I come here to learn about myself.

Like many of the things I do in life - there is no preconception. I just begin along a new path and follow it to where it leads. 

I was thinking about this just today. About how, by standard conventional standards (SCSes), I have fallen somewhat behind on the scale.

Do I have a home to call my own?
Do I have a spouse?
Is there someone I can call when I am down?
Do I have children? Grandchildren?
Do I have a career?
Have I achieved anything major, notable?
Do I have a stable work position?
Do I receive a steady salary, have financial security?

No, no, no, no and no. All no.

Does any of this worry me?

Not much. Occasionally, it does. But never for too long. And less and less. 

I realise I have lasted this long playing in the wild scrub, beyond the manicured playing field. Out of the limelight, never lined up in a queue, rarely filling in forms or signing documents, hardly ever getting mail or ever phone calls.

It's obvious that this is how I prefer it. 
I prefer to be somewhat removed.
I follow and flow with rhythms of my own conjuring.
I like silence. 
I like sleeping, dreaming.
I like letting time flow at it's own pace.
I like not having to do anything - instead being able to read, walk on the beach, or sit in a cafe writing lyrics or a new poem.

Sounds like I could be anti-social. But I'm not. When I am around people I really enjoy their company and their personalities. I have plenty of friends: good hearted, excellent beings I am proud to know and associate with. It's just I don't actively seek forced or extended social interplay like work environments, dinner parties, events. Give me some one on one time at a cafe with a friend, old or new, or an evening at a poker tournament with a wild mix of mild and extreme individuals, where you can join the irreverent banter or retreat into your personal space at any time. In fact, yeah, at the poker table I am very comfortable. You're not judged for anything other that your playing skills. It's one of the most accepting and interesting social interplays I know. You just be you and play your game.

I almost deleted this post because I felt I was talking about myself too much. And I don't like that. I'm not like that as a person. Got no tickets on myself. I would much rather hear someone else's stories than harp on about my own. I've always figured - I already know my shit - why use up precious time with another being bending their ear. Listen, boy! Learn! Empathise! Understand!

I've been called a good listener by many. And I respect and honour personal details that may be shared. I know how while we are, in many ways, a most robust species, we are also highly sensitive and vulnerable. If someone shares something with me in confidence, it never leaves the vault. 

So what makes me compelled, here, in this forum to froth off at the mouth like I am. Why am I opening up? And to who? What's the motivation, intention?

I'll tell you. 

I've reached a stage in my life where I fully realise the impermanence of existence. The mortality of the individual being. As well, the paradoxical nature of one's personality, one's life choices, one's destiny. It was always going to be what it is. But how did it happen? What were the stages along the way? The signs? The thought processes? The motivations? 

When someone shares their truth with others, it illuminates.

It resonates, provides options, invites consideration. 

I share my stuff here because, I get a lot out of reading the truth of others - in autobiographies, mostly. But, of course, also in personal stories told across a table, in a tent, on a haystack, or flying in a bucket seat in a sliver cigar.

One of the true beauties of ageing is the shedding of layers. The lack of need to impress. The seeing through the veils of presented images to the core nature. We are fucking amazing beings. There's no time to waste with ego-based surface garage. Once you reach a certain age it becomes all too apparent. And it's a relief. Life, where it was once all about  you, is no longer. It's about everyone. The bigger picture. You start to feel the joy of just being connected. Just being alive. Some habits, predilections, tendencies still shout or murmur in your ear, as the case may be, but you are not as compelled to acquiesce so easily. You have done it. You have done it - over and over. You've been trampling around, bumping into things and making messes for DECADES now. Some lessons have finally gotten through. We DO evolve. We do become wiser. Not much, but some. And wisdom is worth sharing. Can't hurt. At the very least it may amuse. And that's OK, too. 

Even the hint of smile on the face of just one person, one reader, makes writing this free style riffing rant worthwhile. I'm not doing it for me. I'm doing it for you.

OK, maybe a bit for me, too. But just cause I have to - no, just cause I don't have to. We can do what we want. It's not that serious.

'Don't be ashamed because you are a human being, be proud! Inside you is an endless series of strong rooms, one after another. You never come to an end, and that is how it should be.'
                                                     Thomas Transtomer, Roman Arches

​
So, I was in the waiting room of my psychologist, standing, staring out the window, as I do, feeling calm and looking forward to our sessions, when a guy I know from poker appears. We greet each other with a g'day, a few words and a smile before my counsellor calls me in to her chamber. "How did it feel to see someone you know?" she asked. "Fine," I replied. "It's like seeing someone at a juice bar. We're both here for something healthy..."

