The appealing thing about watching the Olympics is that all the participants, human beings just like you and me, are living their lives to their fullest potential. They are constantly challenging and pushing their own limits and they are fully participating and interacting with every new day in a dynamic and go-getter way. They face their fears and conquer them. Of course, they, too, are fallible but their attitude towards difficulties is much more ferocious and unforgiving than most of us. They want to be their best. They want to win.

And for many of the rest of us, the viewers, we can relate to that feeling. We, too, want to win. Everyone likes to win. But we don't put it all on the line like they do. They represent the best of us and the best of what is inside us. 

Some days it's hard for me just to go to the post office. It means stopping, find a parking spot, waiting in line... if I don't have to do it that day, I will put it off. I don't need to empty the bin when it's 96% full. It can wait. Why rush it? When it's full, I will take it out. When I say full, I mean slightly overflowing. Sure, clean sheets feel crisp and scrumptious. But when is the time to make the effort to change the old ones? Slept in sheets have their own charm. They've been with you for the last few weeks, they've molded their shape to fit snugly beneath you. They are familiar and accommodating. They don't demand to be changed. It's up to you. One more night isn't going to make that much difference. Besides, who likes doing the washing. Washing machines are ogre-like. They involve waiting. Loading, unloading, and then damp clothes must be hung up. Each article - one by one...

As you may have surmised from my little stream of consciousness rant - I am not an Olympian. I'm an everyday dilly-dallier, a loveable sloth, a lazy dog in the sun, a drifter, a serial procrastinator.

I don't win medals. 

And yet, my pursuits, my trials and tribulations are just as confronting to me as the final 100 metres is to a world class sprinter. It is not that different.

When I eventually get round to vacuuming my room, I feel like a champion. When I drag myself out of bed after falling asleep trying to watch that one-too-many-eps of GOT or 'The Night Of' and make it to the bathroom to properly wash my face and brush my teeth, I feel like I have stepped up onto the podium, medal ready. When I finally finish a piece of writing that I have been avoiding because IT'S HARD, I raise my arms and fall to my knees and sob. No one is watching, it isn't being televised, but that doesn't matter. I've clinched gold.

We are all in the Olympics. Every day. We all try our best, really, even if it appears to be slacking off at times. We fight for survival, we try to work things out, we deal with wave after crashing wave of conflict and drama that sometimes threaten to drown us. We keep our heads above water.

That's the game. We find ourselves here, in it. Quick learners, all of us; we adapt, do our best, carry on. 

I say three cheers to all the athletes, sure. But another round of applause and a 'Whooo!' for all the rest of us, too. There are no losers. If you've turned up and you are taking it on, you're a fucking champion. Don't forget it.

My reading has been almost exclusively autobiographies over the last few years. I read about one a week. Recent ones include the true life tales of UFC fighter Ronda Rousey, Aussie actor Magda Szubanski and... I can't quite think back further than that at the moment... (I have become much quicker at discarding information that does not serve an ongoing purpose. Like a juicer: I extract the potent, nourishing and useful nectar and jettison the rest. Sip, sip.) If a book does not keep me interested, I stop reading. Think of each chapter as a station on a train track. Sometimes, even after the reasonably thorough sifting process done at the library (of which one in three books of interest actually gets carried out), I will still get off a train and switch to another about 10% of the time. 

There is not a limitless selection of autobios available, so I really do, sometimes, if nothing new has appeared, have to dig deep into the stacks and consider random possibilities. I am reading one such book at the moment. I can't remember what it is called, in fact, I don't think I even really cared much about the title - because the synopsis and reviews were enough to snag me - but it is about a guy who has spent his life playing computer games and simulations, beginning in the late 70's/ early 80's with the most basic of such games (in a style similar/based on Dungeons and Dragons).

The interesting thing about this guy's story (so far) is that he was only seven when he convinced his father to buy him one - which was aimed at players 16+ (not due to adult content but to do with development levels). When he talks about how his very young mind stumbled into these worlds and tried to make sense of them and navigate through them, it is truly fascinating, in a large part because, his mind is still that young that he is also still trying to assimilate and navigate through the parallel world of 'reality'. 

