His words - oh, wow. Profound. Moving. Ethereal.
He wouldn't be into this. Or maybe he would. Now, anyway. Now he's dead. Standards drop, apparently.

Riffing. Like rap or hip hop. What's the difference again? 
Like one of those, anyway, without the backing track.
Or the anger. Indignation.
The dude is mellow.
Maybe too mellow. 

Which brings us back to the original assertion.
How hard to try? And what for?
Maybe better to just be yourself and let things happen as they will. 
Maybe better just to go with the flow. 
Sometimes just a trickle.
Or a droplet.
Still, moisture.
Stay moist!
Ahem.

No drugs used in the transcribing of this inner monologue gone wrong. This escapee, barfing, ramshackle concoction of stream of conscious piss taking soliloquy.
None needed no more.
Man has evolved. Into maniac. 

But that's it, isn't it.
There is freedom being expressed here. Freedom being enjoyed. Fun being had. Play.
Do I care about being acknowledged, rewarded for my efforts with my writing and my art? 
Or do I just want to have fun?
Both. 
But if there can only be one?
Fun! Fun! Fun!

Let's leave it at that.
It's 4am.
Almost bedtime.
For kids at heart. 
Almost dreamtime.
Mmmmm....! (Homer voice.)
Dreaming!
Let's have some of that.
Yes, please.
0 Comments

Wise Men Say

30/6/2015

2 Comments

 
Picture
I met a lovely girl on the first day of art school in Sydney, a long time ago. She had big eyes and easy, natural smile and shiny long dark hair. She wore it in two plats and was wearing a suede vest and skirt. She looked a lot like an American Indian squaw. I was captivated. 

Turned out she wasn't an Iroquai nor a an Apache chief's daughter after all. She was from the Island of Mauritius. A genetic blend of Chinese, French, Spanish and the other kind of Indian. My mission was to get to know her as intimately as possible. Having spent my teens in Tokyo nightclubs, the usual romantic cycle for me was meet, have drinks, sleep together, then say goodbye. I was not versed in regular world courtship. My seduction took longer than anticipated. It was further complicated by the fact that she had never been with anyone before. No rush. Things took their natural course. We were in the same classes everyday. She was very easy going and fun loving, popular with everyone. 

Eventually we slept together and quite frankly, the chemistry was not great. Some of it could have been due to her inexperience. Some of it could have been due to the fact - that I as later to discover - that she had been molested by family members in her youth. To what degree exactly, I never clearly ascertained, but obviously, any level of such a loathsome and heartless behaviour would cause trauma and leave scars. 

When she turned up in photography class after a few months of our being together with a packed suitcase, I was surprised. Was she going somewhere? 

"My Dad hit me..." She showed me a bruise on her thigh. It was fairly nasty. "...again." she said. I was speechless. My first encounter with inter family violence. "Can I come and stay with you?"

This was not in the plan. Not at all. In fact, because of our lack of natural sparks in bed, I was considering notching the relationship back to a friendship. But how could I say no. Tears glistened in her eyes. Those same big, innocent eyes I had initially fallen for. 

"OK, for a few weeks. But then you've got to find a place of your own."

Cut to six years later. We have been on again, off again, over and over. She has used those tears (unlimited supply) mixed with emotional pleas, threats, coercion seduction and blackmail to keep us together. Many times she put her life on the line and I had to decide, save her or let her possibly die. Of course, I never had a choice. She was a truly beautiful person, just damaged. 

Eventually, there was a new pressure. Marriage. 

Never, I thought. She can't make me. It's not what I want.

What's that phrase? Resistance is futile. I came to understand it first hand. Things were beyond my control. I had more power of will, discipline, clarity of thought. But she had the power of emotion and a woman's way.

We were living in a house in Bondi Junction at the time. I was working as a freelance illustrator. She was working in a girl's fashion wear shop in Centrepoint in the city. Life was not bad. We made the best of things. We cooked, watched videos, hung out with my brother - who was sharing house with us - and her family as well. We bought a puppy. 

But, deep down, I knew, I did not want to get married. 

Still, the pressure was there. Her parents and sisters joined in. Her elder sister and her husband (who is still a wonderful friend today) would come over and hang out and show how good married life was. How natural. I was told her father, a slightly scary man, was becoming impatient. 