No stigma in my opinion. Interestingly enough, me and that fellow have always been open with each other and discussed relationships, past troubles, etc countless times. Two life veterans who have been through the wars getting some help - well, it just seems sensible.

I was taken to my first psychiatrist when I was just nine years old. I stubbornly refused to wear jumpers. Even in winter. I just didn't like them. This worried my caring parents, so they sought professional opinion. Makes sense. They were young, still in their 20's. The experience for me was amusing, interesting. I was on the look out for questions regarding my jumpers, but none came. There was a sandpit in the office. A good sign, I thought. The doc was relaxed, I was relaxed. It was enjoyable. I don't recall a single question. 

After that, I chose to see various professionals from about my mid twenties onwards. On and off. On my own and sometimes with my live-in girlfriends - usually at the tail end of our relationships. Worth the effort, still. 

I've always enjoyed talking openly and confidentially to a professional about what's on my mind. Unloading, sharing, exploring, testing the boundaries... There's a limit to what you can do by yourself. I've seen a few duds - one's who weren't up to scratch - but knew pretty quickly they weren't right for me and moved on. I have a clear preference for female counsellors. I just feel more comfortable. And I appreciate a woman's perspective, insight (in general and during counselling).

Mental well being is an important thing. No matter how lucid, well adjusted or strong we believe ourselves to be we can all use some feedback, guidance sometimes. It's imperative. It helps. At the very least, a good hour session will clear your headspace for some new stuff. At best, it can be clarifying, insightful and uplifting. 

It's common to get into a mind loop, stuck in a (unproductive) groove, find yourself losing the battle with an unhealthy habit, stagnating in a going-nowhere relationship. Times like these especially, it's imperative to reach out for professional guidance.

I've always found that they don't say too much, really, they just let you talk and find your own way to a realisation, a clarification and a solution. After all, we humans aren't that different from each other, essentially, and follow similar patterns. If there is a way into the corner, there's a way out. 

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

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

I believe him.

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

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

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

I'm ready.

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!

Second year of National Art School. I befriended a guy from the same year, other group - I was B, he was D - called Tony. He was a happy go lucky kinda fella, very intelligent, was into wild philosophising and speculating. Smoked rollies (ciggies and joints), liked a drink or six, and - I found out later - was partial to pills and speed.

At the time I was really into reading Carlos Castaneda books about expanding consciousness, lucid dreaming, shamans, peyote, etc. I loved those books so much. I remember a few times reading one of them in bed and letting out audible yelps of excitement. Oh, the possibilities of mind expansion...!

Tony and I had always been cordial to each other during first year but never hung out. Then over a few days early in year two, we started to enjoy each others banter during a shared drawing class. He was a tall, read headed with a great sense of humour, but a quick temper. He'd had a few girlfriends - beautiful looking - dark, brooding types. He was popular but edgy.

One night, after some drinking, he couldn't drive or get home, so I offered for him to stay the night at my place. He was already pretty pissed when we got there but we enjoyed hanging out some more. He polished off a half bottle of whiskey on his own. Around one or two, he pretty much passed out. My girlfriend and I helped him into a make shift bed in the lounge room and closed the door and went to bed ourselves. Before sleeping I read some more Castaneda.

I dreamt of a large serpent. Dark and ominous dreams - which are unusual for me. I usually dream of fun, engaging adventures. (Many times, still, this morning included - I wake up and think after a dream - wow, if only life were that good...)

I woke up suddenly to a large crashing and banging. It was still dark. My dream had put me in a spaced-out mode. My girlfriend also woke up. It was really loud and continuous. We turned on the light and opened the door to the lounge room. Standing in the middle of the room was Tony, eyes wide, confused, disoriented. He had a gash on his forehead and his face was bloody. His T shirt was ripped.

He had woken up in the pitch black and not known where he was. In an effort to try and find his way out of the room, he had overturned the dining table, all the chairs, pulled down the bookshelf and smashed almost everything. It was quite an unforgettable moment. Surprise, disbelief, confusion... He looked at us. We looked at him. Our still sleepy minds pieced together what had happened.