The games, in these early days, are visually rudimentary, but involve advanced and sometimes complex thought processes and decision making, where actions have consequences. If a then b. They are often about survival in a challenging two dimensional landscape and are about navigating through conceptual terrains while attempting to collect 'life force' to use against increasingly dangerous foes and scenarios.

One of the most mind-blowing things for him was when, after months of play and having achieved double digits in power, he somehow skipped ahead and ran into a troll who was so fierce that he could usurp power from a player, with one violent pummel that would cost 390 points. He could not imagine such a thing. Until he came across it. The concept of even amassing that many points (and all the game time, processes and procedures necessary to do so) for him at that stage were near inconceivable.

So, I'm right into this book! He also talks about the relationship between 2D worlds and 3D worlds - making an interesting and valid point that 2D worlds are often more satisfying because their natural limitations, in fact, allow for much more imagination and interpretation and, as well, can be less distracting. Where I am up to now, he is about ten years old and has found (when not playing a game) a preponderance to wander, through his neighbourhood for example, seeing maps and worlds and possibilities templated over the existing structure and finding that time has disappeared, three, four hours at a hit, without him being aware. 

As life often does, when you find a new interest in something, suddenly, you discover connections and related offshoots all around you. So I find myself his evening watching on YouTube: the 2016 Isaac Asimov Memorial Debate: Is the Universe a Simulation? Headed by Neil DeGrasse, a panel of five physicists, astrophysicists and philosophers discuss that nature of reality and ask some interesting questions. I am actually just 29mins into the 2hr presentation currently, and actually paused it to write this because my mind was stimulated and I felt the urgent need to say a few things myself (to myself). And to you (reader) as well. But I know nothing of you and cannot with 100% certainty even assume you exist. True, from responses to my past posts, I do know that these pages do get a three or four thousand weekly hits (according to numbers and graphs on my site home screen - which I find it convenient to believe has some basis in reality), so, at least on some level, I can be pretty sure that this will be read. But for the moment -as I compose it - it is just me.

So, what I am doing is attempting to create a simulation of my mind scape, using these words, to convey it firstly to myself, for clarification and amusement - as well as a kind of progression/record - and then secondly to a group of others from my species who will then interpret them for their own amusement, nourishment, awareness expansion and then will extrapolate upon them in their own multiple and limitless ways. Which in itself, is not dissimilar to that kid with his games. This is not technically a game, but in some ways it is. I am doing it for fun. I am making something up. There are set boundaries - it is an artist's journal, a creative's meanderings that has been posted on the internet on Sunday, June 26th, 2016. Did I know where it was going when I began writing? Not really. I had some idea of a theme. So, in a way it is a journey that I am going on. And you are following in my footsteps. You are curious, too. I am curious, interested in, intrigued by the contents of my own mind and how I have processed information from the minds of others - that writer, the panel - and I am putting it into a fresh context and through some original filters and re-presenting it.

How will you process it? I wonder. Will there be some new thoughts sparked inside your consciousness that bring some fresh excitement, new ideas? I'm sure. And so, on and on, we pass concepts to and fro between each other, in an infinite variety. And with the internet, now, it is so much quicker and more powerful. Indeed, within just minutes of my completing this process of my recordings somebody else will likely be absorbing them! No old school time gap between a hand written journal sitting on a desk for months or years, then being edited, assimilated and finally printed/distributed into a shop or library that stores volumes of thoughts collected in 3D tomes for absorption. No, it's now instant. I'm going to click a button and here it is. You have it. (And so on...)

One thing I noticed while watching (listening to - I soon realised there was not much need to be visually attentive and traversed to other tabs with the audio in the background) the panel was how clunky we humans are when we attempt to verbal express things. As well as the distractions of voice, personalities, surroundings, there are so many barriers to expressing the often magnificent complexity of thought that takes part in our minds. Even in the short bit I have seen so far, I can perceive, so much interference and distraction going on and have to sift through for the juicy bits. I do believe that we are actually SO much smarter, more aware and advanced than we are able to actually express. I guess striving to get better at it is part of the fun. And that is why I write stuff like this, here; for fun and stimulation. As well, to connect. We are in it together. This wonderful world, er, simulation, er, whatever you want to call it.