One night the two of us were watching an old movie: The Birdman of Alcatraz. There was a scene. The old fella, a lifer, is telling Burt Lancaster something important. He whispers it to him in a gruff, hardened voice....

"Sometimes, son, the only way out - is in."

Bing. It hit me. I recall walking outside on my own. Sitting on the fence. Pacing. OMG. It was obvious. I knew what I had to do.

The following week I bought a ring and proposed. The wedding was wonderful, a coming together of two families and fantastic, loving friends. At the church, when she came around the corner in her father's arms and headed down the aisle, the look of happiness and joy, fulfilment, in her eyes - so true and so pure - made me spontaneously burst out in tears, standing there at the alter. If I could make someone this happy, even just for a short time, it was worth it.

We didn't have a honeymoon away, because we had plans to leave for Tokyo, to go and live there soon after. But we had a honeymoon night at the fancy Kings Cross hotel were the reception occurred. The party was wonderful, great speeches, dancing, a true celebration. People spoke of it for years to come. We all had a great time. 

But once we were alone, in that big suite, surrounded by presents and champagne, a deluxe fruit platter, the truth, to me at least, was undeniable. We were strongly connected, officially man and wife - but not two lovers. I'd had a few love connections before and I knew this wasn't one. There was love, but it wasn't based in passion, there was an absence of chemistry.

Still, I decided, I would give it a go. We moved to Japan. Found a tiny apartment in Shimo-Kitazawa. And when I say tiny, I mean tiny. It was one room. There was a modular shower and toilet, a cupboard, a tiny fridge and a benchtop single gas cooker. We slept on a futon and folded it up each morning to allow us space to put a tiny folding table and two folding chairs.

I didn't mind the idea of being married. Being a husband. Saying; this is my wife. It felt kind of fun. We both taught English at language schools in Shibuya and Shinjuku. I rode my Kawasaki around in my downtime - taking interviews with art directors at agencies and magazines, showing my portfolio of work. Eventually - just before going completely insane from having to tutor - I was getting enough work to do it full time.

After we had been there a little over a year, things were going relatively smoothly. It was a kind of adventure. Things were slowly coming together. She loved being in Tokyo. For me it was familiar. Comfortable. I had grown up there. 

A tradition started. Every Saturday night we would hang out at the fountain outside the train station entrance, with a gathering of local musos. There were plenty of guitars, cigarette smoking, and drinking spirits out of bottles purchased at the adjacent 7-11. We connected with the local misfits, rebels, free spirits. It was fun. People came and went over the months. A few key players became friends.

One guy in particular, a younger chap, charismatic but with a humility, a truck driver by day, loved to sing Elvis tunes. And he was good. Really good. He had swagger. We both liked him. He was a mix of traditional, honourable Japanese (from the countryside) and young Western rebel.

We would hang out at that fountain till sunrise with the carefree crooning group, often.

Eventually, I tired of it. I wanted to go home and read, or draw, watch a video on our tiny 18cm second hand TV. My wife did not want to join me. She wanted to stay on. To party. 

Sure, I said. See you later. I stayed up and greeted her return. We slept in Sunday together. The next few weeks it was the same.  Until, one Saturday, she did not come home. I woke in the early afternoon. Eventually, she turned up.

"A few of us went back to his apartment. I fell asleep there. Sorry."

You know when you know.

I tried to talk her out of staying all night every Saturday. I could not. The following week she was home at dawn. The week after she announced that she was going to stay at his house. I protested. She didn't care.

Yep. It was over.

I felt a mixture of relief, confusion, anger and resentment. Just like that, eh? 

We carried on as usual. A few months later we returned to Australia for holidays. I was lying on the beach, alone, down south, near Culburra. We were on summer holidays with her family. I had an epiphany. I held the warm, white sand in my hands. The sun was bright and strong. 

I am not going back to Tokyo. Forget all the stuff, I don't care. Forget the whole thing. I'm staying in Oz. This is where I belong. I am free.

I announced it to her and she was shocked. I was steadfast. I need to go back and get our stuff, she insisted. Sure, I said. She ended up sending it back and moving in with Japanese Elvis. After a few months she came back. I had divorce papers ready. She did not want to sign them. She tried to convince me. But it was over. She moved on to plan B.

She went back. They got married. I really was free. 

It had been eight years. From twenty to twenty eight. It was a huge learning curve. 