"I had to pee..." he said, like a lost little boy. A moment silence. We surveyed the room. It was like a bomb had hit. Our eyes all met again. We all burst out laughing. We laughed and laughed and laughed.

We cleaned the place up somewhat and put a still groggy, patched up Tony back to bed. This time we left the door open. The next morning we all drove to art school. Tony walked home from there, choosing not to attend that day.

Weird thing was; he never came back. I never saw him again. One of his ex girlfriends told me that his pill taking and drinking were pretty bad and that he was prone to blackouts. A few months later, someone else said they saw him passed out in the gutter. Sad, sad, sad. 

He had a lovely nature and was a talented artist. His inner demons were too much to deal with. Don't know how he's ended up but what was good about his spirit, his roguish smirk and staccato laugh, his red curly mop and freckles retain a place of merit and respect on the mantlepiece of lost friends in my memory chamber.

I always wanted to work in the movies.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. I have to answer. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes!"

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

"About working as an usher."

She checked her big red diary. Slight frown.

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

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

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

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

I was working in movies!  

The first girl to ever grab my package was from Korea. Her name was Angie. It was at a school dance, being held at the girl's school. We were in a hallway outside the dance and as we kissed, she just reached down and cupped a handful. It was one of the most mind blowing things that had ever happened to me up until that point. I was fourteen years old. 

I wasn't a virgin. I had already slept with a beautiful Japanese surfer girl called Yayoi whom I had met at Mobius Disco in Roppongi.  I was a full year younger than my friends, Gordon and David, (whose father's worked as diplomats) and they pressured me to have sex with this girl. I really didn't have any idea what to do. When Yayoi and I were about to get started, alone in my friend David's spare bedroom at the Australian embassy with the lights off and our clothing removed, the buildup to this moment had been so great, that I suddenly realised that I had no idea what to do. Yayoi was also a virgin, so neither did she. I climbed on top of her and our bodies took over. I clearly remember being amazed at how proficient my animal instincts were and how they kicked into gear with an enthusiasm of their own, despite my youthful doubts and inexperience.

The next day, after I put Yayoi in a taxi, my mates took me to a fast food restaurant for a celebration and debrief. I do remember feeling different. I had done something that you only do once. I had lost my virginity. I was glad it was with such a beautiful girl. Even those guys were amazed at how I had pulled such a stunning chick. Truth is, she found me. She liked me. And she made it all very easy. There wasn't love, but there was fondness and respect. I saw her a few times after that, but she lived out of Tokyo (she even had her own car - which was a big deal at the time) and despite a sweet connection we drifted apart. 

That's how I ended up with Angie. We used to hang out at the same cafe with the others. Ange wrote poetry and so did I. She had already attempted suicide by the age of 15. She had a dark, powerful allure. Most guys were afraid of her. Again, she was someone who chose me. I just let it happen. 

That grab, at the dance, in the dark hallway. Phew. It was phenomenal. Until it actually happened, I could never have imagined it possible. Then a few months later, after school one afternoon, in the deserted upstairs area of a small local drinking spot, she did something even more attention getting. Something, I experienced for the first time. She really was a tiger. I was shocked, breathless. Half afraid that someone would walk up the stairs, half beyond caring, in a mesmerising mix of disbelief and pure euphoria.

Yayoi from Japan and Angie from Korea. School was somewhere I went because I had to. My real teenage education was from these two females. They were both there, at seperate times, for my graduation - from innocence to experience.

He's come alive through facebook. It's his form of creative expression. He posts pictures of wonderful sunsets and beaches, advice on health and well being, funny slogans and ironic comics. All stuff sourced from other facebook pages. 

Most of it is pretty good. I don't know him that well but have come to know him better by his posts. They don't directly connect with me but generally they are of reasonably good quality. I can feel his joy in posting them. So I keep him on my feed. Why not. I care about the environment, eating healthy, and enjoy the positive slogan, too.

He used to have an ordinary job, then he got an inheritance and now he travels the world, in a modest fashion. (ie not fancy or wasteful, less Vegas more Nepal.) His girlfriend used to be a lesbian before they started going out and before that, when I first knew her, she was going out with a talented and somewhat mystical/deranged saxophonist dude. I saw him down at Bondi a few years ago, after a decade of not seeing him and he was even weirder than before. Still wearing lots of medallions and big rings and still with unusually configured facial hair. I went to see him gig once in a boutique hotel in Double Bay.