It makes sense to feed yourself nourishing, healthy, natural food. The body responds well to it, functions smoothly, grows and repairs from it. There is encouragement from some elements of society and the government to do so but there is an even stronger push - in the form of advertising and marketing from corporate factions - to get people to consume processed edible items that are overloaded with sugars, salts and a variety of toxins (including GMOs) simply for their taste and/or convenience.

We are used to this now, as a species. Many are trapped in a unthinking cycle of buying and consuming foods that don't sprout from nature and are conceived in a factory and dressed with fancy and alluring packaging. It's a modern malaise and has a high cost to the well being of society.

On a parallel track, one less heralded or commented on, is the trajectory of our mental consumption habits. 

There is a huge volume of shrill and sugary distractions being presented to us every day, coming at us from all sides. On the net, TV, radio, magazines, the newspaper... we are bombarded with information and messages - in the form of both news and entertainment - that is the moral equivalent of junk food.

Hard to resist, tasty perhaps for an instant but lacking any substance or value for one's evolution as a sentient being.

It's interesting to look back on your day and what you may have taken in to see how much of it was actually nourishing your soul and how much of it was clogging and clouding your clarity and essence.

Truth is that is imperative that we make an effort to challenge, improve and expand ourselves; intellectually, morally and spiritually. To do this we can only work with what we put in.

Affirmative actions, positive behaviour and healthy interaction with others - any poz interpersonal stuff - is good. So is stuff like meditation, reading books and quiet thinking.

Creative pursuits also rank high. They allow one to get in the zone, touch base with the universal sauce, or source; same diff.

Personally, I get a sweet natural high every day doing my comics and/or writing. It's not always easy but afterwards I feel nourished, a sense of accomplishment. It's my job, I suppose - one with very flexible hours and parameters - plus a decent boss who gives me free reign. 

I'm no saint, though. I squander plenty of time: surfing the net, binge watching my favourite series in the evenings and occasionally leap frogging from one foolish clip to another on You Tube. No one's keeping score. Do what you want. But my advice and the gist of this piece is that it is good to be aware of what is going in to your consciousness. 

Sidestep the avalanche of goo-goo garbage generated by the morally dubious entertainment conglomerates and - like picking fresh herbs from a garden or fruit of a tree - get some wholesome and meaningful content into you and pay attention to your own opinions, insights and intuitions. Consciously develop yourself into someone worth being.

As I have mentioned before in these posts, I grew up reading copious amounts of comics in the 70's. My brothers and I sought them out and collected them - reading every imaginable title from the DCs and Marvels to the obscure scary comics, war comics and romance comics. 

Sometimes, if I had read every available comic, I would take to reading the letter pages (not that interesting) or other bits and pieces of text - the small print at the bottom of page one for example - or some kind of short story thing - never that interesting, really. Just to pass the time. But if I was passing the time, one way I really enjoyed was gazing at advertisements for posters, stickers or patches - like the one above. 

The tiny artworks were like portals. Each had a message and a sentiment. Spoke of an ideology. Stood for a cause. Symbolised an attitude. I was a kid, I was forming my identity. Solidifying my beliefs. Anything was possible and although I couldn't click on these icons and open them up with a computer, I could with my mind.

When I stumbled across this page on the net this morning, it brought back all kinds of memories. Just like you would learn every song on a favourite album, I recognised ever patch from this advertisement. I had stared at it and studied it so many hundreds of times - selecting my favourites and choosing my top five, top ten, etc. A few times I even thought of sending in for them - but we lived in Tokyo and it seemed too difficult. I did have a favourite jacket at around the age of thirteen that was adorned with some of the patches above and others - most memorably the peace sign and smiley.

There are quite a few good ones out of the thirty six pictured. And they have stood up well with the test of time. Very much a sixties/seventies vibe - but, hey, those were the decades that formed me.

