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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Last week, a twelve year old boy in Taree set fire to an important infrastructural cable box and cause a massive internet outage stretching all the way up the north coast. This included Mullumbimby. So we were without connection for about 24 hours +.

At the time, I didn't know it was the whole area down and tried various measures to investigate and fix what could have been just our household. Nothing worked. Offing and onning, plugging and unplugging; the usual stuff. Resigned, I just did other things with my time.

I am happy, of course, that it is now back on. Being online is fun. There are limitless pathways in all kinds of directions. Facebook, movies, news, editorials, humour, messaging friends, social updates, things for sale... Like I said; limitless. 

Anyway, before we were reconnected, I thought back to the early days, back when I was in my teens and twenties. There was no internet then. Not even computers. And no mobile phones. It's weird to consider that now.

What was different? Well, for starters there was considerably more inter-personal relating. I refused to have a television for almost a decade. (I hated commercials. And the sameness and constriction, lack of choice of TV - especially back in the 80's.) So, there a lot more reading going on. And other simple pleasures like listening to music (records), staring at the covers, perusing and considering lyrics, making sculptures, making zines, painting, doing outdoorsy things.

Because it was harder to contact each other, we tended to stay in hubs, connect and co-ordinate activities together. It was surprising 'primitive' comparatively, for lack of better word. One could also say more grounded, basic, simple. And these are not bad things. In fact, they are overly diminished these days. A re-balancing is in order. (But unlikely.)

I'm a big fan of technology and use it often and thoroughly. I use my iPad to make music, I draw comics and create complex collages on my large screen phone. At home, I'm on my iMac in the evening, on Photoshop or Indesign, or scouring the net for juicy new things for a good four of five hours. I love the fact that I can have facetime with my brother and his boys in San Fran, that I can email my Mum a few times a week, send images via text, bounce emojis back and forth with friends, enjoy the variety of posts of my fb crew. I missed all that shit when the net was down. I noticed it's absence.

I even love the way I can write this journal, this blog, sitting in my room in my tiny town on the coast of Australia and post it upon completion and know that within minutes my friends in Japan, the US, Sweden, Germany, Brazil.... wherever... can read it, absorb it, comment if they want. 

This kind of thing was unthinkable back in the late 70's and 80's. Now it is common. But still a thrill. 

I am glad, though, that I was able to spend my first three decades in a simpler time. It was a good grounding. It was a different place. I appreciate both sides of the coin, equally. What is coming up is anyone's guess. Well, not really... we know some of the big stuff... augmented reality, 3D printing, electric transport, drones, flying cars, etc. Advancements are getting faster and faster. Hopefully human consciousness and awareness will stay aligned, at least catch up, so that everyone can have a fair go. At the moment, the imbalance is obvious, unjust and unsustainable. The ones with power are lacking in ethics. Oh, yeah, and our environment, the planet, seems to be heading towards possible self destruction. That.

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.

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.

I love the smell of abstract in the morning.

Some days I wake up after exciting, lucid dreams and feel that I am able to see the world slightly differently.

Every day, I make new images and I have done for many years now. Today, I made five new images. The one above was my favourite. It wasn't quite working at first and almost felt like a discard but I kept with it and let it find itself.

When I was finished, I really loved it. I will often like what I create but only maybe really love one in a hundred images. This is one of those. Makes me feel good. 

I want to state - for anyone who doesn't create images, who doesn't know the feeling of painting or drawing, conjuring up a fresh life force with line, colour, shape, composition - that it's a wonderful thing to do. It can bring immense pleasure. You focus, loose yourself, question things, answer things, experiment, take risks, assess and reassess... It's a mind's eye game. It's a connection with the source. 

In the best moments, you become a conduit for pure universal energy. When you have practiced enough, you learn to get out of your own way and let the flow happen. It can be ecstatic and tantalising. Of course, along the way, and still, on some days, it can also be frustrating and hard work. But for me, generally, these day - I'm free rolling, having a grand old time. Art is my jazz. The picture above is my improvised solo from today's jam session.

Yep, it's been proved, once again, as the title say, 'Art gets me high'.