Come to think of it, lots of people I used to know are now just characters in a narrative in the recesses of my mind.

As well, many of my life's most formative and memorable experiences are now also just stories. Many, many of them, never told. Not yet, anyway.

My favourite post from the original guy I was talking about is a quote from OSHO. It's this:

'You are nobody. You are born as a nobodiness with no name, no form. You will die as a nobody. Name and form are just on the surface; deep down you are just vast space. And it is beautiful.'

Lighten up!

There is an abundance of things to be stressed about, enraged about, feel hard done by.... and I'm not just talking about our current government.

Sometimes it seems like the whole world is on the brink of collapse. And maybe it is.

I think its great to join together with others and join protests, take action against injustice, offer support, etc. But, as well, on a personal level, you want to avoid getting over burdened by fretting about events that you can not change and that are beyond the scope of your sphere of influence. There is just too much bad stuff going on at the moment that to take it all on mentally is just going to bring you down.

So, what to do? 

Seek the silly.
Favour the fun.
Follow the path to the pun.
Grow your own mirth.
Group giggles.
Funny accents whenever possible.
Jigs, slapstick, loud farts.

There's a lot you can do. The list goes on. I am not advocating ignoring reality, I am suggesting that you augment it with a fair share of lighthearted enjoyment. As often as you possibly can.

For in the end, whether the world eventually balances out and becomes the utopia it could be, the natural, just and egalitarian kingdom we all want it to be, or whether it all explodes in a flaming ball of human greed and foolishness, you may as well have a snicker or two along the way. Like a school day. It's mostly a bunch of useless bullshit being heaped upon you; play truant sometimes, have fun with your friends, cause some disruption. Cause just like when you make it through school and realise that it was all just a construct of control and oppression... well, so is modern day life in our society. So give it the finger, ignore the bla bla bla, zone out, dream your own dreams, slip out the back door and go find some sunshine and freedom to bask in.

Like Ghandi once said, "Fucking hell! What's the point in endless suffering?!" 

And soon after, decided to never wear a business suit instead and wrapped himself in his bed sheet. Good man.

One of the joys of keeping an artist's journal like this is that there are no plans or pressures. I just start writing, whenever, whatever and let the flow take me where it will. It is oft times as revealing to me as it would be to anyone else. Of course, I have a more intimate knowledge of myself than anyone else, and yet, due to the complex nature of consciousness, psyche and psychology, revelations can and do still appear out of nowhere.

By now, although an amount of ego still remains (mostly dormant, reading a book in the shade), I act predominantly from other areas of self. These writings for example, although about self are not recorded in an attempt to elevate my self opinion or baste my ego. They are done as means of introspection and revelation. I use my self as a case study of sorts in an attempt to dissect and understand the nature of being human. I happen to be this person, so I observe him and make reports. I am glad to be him, er, me, because, if nothing else, as a specimen, I am unique and can be amusing at times. I mean; he is.

The other morning when I awoke, I got up and went online. I noticed how quiet it is, to sit at your computer and sample the internet. I realised that this is one of the things that I like about using my computer. It is quiet. Almost silent. Peaceful. 

A list of some other things in life I really appreciate:

solitude
serenity
as few demands or expectations as possible
freedom
self devised schedule
few time constraints
staying up late
sleeping in
commune with nature
library visit
reading time
thinking time
creative time

I have directed/constructed my days so that there is an ample amount of these things in each day.

My phone rings maybe once a week. This suits me fine. Even less would be better. I used my phone - a large screen Samsung Note 1, with a stylus to create artworks in a program called SMemo. An average of three hours per day which yields four or five new works. I create these works mostly in a cafe or at the library. Sometimes sitting in my car.

My car is from the 90's. It's small, rusty, rattly and lots of things don't work. But it gets me there. A nice car is something I would really like and I do spend a fair amount of time imagining the joy and luxury of owning a Range Rover Evoque, a Lexus or a new model Merc. These are fantasies akin to those that a hungry man on a desert island would have of unlimited access to a bountiful and succulent buffet. They get me through the rocky ride home. And still, I am grateful to have a vehicle that takes me to destinations of my choice.

I live from week to week. My income is at the poverty level. I have enough to rent the smallest room in a share house of four, buy fruit and veges for the week and put petrol in my car most of the time. A few times a week I will have a meal out, the average budget is $11. My favourites are the Sunday curry, which I eat sitting in my car by the river at sunset, the bean nachos from the tiny, rowdy small town pub which I eat while reading my book, surrounded by unruly, loud and friendly old school ockers and the mid week small pesto and pumpkin pizza at the RSL club, which I supplement with a generous amount of apple sauce from the condiments table. These simple treats give great satisfaction.