Peace, love, ecology, equality.... all my bag. I grew up listening (over and over) to Sgt Peppers (from the age of six or seven) as well as Cat Stevens, Joan Baez and The Mammas and the Pappas. I revered the peace symbol. I believed in love - loving everyone. I believed in humanity and goodness and compassion. My vision for the world was aligned with the hippies and the revolutionists of the time.

Sadly, it didn't come about. In fact, in many ways the planet is in much, much worse shape now than it was then. At least there was simplicity then. And integrity. The shinning glow and warmth of the candle lit by activists and creatives of the time was not bright enough to illuminate the majority towards enlightenment. Cut to: today's world. Hmmm...
Peace? Love? Soul? More like... Money. Power. Glory.

Being young, too, and impressionable and with a big imagination - I created a vision of a future full of all the good stuff. I had absolutely no idea of the adult world, really, but I believed that surely, people would want to encourage harmony and justice and strive for unity and compassion.

In some ways, I am extremely disappointed. But I can't complain. I have a life. I am here to witness what is unfolding. It was never going to turn out the way I envisioned in my naive and hopeful state. I was a dreamer. And I still am. As are many. It's what keeps us sane. And in attendance. Dreams and hope. 

Never lose hope. We could just be going through a rough patch, after all. In fact, I do believe this to be true. There will be tipping point and higher consciousness will permeate through humanity. Eventually.

Until then, let's stay true to our better selves, our good intentions and our aspirations for creating a world of love and peace. 

Back about eight years ago when I was directing a documentary about Bay FM called Bliss Jockeys, I did a little contra side job. My camera man and I were to film William Whitecloud give a talk about his system and beliefs. It was a no fee job, negotiated by my long time lovely friend, Claire, but in exchange I got to attend a four day seminar in Brisbane called 'The Magician's Way.'

Previous to that I'd done a handful of other self help/self realisation seminars - 'Insight' and 'The Forum' spring to mind - and had found them to be beneficial (in their own way). So, as Claire often espoused the benefits of TMW and was actually in training to lead herself, I figured why not.

I was invited to stay the three or four nights in a spare room at one of the generous trainees. Each morning before showing up at the function centre, I'd go for a stretch and swim at the local pool. Generally, I was in a good head space at that time, so I was open and receptive to whatever may shift, any changes in perspective, broadening of outlook.

There was a lot of great stuff in the seminar over the two days and four nights. I found it engaging and beneficial. One of the best exercises - and the reason behind this rant - was one in which we sat in an arrangement of four chairs facing a single one in a semi-circle. One at a time, we would sit in that chair and say just two words: 'I am.' The other four would then respond to the simple statement and tell what they got from that - about who you were, how you feel, where you are at in your life, etc....

Well. It was amazing. I will never forget just how accurate and on pace everyone (all strangers to each other) was. It exemplified just how deeply we all comprehend things about each other and how clearly we see each other.

Thing is, in everyday life, all that is mostly subliminated for reasons of etiquette and normal surface level interaction. 

We all know how normal it is for ourselves to perceive others in a complex and comprehensive way but we tend to kind of assume that people looking at us aren't really taking much in. The truth is we are all extremely attuned to human nature and individual personality. From just two words, the feedback was gobsmakingly astounding. We underestimate each other. And, to a degree, ourselves.

My point, and the reason for writing this piece is to do with the connection between what I am writing and what the reader is receiving. I sometimes worry about a gap. But then I realise. No. It's cool. We all read between the lines. We all pick up on nuances and read into every minute choice a writer makes with words, phrasing, energy aligment. I don't need to worry. Just put it out there. Just say, "I am," and people will hear you as you are. 

And part of that is the point. It's something we love to do. Share ourselves with each other. In all sorts of ways. And the more real, the deeper, the more passionate, the more raw and pure; the better. Each of us is connected deeply. And we need each other more than we know.

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.

“Somewhere in the archives of crudest instinct is recorded the truth that it is better to be endangered and free than captive and comfortable.”