A whole new phase of my life began after that. New friends, new pursuits, new lifestyle, new outlook. My connection to the squaw was released. The new freedom was exquisite. I had paid my dues, come full circle. No regrets, no resentment, I strode forward onto greater new adventures.


2 Comments

Dreams of Flying

8/3/2015

0 Comments

 
Picture
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

0 Comments

until then then

28/12/2014

0 Comments

 
Picture
Ask yourself
What would you do if you could do anything?

Me? I would travel full time, visit and stay in wonderful places around the world.
I would make up my days as they came along... be lead into adventures and new discoveries by chance and fate.
I would escalate the surreal element of my reality - move it closer to a dream state.

I would like to find out who I would be if I was granted unlimited access to whatever I wanted.
I imagine I would go wild, then rein it back to simple.
I would like to experience that procedural journey.

And who am I?
Am I the man who is writing this now?
Are these my thoughts?
Do I have any real attachment to them? 
Or ownership?

Or am I just functioning as I must?
Taking one step at a time along the path that is in front of me.
Laid out from birth to death.

Do I care what I think? Am I interested?
Am I smarter that what I write?
Or are my words, as they flow from within me, coming from a higher intelligence to inform and enlighten me?

Do I think too much or not enough?
Is there any measure?
Of anything? Ever?
And what would it be in relation to?

So - no. The answer is - no. There is no measure.
Everything flows. Multiple streams. Infinite streams.
Never standing still. Never the same.

But I am writing these words now. I can see them.
And I hope that one day when I reread them I will have a deeper understanding of the bigger picture.
But do I really hope that?
No. I may never read these words again.
They are just time fillers. Perhaps.
Just static. A recording. Random.

What's the goal here? 
To keep moving, keep writing, until I hit something that resonates. Something that feels substantial, meaningful, essential. 
The artist's quest for truth. The thirst for essence.
From a man in a cave scraping on the wall to a man in front of a computer screen.
I am here, it says.
I am alive now. 
It feels like this.
It occurs like this.

I have eaten dinner, I have swum in the ocean. My need right now, my desire, my goal in this endeavour - the one in which I am investing my time in - is to find a feeling of satisfaction through shining a torch on the cave walls of my own awareness and trying to make sense of the scribbles and patterns.

The caveman in me doesn't care. He has ADHD.
He wants to do some killing. To fire up a carcass, eat some hot, greasy meat. To feel the thrill of dominating and terminating his prey. He wants to dive into the river from the branch of the tree. He wants to stare up at the moon, mouth agape, mind boggled. He wants to clumsily dance with his woman, thrash about in her warmth and tenderness, invest himself in her moisture. Laugh with her, escape with her. He wants carnal things.

That's him. Still there. But the me of now. The me of sometimes. Wants other things. Things out of reach. Things out of sight. Things that seem to spring from within. Higher callings. Spiritual lightness. He wants to break through the barriers of common living, he wants to be in the future. Now. He wants to find a way to transcend the limitations imposed upon him. 

He is me and he is you, too, most likely.

If we can imagine it...

It must eventually occur/appear. And the notions of higher self that we all share, the awareness of something so much greater, so much more...

Something is coming next. I think many of us can intuit that it's a spiritual awakening. A mass expansion of human consciousness. This tawdry everydayness that we plod through - well, it's well past it's due date. 

In the meantime, let's celebrate and appreciate what is good in ourselves and those around us and look forward to a playfully profound future.


0 Comments

freedom warrior

20/11/2014

0 Comments

 
Picture
When I don't write something here for more than a week, I feel a little guilty. Like - I'm out there having fun, living the artist's free life; full of inspirations and illuminations - and not bothering to take the time to record and share some of it with other sentient beings who are literate and hungry for obscure tidbits from a small town painter/poet.

Well, truth is life has to be lived. I don't want to pressure myself into feeling that everything needs be set down in cyber stone - and it doesn't. My rule of thumb is that when I am compelled to write something, I will. There's a form of natural selection. Other juicy stuff is recorded, in a way, in my daily artworks and comics.

Anyway, this morning when I woke up I was thinking about how linear the approach to life is by mainstream existers. They are programmed to pursue academic achievements, then work achievements which result in the reward of money. Money is then used to finance a lifestyle and pay for buying things and supporting self and family. It's all a big system that has evolved. The problem is that it is very restricted. Life is so much more that this myopic and blinkered view. Almost all the good bits, the juicy bits, have little or nothing to do with this system of pursuits/rewards.