Although I would, of course, like to have more money to do things like travel, buy big canvases and lots of paints and update my technology (and the car), I am not willing to trade in all my freedom and time for it. I have lived for decades now with very little and have come to appreciate the glorious things that are free. Like the beach, friendships and family, exercise, creating, writing and reading. A characteristic of my personality is that I require a pervading low pressure zone.

In some ways I am a social outsider, living on the fringes, but truth is, it's better here. Society, mainstream society at least, although filled with mostly good hearted and well intentioned people, has some priorities, expectations and demands that are excessive, misdirected, unjust and antiquated. I don't feel like I fit in, so I stay out. Luckily, I am an artist, so I can do this. Compared to a more conventional modern existence, it may appear lacking, but it isn't. Like many fine characters I know, I can't do normal. And, hey, that's OK.

Sometimes I wake
And without even thinking
I will begin to write
A poem

About what I know not
At the beginning
It is something that 
Line by line
Gets disclosed

Or revealed should I say
Unearthed, exposed
Shown the light of day
For the light is where 
We are heading 
The light, the light
We return to

Simple and bright
Everything
And everywhere
The light is what we are thinking
The light is what we are dreaming
Of in the darkest night
On the darkest days
And yet it is here already
All around
You can see it
Can you see it?
The light will guide us home
The light of the morning's song

Sometimes I stay awake at night
And thinking deeply
I will write 
A letter

A letter to my friends
Known and unknown
A letter to humanity
In regards to our shared existence

In the letter 
I will ask questions 
And share views
Like 
Have you ever felt that?
and 
What are we here for really?

And no one will write back
They don't need to 
Because I am part of every one
We all suffer and stumble together
We all lie in bed and toss and turn
Like pages in a book long ago written
Read and reread
Memorised even
And then forgotten 
But not discarded

We flutter like pages in the wind
We are indecipherable
To the birds
Our follies
Our outrageous enactments
Absurd
Although they seem so...
So...
Important to us
At the time

But the sky isn't interested
The sea is impartial
The air keeps on giving
The land and trees that surround us
Protect us, regardless
Despite our pompous and vapid notions
Of what we should be doing
Our time wasting egos
Misguided

Our fighting
Our shouting
Our causes
Our fervour 

All nothing, not really
Just time passing, slowly
Just noise, blood and folly

There always has to be something
But say, how about tomorrow
We try something different
And be loving 
And left softness and kindness prevail?

Just a thought
Just a notion
We've all heard it before

But listen...
Hear the difference
When you go beyond the roar
Of needs, demands, expectations?

There's a whisper in the silence
That so gracefully implores us
To listen 
To the solemn truth within us
To witness the light that is guiding
To feel the soul that is filling

Up 
With 
Love
Abundant

Share it, declare it, swim in it and dare it
To take you
To guide you in your journey

Take heart, oh weary
You battered, tattered
Roughed up
Saints

We'll all be leaving together
Hitch a ride now
While you can

The light, the light
Ssshhh.....

Surrender

How I long to be
Back in the mud

Splashing around without a care in the world
Because I know not of worry 
Or think much of consequence
I live in the moment 
It's all that I know for sure
And even that: so tentative and fleeting

A fast ride to nowhere
A quick taste of everything
A splash and a grab

Getting dirty
Squealing
Running fast as you can
Falling over
Jumping, leaping
Dreaming of flying, longing to fly, to fly

Breathing quickly
Searching for the next high
Immersed in nature
Surrounded by fire

The passionate and the quick
The look of longing
Feed me more life
Let me taste the new day's adventure

I wanna, I wanna
Not knowing if it's a dream
Or what it could possibly all mean
And not really caring
Ha ha

The last laugh never comes
The giggling fits
The squeals of laughter
Jumping for joy
Over a funny animal
A festive occasion on it's way
A new friend, a new toy

Not stopping till you sleep
And sleep itself, instant, glorious, nourishing
Dreams sometimes
But makes no difference
If the sun is out
You are up and running

To the river, to the beach
To your friend's house
Everything is living
And fascination is constant
Immersion, involvement
Just to be, just to be

No schedules, no expectations

Show me the mud!
And I will play
in it

Again forever

Remember?