Tom Robbins said that. He's a wonderful, joyous, rollicking writer if you are ever interested in a fun and enlightening read. 'Even Cowgirls Get the Blues', 'Still Life With a Woodpecker". From down south USA, wrote his best stuff in the 70's. (What a decade!)

So, I read this quote and it resonated. Yes. Even when I am not writing in this blog, I am thinking about it. I'll get a subject and mull it over in my own mind. (For my personal enjoyment/distraction/development.) Then I will ask - is that something worth writing about? Is it going to shed any light for anyone? Is it something that, if explored in text, may expand, form tributaries, perhaps lead to somewhere interesting and engaging?

Sometimes I am feeling a little blah and I can't be bothered. I let the thoughts come and go. Sometimes I think it's not interesting enough to share. Sometimes I think: meh, what's the point? Really? The internet, the world is full of stuff that people write and have written about internal mechanisms and observations - why crowd it out even more?

That's why this quote kind of got me. Some things - especially truth - need to be released and shared. Who knows the result of their liberation from captivity. Isn't that the whole point of setting something free? You no longer control it. It can run wild. It is no longer yours to have expectations of, influence.

With all the bullshit in the world today, morsels of truth, honesty are a refreshing and enriching change. What is the point of reading all that crap in the papers, the bad news, all those pumped up, vapid articles in mags and on web sites about so-and-so doing this or that scandalous thing? Garbage. 

We are glorious, enlightened, miraculous beings. (At our best.) We deserve to surround ourselves with - as much as possible - things that are lucid, pure, worthwhile, enriching. We need to elevate our consciousness - individually and collectively - to spearhead our way to a more enlightened humanity. 

That is why I write in this blog. A tiny little voice, not practiced or showy, with nothing to promote or sell, no agenda. This is not PR. The is just a simple soul in a big complex, demanding world - like a bird, making a little chirp - before flying off, up into the sky. Back to hovering above the earth, in the clouds of imagination and freedom. A little, melodious, simple, one or two note song from the heart. I know there are other birds around, just like me. And some of them will hear my sound and find comfort.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My brother Mook sent me this picture of a parking lot in Tokyo yesterday. In it's place, up until recently, was Roppongi Square Building. RSB housed five or six nightclubs, a tiny cafe and a sprawling, ground floor game centre. I spent much of my youth in that building. 

I was a regular at the cafe, afternoons, after school, I would ride my motorbike there and hang out with the cool twenty-something Japanese dudes drinking coffees and puffing away on Seven Stars. I was the only foreigner there, somehow I had been admitted into the congenial gang. Sometimes we would saunter into the game centre and play the latest low-tech, novel amusement machines - bingo pinball. 

I had completely forgotten about playing these machines but suddenly I was reminded how much I loved playing them. They were quite difficult to master - many decisions and stratergies and also ball control with gentle tilting and jousting with the machine. I wish I could play it again. Right now. Getting the ball down to 23, 24 and 25 - sometimes crucial -was a major task and then navigating it into the exact number you needed to line up your bingo - well, when achieved was an ecstatic moment.

The game centre had plenty of electronic games, of course. This was mid to late 70's, so it was all about Space Invaders, Mission Control, Car Driving Games, Pac Man and the like. During the day, on weekends, my brothers, Mook and Rich, and I would go there, if we weren't in Shibuya - which offered more great games centres PLUS pachinko (upright Japanese ball bearing game) PLUS movie theatres with the latest releases. 

At nights the Roppongi game centre was very popular with post dinner visitors and pre and post disco and nightclub revellers. I can smell and feel the boozy, smokey atmosphere right now. Even at their rowdiest, Japanese are quite contained and always polite. It was an awesome place to grow up on so many levels.

And many levels is what RSB had. My favourite discos - Nepenta and Giza were housed there. I would go there at least one night a week. I had a three piece suit and cowboy boots. It was the disco heyday in Japan, Saturday Night Fever created a frenzy and nightlife boomed. I had so many experiences there, across the threshold, that I plan to write a book about it one day soon. I saw things, did things, was immersed. I grew up there. From kid to seasoned night crawler. Roppongi nights. Like no other.