I thought about my own goals, from an early age, teens - how it has been to achieve mind expansion. Expansion. Exploration of multiple paths into the unknown, sometimes unknowable, in order to absorb a fuller understanding and experience of existence as a human. Contemporary social constructs are meager and distracting. They serve their purpose, sure, like to keep the wheels of everyday reality turning but it serves one to venture further afield in contemplation and interaction in oder to be truly immersed in the human experience.

Mind expansion. The mind is where it all happens. The mind is your tool for consciousness. Your consciousness is the framework through which you experience your existence. It all feeds into and of itself.

There's a lot to be said for not being a mainstream society player. For being a fringe dweller. For being an outsider. There is an immense amount of pressure from society to conform and play the game - overt and subconscious. You are not fully encouraged to let loose and go wild on your own version of reality. You are nudged into becoming a cog. You are more useful to the powers that be as a predictable, steady and obedient part of the machine. 

But to what end? Who are you? Who are we all? What are we doing here? What lies beyond this very narrow set parameter that we exist within? If you don't ask these questions - they will never be answered. 

I am lucky. Although I have very little in the form of material goods, I am able to flitter and flutter to and fro at whim. I am not anchored down. I am a free spirit. A wild man. I live in and for imagination and all it's powers. I am a shaman. An alchemist. I am not limited to this time. To these flimsy artificial barriers all around. I seek to discover truth and insight. I seek answers to questions that have not yet been conceived. I want - for all of us - for all humanity - liberation. I want our souls to be free. And big, bigger. I want more love, more joy, more freedom to pervade. These are my goals. This is what I live for. Not for money. Not for approval. Not to own things.

I live in order to experience whatever fantasmagorical and tripped out ride comes along. To be able to hop on board, drop my hat, laugh with abandon, look to the sky and purr like a cat as I am flung into new directions, concepts, visions and experiences. 

Do I achieve all this on a daily basis. Hell, no. Life is fucking hard, man. All kinds of things try to get me, depress me, limit me - reality demons. But do I give up on my dream? No. Not ever. That is not an option. No matter what the circumstance that surrounds me, I am and will always remain a freedom warrior. I will fight and strive for truth and illumination till the end.

And there is no end.

(Wild laugh)
0 Comments

Shibuya

24/9/2014

0 Comments

 
Picture
I lived, till the age of ten, in the bush, in a house my Dad helped build, on the edge of a National Park, in Wahroonga, Sydney, at the time one of the most outer suburbs of Sydney.  I went to the public school called The Bush School. I played up trees, under waterfalls, up and down cliffs, down tracks, by rivers. Basically surrounded by and immersed in nature.

When I was ten, the family moved to Tokyo, Japan. It was the complete other end of the spectrum. A sprawling, seemingly limitless city, brimming with buildings, packed with people. Electric, dynamic, pulsating. Criss-crossed by a massive, super efficient train and subway system full of an industrious, busy, kind and benevolent culture that was, in some ways, the polar opposite to my own, I found myself in a new playground of a new paradigm.

I'd always liked exploring, with my brothers, out in the bush. We would go for long walks, adventures, just the three of us, or with our mates from down the street. We would peg rocks, catch lizards and tadpoles, climb gum trees, leap over gaps in rock formations. Tokyo offered a whole new kind of exploration. We would cover ground on foot, by bus, by subway, on our bikes and on our skateboards. Then, later, by motorbike.

In the early years, Shibuya, Tokyo's zesty and youthful hub for fashion and entertainment, was where we would go to watch movies, play in game centres, have a cheap meal and peruse shops with the latest toys and gadgets. From our home in Nishi-Azabu, we could be there in half an hour. It was our favoured destination. It had a friendliness to it, an interestingness, an inviting accessibility. 

There was a wide variety of cinemas to choose from flash and modern to el cheapo dingy. The Shibuya Bunka Kaikan alone, housed four. As well, it had a rooftop game centre, a great bookshop, a supermarket for movie snacks (chocolate covered wheat puffs, coffee milk, dried squid and big fat, puffy twistie like cheese slugs called Karl - were the favourites) and a poster shop. Movies in Japan are always screened in original language with subtitles - a godsend for visiting westerners as all TV was in Japanese language. My brothers and I for many years watched one or two movies on a Saturday, then another with the P's on a Sunday arvo. There is no rating system (G,PG,M,R) whatsoever, so we had unrestricted choice. Watching Taxi Driver at thirteen was an eye opener, almost mind expansive. The same for The Exorcist, the Godfather, Lolly Madonna War and The Wild Bunch.