We used to go poetry readings in the Cross, late 80's
Listen to Steve read his lucid stories in his accent
Frank would ramble, highly intelligent obviously, but still a rambler
We were captivated by the passion, the character, the honesty
We were enthralled by the words

The words selected
For their mystique and power
The words connected
Hubbed together like a daisy chain, droplets in a shower

The words intersected
Colliding with force
Voices rode hoarse
Arms swirling
Verbal symphonies
A concert of concepts spinning and twirling

Peter was one like that
He'd go into a trance it seemed
Some would be read, the rest ad-libbed
It was poetry his stuff, real poetry
Melodic and moving
Hypnotic and grooving

Joe was funny ha ha hilarious
A barrister, retired early
He'd write outrageous letters to council
Pompous tones
Read them out with the responses
Those suits got owned!

Others were good, too
Renee, the tree Davids, Captain Angus
Rob, of course, sharp as a whip
And Marla who danced with no undies at a party
In Bondi, in front of the full length mirror

Sometimes the surprise newbie
Talent like lightening
Out of nowhere, sharp and bright
Lots of red wine, from the cask
Two bucks in a plastic cup
Ciggie breaks, mostly rollies
Sprinkling of drug use
As habit or just to enhance, to amuse

Remember you'd get nervous
Before you went up those few stairs to the stage
Mouth dry, hands clammy
But once you made it to the mike
And got started 
It was like an old bike, riding downhill
Wind in your hair
Giggling on the inside
Suddenly unselfconscious, but intimately self aware

The Aquatic Club, on the hill there, mostly
Upstairs at a restaurant in Darlo
Sometimes at a pub or in a basement
Didn't matter
We were loose comrades, bygone bohemians
United by aspirations, dreams, love
Of ideas and spirit expressed in word
Tuneless song

It was a much simpler time,
No mobiles, no net, and yet
We communicated so much more
And with beauty and grace
Exposed, fearless and raw
Liberated and protected by prose
Uplifted by staccato rants
Seduced by mellifluous chants

We made it up, line at a time
We shared of each other
Gave what we had in syntax and rhyme
Those were some good nights, eh?
Just big kids at play - the outsiders, the rebels, the fray

My word
And yours
Something to listen to
Something to say

Things are different these days
Yeah, everything is different these days

Nostalgia time.

One of the reasons I enjoy facebook is because things will pop up out of the blue and spark memories of once loved activities and things. Case in point: on a liked page called Tokyo in the 70's the above picture - menko. I had pretty much forgotten about them for forty years. Even though, at the time, when I was ten, eleven, growing up in Tokyo, I thought they were the best thing ever.

What is menko? It's a two player game where each player uses Menko cards made from thick paper or cardboard, with one or both side printed with images from anime and manga. A player's card is placed on the hardwood or concrete floor and the other player throws down his card, trying to flip the other player's card with a gust of wind or by striking his card against the other card. If he succeeds, he takes both cards. The player who takes all the cards, or the one with the most cards at the game's end, wins the game.

My brothers and I each had a collection of hundreds. We would swap and trade and win and lose. I remember you could scrape the edges against the road to give your card a better chance of sliding under the opponent's card - making it yours. We would play against local Japanese kids almost every afternoon. As well as baseball, soccer, chasings, hide and seek - all in the tiny alleys and streets around our house in Nishi Azabu 3 chome. 

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

When I was a little older -17 - I purchased something a bit bigger for myself. The Honda MT250 Elsinore. I was sitting in a cafe in Roppongi - a cute hole in the wall, max 12 seater type place - when the waiter, with whom I was friends, mentioned that he wanted to get rid of his old bike. Because it was pretty beat up and in it's last days, he only wanted 10,000 yen for it  - which would be about $100. Wow! I went out and had a look and fell in love. It was a beast. I'll never forget driving home. It was a gutsy, wild creature with a mind of it's own. I already had two bikes by this stage; a Yamaha TY50 trial bike and a Yamaha RD125 road bike. Luckily I had been riding the roads for over a year and was competent - cause it was like riding a crazy horse. I pretty much held it together with masking tape and often had to kick start it for 15 to 20 minutes to get it going - but once it started to growl - with it's single cylinder 250cc engine - it would take my high! and far! and fast! Just what you want when you are a seventeen year old boy.