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!  

I woke up this morning and suddenly remembered, completely out of the blue, performing in a Japanese TV commercial back in the early eighties. Don't know why it popped into my mind but it did. Of course there was no internet back then, no USB sticks, not even DVDs. I may have received a betamax copy or a VHS of the ad, but maybe not even that. Thirty one years after the event, I realise I may be able to find it. A bit of digging on YouTube and - voila - there it was.

It was a big deal at the time. I was living with my then girlfriend from art school (who would eventually become my wife, then my ex-wife) in Tokyo. We were both on the books at a modelling agency and she got a call to come in and audition for an ad that required dancing. She had written down dancing as a skill. (I hadn't. Mine were 'heavy thinking' 'abstract expressionism' and 'space invaders'.) I tagged along with her. It was in a dance studio. There were hundreds of people of all nationalities trying out. I may as wel join in, I figured and asked our manager to put my name down - said that of course I could dance! Any style! They shrugged and figured, why not. If he gets in too, it's an extra commission for us. Everyone loves an easy 20%.

Bianca did a great job, she looked great busting her moves in her leotards and long socks. (Guess what dance movie was a massive hit that year. Starts with 'Flash...') She got in on the first round. Easy. They told us it would be a three day, away shoot. All expenses paid. Plus a significant daily rate. My keenness was amplified. They only needed a few more from the callbacks. What I lacked in formal training, I made up in wild abandon and goofy charm. I made it in. I was the last choice. Yahoooo!

Break dancing was only just starting then in the US. They brought out four of the best from LA and NY. And they were amazing! I remember watching their moves, popping and locking, and being in complete awe. It was super cool and inspiring. 

The shoot, for the new Nissan Bluebird, starred a Japanese singing superstar. I forget his name now. Maybe Saijo Hideki or Julie. He was a nice guy. Wore a cool gold suit. Don't remember much about the other dancers. It was a fun few days, though. Being on set in this kind of ad usually is. Got to stay in a nice hotel with Bianca too. And everything was paid for. 

As well as the TV commercial they did some massive billboards in Ginza. I remember seeing it, towering about us, at the main intersection, as we exited the subway one afternoon. You could just make out the top of my head, jumping up like a popping Sex Pistol, and Bianca's right breast. We were famous! Well, at least rich. (Compared to before the shoot anyway.)

When I found the ad on my computer this morning, I was delighted. How funny. I had to rewatch it multiple times to even find myself. You can catch just a glimmer of me, twice. The one in the yellow singlet slightly left of the left side headlights around the 2' mark and again at the 22' mark. Bianca is behind me around the 4' mark, in her glorious purple sequined  one piece. I laughed when I saw it. Good times. Funny. And how cool to be able to wake up, remember it and be watching it minutes later, thirty years on.

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

Keep pushing that replay button

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

We all have them stored away safely

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is today. New Brighton beach in Northern New South Wales. I snapped this shot before an afternoon walk and swim. While I was immersed in the ocean I thought about what it is that drives me to enter the sea on a daily basis, what the reward is. I actually started speaking out loud about it, free versing while being lapped by the waves, expressing the moment to myself and the omniscient planet soul. I used a retarded Jerry Lewis voice for our amusement. 

What I came up with is this:

You enter the ocean. It is a massive body of energy, the biggest on the planet. You connect with it. You give yourself to it. You become one with it. It is soothing, embracing, invigorating. It is a pure force of nature. You commune with it. Float, frolic, flap around. Play.

Then, above you - the sky. It is majestic and limitless. I looked up and realised that there is no end to where I am gazing. It goes on and on. And on and on. The sky is infinity. It is a window to eternity. Timelessness, a universe. A galaxy. All right there. Up there, above.

So, the ocean comforts and the sky humbles. I am comforted and humbled. This is a good combination. I feel surrender and awe. Giddy with the realisation that life itself is beyond comprehension. But that doesn't matter. All I have to do is splash around. A teeny, tiny little human. Living in the moment. One with the sea and and the sky. One with everything.

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

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

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

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

etc.

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

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

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

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

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

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.