We loved playing pinball and video games and would spend countless hours at Game Centres. It wasn't till half way through our time there that video games were even invented. I vividly recall my first game of Atari's ping pong - a vertical line on either side with a bouncing ball between them. Green screen, ball accelerating incrementally with each return hit. Then of course, there was Space Invaders, Mission Control and Pac Man. Car racing, shooting games, Galaga. Still, we had an ongoing respect for pinball mastery and would alternate between format offerings.

Japanese people are very thoughtful and especially kind to children. At no time were we ever in any danger or did we come across any difficulty. We were all fluent in the language and humble and respectful in return to the people of our host nation. We always made friends with the twenty-something part-time workers in the game centres, joking around, and would often be rewarded with free games and tokens. It was an idyllic existence for three young Aussie bush kids. From Wahroonga to Shibuya - we were transported from the grounded dirt and big sky free style playground to the electrified, connected, built up, efficient, magnificent wonderland of the East.


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

PHOTO: Shot by Naoki Leonard Fujita - a friend and maverick photographer and cameraman- who lives in Shibuya. See some of his amazing work here: https://leonardfujita.wix.com/imagemaker
0 Comments

skull guru

23/9/2014

1 Comment

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

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

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

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

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

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



1 Comment

bending the laws of physics

12/9/2014

0 Comments

 
Picture
I've always enjoyed reading autobiographies. These days even more so - in fact, almost exclusively. Recently I have read ones by the pilot of a Qantas Airbus flight over Singapore that had an engine explode, an Aussie ex-SAS who went into Lebanon to extract two daughters snatched by their father, got caught and landed in jail, and Portia de Rossi's true tale of her ascent to stardom and battles with bulimia, her sexuality and fame. I know I am going to enjoy a book when the voice of the narrator is steady and honest: a life story that shares trepidations and triumphs with personal detail and insight. (Three of my all time favourite autobios are At Home In the World by Joyce Maynard, Townie by Andre Dubus III and Burning the Days by James Salter - all exquisite.)

At the moment I am reading the memoirs of Biz Stone the guy who co-founded Twitter. It's a bright and interesting read. The thing that stands out about his is his attitude to life. He likes thinking outside the box and making up his own rules. When he was in high school, he realised after two weeks that with his after school Lacrosse practice, plus his part time job, couple with a minor learning disability that if he was to do his nightly homework with any level of diligence that he would only be getting three of four hours sleep. So he made a decision and the next day went in an announced to his teachers a no-homework policy. He explained why and they eventually accepted his reasoning and promises of trying extra hard within class to keep up. Reading this reminded me of my own special deals made during high school.

It was junior year. St. Mary's International School in Tokyo. Day one of physics class, first class of the morning. The teacher was Mr Tong. I was sitting up the back. He was rambling on up front. Within minutes, I zoned out. After a while, I thought: a year of this?? I leafed through the pages of the text book. It looked complex and dry and held no interest for me whatsoever. Tong was a nice enough guy, but he was hard to understand and it was evident that he wasn't going to be bringing this text to life. I made a decision. There was no way I could endure a year of this. And first class of the morning, too. No way.

I hatched a plan. I wrote a letter to the principal explaining that I would be much better off doing extra Japanese language and kanji study in the library during this period and that I would devise a format with the Japanese teacher. I can't recall my reasoning for not needing physics but strongly expressed that more Japanese would be much more beneficial and rewarding for me. He read it, with some skepticism (I was a known scallywag), but eventually agreed that if I made a curriculum of study and got it signed off and checked weekly by the Japanese teacher that I could proceed. I took it to her and presented it with zest and optimism. She signed it and Brother Charles gave me the OK. So, part one was accomplished. 

I think I did the first week and got a form signed. Maybe even two. It soon became apparent, though, that I could let it slide. I stopped doing any work and took to just reading magazines in the library. It seemed that both the J teach and Bro had forgotten about it. Eventually, I realised that I could actually come in school a little later, since it was first period. So I started coming in ten, twenty minutes later and going straight to the library. Then I began the ritual of having a cigarette in the toilet by the window. Then my Aussie mate, Gordon, once he found out, would regularly ask for a toilet break from Mr Tong and come in a join me for a few puffs.
It was a successful transition from being stuck in a boring, useless class to having a full period every morning all to myself to relax. It was a triumph.