We lived in Nishi Azabu. Our modest home was positioned right in between Hiroo Station and Roppongi Station on the Hibiya Line. Before I got my motorbike and started riding to School, I used to walk down to Hiroo (pictured above) and catch the subway and two trains to school. In the bottom right hand corner of the picture, downstairs, B1, was a tiny black leather, atmospheric cafe called Eruza. But everyone called it Comos. It was where the girls from Sacred Heart International School would go after school to hang out, drinking brews and smoke. A few of the boys from my class would go there after school also, arriving around 45 to 50 minutes later with commute. I was lucky to live close by and would almost always be part of the last group to leave around 5:30 or 6. I could just walk up the hill, Zaimokucho, to get home from dinner. It was the most education I got, down there in that dark, moody cafe. The banter, gossip, information exchange, romancing and friendship that were created and nurtured down there were priceless. 

Even at the time, I remember feeling so lucky and grateful being able to have such a valuable after school outlet for personality exchanges and general youthful exuberance and conceptual rebellion. We smoke ciggies, drank iced coffees, told stories.... there were tears, uncontrollable laughing sessions, serious arguments. But we were cohesive. A core group of about a dozen girls and half a dozen guys. My best friend, Jenny, a Hawaiian girl, was a cheerleader, sports star, academic achiever and very friendly and popular. She was an essential part of my belonging and maturing. She was very kind and beautiful on every level. We never dated. She went out with my friends and I went out with hers. The friendship was more precious, too precious to risk loosing. I was, even back then, in some ways an outsider, a joker. I had long hair and would risk getting in trouble at school if it meant getting some good laughs. In fact, I remember more than a few times, being suspended from school, and riding my motorbike to Comos, spending the day hanging out there reading one of my ever present paperbacks, waiting for the girls to arrive. Jenny would see me there already at three and know I had been mischievous. 

She was equally as playful in spirit but managed to avoid reprimand. We shared a love of fun and people. Her acceptance and embrace of me got me in with the rest of the girls, too. (I was 9 months to a year younger than everyone in the year.) There was a Texan, a Korean, some Japanese American halves, a Brazilian/Japanese at the core. I got close to them all and learnt SO MUCH from them about the workings of the female species. Many times, it was just me and the girls. I would just sit back and listen, absorb, throw in a joke now and then or answer a query, as best I could, about my own gender. It was almost like being a spy. But I never betrayed their confidence. Not once. I had too much respect for what I considered in many ways to be the superior sex. They were certainly more mature and wiser. Plus, they definitely looked and smelled better. I loved being around those girls! I think I kind of knew how lucky I was but tried not to make a big deal of it. Looking back now, I realise I was REALLY lucky. Insights gained then have taken me far in relationships and in generally understanding and appreciating humanity.

Ah, all these memories from a picture of a parking lot. They pulled down the building of my youth but they can't touch the priceless and golden alter of my friendships and experiences.

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

It's interesting. I have noticed something. Over the past six weeks, I have been spending my art hours doing portraits. No other imagery - just pictures of faces. I have been doing an average of four a day and have done over 160 of them. I have had a period of faces-only before, a few months ago, when I did 80 of them. This time, I wanted to do outdo myself and I have. 

I have always loved drawing faces, starting from when I was twelve or thirteen. I would copy them out of comic books and magazines. They hold so much life and energy. Each one has a personality. There is lots of mood and so many ways you can take a portrait and portray a person.

The thing is, and this is what I have noticed: since only having faces to chose from as my daily output, I have been posting significantly less often on this artgetsmehigh blog. Often I would drag and drop one of my daily artworks and just start writing in response to it - a meditation on something, a poem, a memory... but with the faces, I am not so inclined. They do not encourage me to respond in the same way. 

I do enjoy doing them and looking at them afterwards, as well as seeing them all lined up together, but they do not spark the same response in me that the random pictures do. I'm going to curtail my face marathon soon, I think. Maybe once I hit the 200 mark. Or maybe it's too late and I am too hooked in. 

Addicted to face. 

Addiction has to be faced. 

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.