It nearly all fell to pieces, though, when I asked Gordon if I could borrow the keys to his motorcycle one morning. I had my Japanese bike license by then but was yet to afford a bike of my own. Gordie had helped me learn and was a generous spirit and chucked me the keys. "Get some practice", he said, "just try and be back in time for our smoko time." I was elated. I snuck out of school and into the bike parking area, put on the helmet and started it up. I didn't go too far afield. I did this a few times with great joy, a sense of freedom and success. Much better than being stuck in some dumb class. I had cracked the paradigm. Broken free. In an effort to share my elation with fellow students I drove along a side alley, past the window of the class I knew Gordon was in, three or fours stories up. I tooted the horn. He recognised it and rushed to the window. I went round the block and did it again. He waved. The next round, I beeped more and there were few students. The next one, there was half the class, all waving and cheering. Then, kids from other classes were also rushing to the windows, going ballistic. It was a celebration! One of us was free, had escaped. I was a symbol of liberty and freedom.

Obviously, I hadn't quite thought it through, because when I went past the front of the school on the next round, I was waved down by a very angry teacher. I made up a story about how I was late for school and just beeped once. I apologised for the disruption and promised to head immediately to class (or not-class in my case). I went to the library and sweated it out, hoping the principal would not hear of it and take away my privileges. Luckily, he didn't. All was cool. I kept my first period freedom for the entire year. Initiative was rewarded. Rules are there to be bent and broken. Make your own freedom. Lesson learnt!
0 Comments

in box

30/8/2014

0 Comments

 
Picture
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.




0 Comments
<<Previous

    RSS Feed

    ART GETS ME HIGH

    Picture

    Author & Artist

    Lewie JPD 
    Blog Mission Statement: 

    "I am taking this opportunity to openly and freely express my simple truth in a relaxed, stream of consciousness manner, without self judgment or editing while transcribing and celebrating the process and practice of being an artist.

    My goal is that I will have some fun recording sentiments and thoughts as they come to me, coupled with my recent imagery. As well; to learn something of value and share something that may inspire/offer insight to other artists, creatives and sentient beings."


    Disclaimer: He's high!
    Er, obviously.

    Pass the paint brush!
    *no drugs required

    Instagram

    Archives

    September 2019
    July 2019
    June 2019
    May 2019
    April 2019
    January 2019
    December 2018
    November 2018
    October 2018
    September 2018
    August 2018
    July 2018
    June 2018
    May 2018
    April 2018
    March 2018
    February 2018
    January 2018
    December 2017
    November 2017
    October 2017
    September 2017
    August 2017
    July 2017
    June 2017
    May 2017
    April 2017
    March 2017
    February 2017
    January 2017
    December 2016
    November 2016
    October 2016
    September 2016
    August 2016
    July 2016
    June 2016
    May 2016
    April 2016
    March 2016
    February 2016
    January 2016
    December 2015
    November 2015
    October 2015
    September 2015
    August 2015
    July 2015
    June 2015
    May 2015
    April 2015
    March 2015
    February 2015
    January 2015
    December 2014
    November 2014
    October 2014
    September 2014
    August 2014
    July 2014
    June 2014
    May 2014
    April 2014
    March 2014
    February 2014
    January 2014
    December 2013
    November 2013
    October 2013
    September 2013
    August 2013
    July 2013
    June 2013
    May 2013
    April 2013
    March 2013
    February 2013

    Categories

    All
    000 Images
    12
    1961
    60's
    70's
    Abbey Road
    Abstract
    Acceptance
    Adaptation
    Addiction
    Adventure
    Advice
    Age
    Air Con
    Airport
    Album Cover
    Aliens
    Alone
    Amazing
    Ambition
    Amy Schumer
    Animation
    Anorexia Nervosa
    Anxiety
    Anyone
    Applause
    Arai Ken
    Archery
    Art
    Artist
    Artists
    Art School
    Assistant
    Attitude
    Audience
    Auditions
    Aussie
    Autobiographies
    Automatic Writing
    Awareness
    Babysitters
    Balance
    Bars
    Bay City Rollers
    Beach
    Beauty
    Bed
    Being Human
    Believe
    Belongil
    Betrayal
    Beyond
    Bigger Picture
    Billy Joel
    Bingo Pinball
    Birdman Of Alcatraz
    Birthday
    Black & White
    Blah
    Bliss
    Blog
    Bluebird
    Bluster
    Bondi
    Boogie Wonderland
    Books
    Book Shops
    Bosozoku
    Bruce Springsteen
    Buddhism
    Bullshit
    Bullying
    Bush School
    Byron Bay
    Cafe
    Cafes
    Canvas
    Caravan
    Castaneda
    Cat Stevens
    Caveman
    CD
    Celebrity
    Chainsaw
    Challenge
    Challenges
    Chance
    Change
    Chanting
    Chaos
    Cheese
    Chemistry
    Childhood
    Chill Out
    Chirp
    Chocolate
    Choices
    Coffee
    Coincidence
    Collage
    Collecting
    Comedy
    Comfort
    Comics
    Commercial
    Communication
    Compassion
    Computer Games
    Concepts
    Conflict
    Connection
    Conrad Mecheski
    Consciousness
    Contemplation
    Cosmic
    Counselling
    Country Life
    Cows
    Crazy Guy
    Creation
    Creativity
    Cronuts
    Cupboard
    Curiousity
    Daily
    Dali
    Dance
    Dancing
    Danger
    Dark
    Darkroom
    Dating Site
    Dave Eggers
    Day
    Death
    Denise Linn
    Depression
    Depth
    Despair
    Destiny
    Devotion
    Diet
    Disco
    Discovery
    Divine
    Divorce
    Dogs
    Drama
    Drawings
    Dreaming
    Dreams
    Drinking
    Driving
    Ducks
    Echoes
    Effort
    Ego
    Elvis
    Emotion
    Encouragement
    Enlightenment
    Epiphany
    Escape
    Esoteric
    Evolution
    Exhibition
    Existence
    Experiences
    Expression
    Facebook
    Faces
    Failure
    Faith
    Family
    Fantasy
    Fat
    Fate
    Father
    Fear
    Feelings
    Film
    Fish
    Flow
    Focus
    Foraging
    Freedom
    Freelance
    Free Spirit
    Free Time
    Friends
    Fulfilment
    Fun
    Funny
    Future
    Gaia
    Galleries
    Gallery
    Game Centres
    Garage
    Garageband
    Garfunkel
    Geisha
    Ghandi
    Gilligan's Island
    Girlfriends
    Girls
    Giving
    Globesity Festival
    Glorious
    Gnocchi
    Goals
    Gods Of Play
    Google
    Grandfather
    Gratitude
    Greatness
    Groupies
    Growth
    Guru
    Gypsy
    Haiku
    Hallucinations
    Hand Colouring
    Happiness
    Hashish
    Headspace
    Highschool
    Hip Hop
    Hippies
    Hipster
    Hiroo
    Hokusai
    Homage
    Honesty
    Hope
    Hotel
    Hoyts
    Humanity
    Humility
    Humour
    Hysteria
    I Am
    Ideas
    Identity
    Idle
    Illusion
    Illustration
    Illustrators
    Images
    Imagination
    Improvisation
    Inner Voice
    Input
    Insight
    Insignificance
    Inspiration
    Internet
    Interview
    Introspection
    Intuition
    IPad
    Irony
    Isaac Asimov
    Island
    James Joyce
    James Salter
    Japan
    Japanese Girls
    Jarrah
    Jazz
    Joan Didion
    John Lyndon
    Joking
    Journal
    Journey
    Judgement
    Jump
    Junk Food
    Kids
    Kings Cross
    Koalas
    Kombi
    Kookaburra
    LA
    Larry David
    Laugh
    Laughter
    Launch
    Lazy
    Learning
    Leisure
    Lessons
    Letter
    Lfie
    Liberation
    Library
    Life
    Limitations
    List
    Listening
    Looking
    Love
    Lovers
    Lsd
    Lucky
    Lust
    Lyrics
    Magazine House
    Magda Szubanski
    Magic
    Maine
    Marriage
    Marshmallow
    Martini
    Master
    Me
    Meaning
    Meat
    Meditation
    Melancholy
    Mellow
    Memoirs
    Memories
    Mental Health
    Mentors
    Metaphysical
    Michael Miner
    Michael W. Clunes
    Middle Bar
    Mind
    Money
    Monkey
    Monks
    Monsters
    Mortality
    Motorbikes
    Movies
    Mud
    Mullumbimby
    Music
    Music Video
    My Room
    Mystery
    Naive
    National Art School
    National Lampoon
    Nature
    New York
    New Zealand
    Nobody
    Nothing
    Now
    NYC
    Obsession
    Ocean
    Olympics
    Once Upon A Deadline
    One Day
    Opportunity
    Osho
    Out-of-body
    Outsider
    Painting
    Paperbacks
    Parents
    Paris
    Parking Lot
    Passion
    Past
    Patches
    Paul Simon
    Pavlova
    Peace
    Pee
    People
    Perception
    Philosophy
    Phooey!
    Photography
    Physics
    Pieces
    Pigs
    Pizza
    Place
    Play
    Playboy
    Poem
    Poems
    Poetry
    Poker
    Pop Art
    Popeye Magazine
    Portfolio
    Portraits
    Positive
    Possibility
    Potential
    Poverty
    Povo
    Practice
    Preacher
    Precious
    Pretty
    Pretty Good
    Process
    Processing
    Procrastination
    Production
    Profound
    Psyche
    Psychology
    PTSD
    Publish
    Pud
    Pure
    Purpose
    Pussy
    Puzzle
    Questions
    Quotes
    Radio Show
    Raffle-tickets
    Ramble
    Raymond Carver
    Reading
    Realisation
    Reality
    Rebirth
    Reflection
    Relationships
    Resolution
    Respect
    Retreat
    Revelation
    Reward
    Rhythm
    Richard Walters
    Rite Of Passage
    Roller Skating
    Romance
    Ronda Rousey
    Roppongi
    Running
    Sadness
    SAE
    Sake
    Salad
    Salvation
    Samsung Note
    Sanctuary
    Saturday Night Fever
    Scar
    School
    Screenplay
    Screenwriting
    Scripts
    Search
    Searching
    Security
    Seduction
    Self
    Selfie
    Self Respect
    Seminar
    Senses
    Sentience
    Serendipity
    Serenity
    Sex
    Shaman
    Sharing
    Shibuya
    Shift
    Shinjuku
    Short Stories
    Sick
    Sid
    Simplicity
    Simulation
    Singing
    Sit
    Sitting
    Skulls
    Sky
    Slap
    Sleep
    Slobbering
    Snacks
    Snowman
    Society
    Sociey
    Socks
    Solo
    Something
    Somewhere
    Song
    Soul
    Soundcloud
    Space Invaders
    Speeches
    Speed
    SPen
    Spidey Sense
    Spirit
    Spiritual Bricks
    Spirituality
    Spooky
    Sports Jacket
    Stages
    Stalin
    Steiner
    Steve Smith
    St Mary's
    Story
    Stress
    Struggle
    Studio
    Success
    Suffering
    Surrealsim
    Surrender
    Survival
    Swallow
    Swamp
    Swim
    Tears
    Technique
    Technology
    Teen Years
    The Factory
    The International
    The Joy Of Sex
    The Magician's Way
    Theo
    Therapy
    The Voice
    The Void
    Thinking
    Thoughts
    Time
    Tingly Feeling
    Together
    Toilet
    Tokyo
    Tom Robbins
    Too-much-ness
    Toys
    Transcendence
    Travel
    Tricks
    Tripping
    Trouble
    Truman Capote
    Trust
    Truth
    Trutth
    Turtle
    TV
    TV CM
    Twins
    Typing
    UCLA
    UFC
    Uncomfortable
    Uni
    Unique
    Universe
    University
    Upswing
    Usher
    Valour
    Value
    Vegetarian
    Vego
    Vessels
    Viewer
    Vikings
    Virginity
    Vogue
    Vulnerability
    Waitresses
    Walk
    Walrus
    Warrior
    Wealth
    Weird
    Whim
    Whisper
    Will.i.am
    Wings
    Winning
    Wisdom
    Woman
    Women
    Wonder
    Wonderful
    Wonder-world
    Woodblock Prints
    Woody Allen
    Words
    World
    Writer
    Writers
    Writing
    Yakuza
    Yeats
    Yeti
    Yoga
    You
    Youth
    Zany
    Zen
    Zines

    RSS Feed