Sometimes I ask myself: Why am I spending all this time and energy creating new things every day?

I already have volumes and volumes of writing, a huge storage space full of unsold paintings from exhibitions over the last twenty five years, more than 5,000 files with digital collages and artworks... And now, my latest new passionate pursuit - songs and spoken word pieces with musical accompaniment - 75 of them and counting in the last three months.

Why so much?

For starters; I love it. The act of creation. The journey, the exploration, the challenge. It focuses me, seduces and delights, gives me a purpose and a mission.

Creation is my lifeblood, really. My purpose. It is the expression of my being. It is a revealing and celebration of my soul. My time spent making is the most rewarding of the day. And I do it every day. Something is pulled from the air, made up, expressed. I am compelled. Drawn. Called upon.

In that sense, I am lucky because I always have something to do, something that will transport and uplift me. 

I do on occasion, however, ask myself: Is it just fluff? An indulgence? A delusion? What purpose does it serve beyond filling in my time? (Cause for the most part it doesn't make me a living. Perhaps it could, if I put some effort into promotion and selling, networking. But I can't. I don't have the drive for administrative or procedural efforts. It is time I could be spending making more new stuff, after all.)

It is not for me to think these things - to question my natural pursuits.

There are many of us. All around the world. Since the birth of our species. Artists and creators who make things not for themselves but because they are compelled. It is a river that flows though humanity. It nourishes the tribe. Not in a practical way, like say the creations of a baker or a cabinet maker, a farmer or a builder will, but in a more ephemeral, deeper, subconscious way. Artists are the keepers of the psyche. The nourishes of the unconscious. Chosen to reflect back and embellish upon the experience of a human in the place and time inhabited. We create an alternative representation of life. We augment, dissect, reprocess, decorate.

It is a blessing and a curse. But the longer you do it, the more it becomes the former. With perspective, things take shape, garner meaning, piece together. 

I consider all the wonderful things that have inspired me during my formative years: the books, the films, the artworks, the songs. They helped form me. They nourished. The informed and expanded my awareness. I am grateful for each and every effort made by the artists whose work affected me. I am glad they did what they did. I am glad they went beyond, overcame their personal doubts and depressions and manifested what they did. 

And, so, I realise, too, that is my purpose, my function. I am here to serve those who come after. Whatever it is I have to give, it will find a place, plant a seed. One that will grow into the next generation and beyond. 

The artist is a vital part of our species' fabric. 

I am a thread. I can continue to duck and weave, add colour and texture, glow and shine. Because in my own humble way I am contributing to a wonderful tapestry, a glorious, complex shawl that warms, feeds and protects all our precious, hungry souls from emptiness, mundanity, mediocrity and mindless conformity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

People sometimes comment about how busy my paintings are. I was scrolling through fb today and I saw a photo by my Japanese friend, Naoki. It's a recent shot of a street scene from Shinjuku.

This afternoon I went for a swim at Crowdy Head beach, a stop-off on my drive home to Mullumbimby from Sydney. There were five people on the beach. The rest was all sea and sky. There were no straight lines, no graphics, no complex dynamics, no visual assault on the senses. It was serenity. Nature.

Tokyo on the other hand - the place I grew up - is the opposite. It is a never ending series of visual explosions. I loved being there - riding my motorbike through the labyrinth of controlled madness, shuffling through the side streets on my way from one game centre to another... it was a wild ride. One that lasted 14 years. 

One of the legacies of my childhood is what comes out in my paintings. I don't try to complicate them. In fact, they are in a way a simplification, a toning down of what is going on in my mind's eye. When I saw Naoki's photo, especially after having spent time at a deserted beach a few hours earlier, it really hit home as to the origins of my painting style. Zany characters, boisterous colours, rich black calligraphic lines; I'm a true blue Aussie in spirit, but my landscape inspiration is clearly all urban Japan.

NB. If you want to see more of Naoki's incredible shots go to Categories in the side bar and click on Shibuya. There's a link there. 

Going to galleries to check out shows can be an inspiring and rewarding activity. It does, however, in my estimation, take a bit of practice and perspicacity to get full value from the experience. 

Sometimes for the beginning gallery visitor there is a tendency to think that you need to appreciate, or at least try to appreciate, everything. That's what I used to feel. If it's on the wall - it must be good was the theory. It's my job to discover what is good about it.

Now this is true to a degree. And that philosophy can be applied and be useful for limited time periods are particular occasions but as a general rule, it is not going to serve you.

What you really want to do is, like a heat seeking missile, walk from piece to piece in search of something that ignites your imagination. Something that speaks to you. That's when you stop, pay attention, see, listen, discover. 

Because, essentially, what you are looking for really, are images that connect with your own sensibilities. Pictures that speak your language. It should not be tedious or difficult. It's about connection. You are searching for images that amaze you, inspire you, impress you. Anything that makes you feel. 

You are seeking to develop your own innate creative landscape. Expand imagery database. You only need to input things that you perceive to be of value.

When I started gallery hopping, I would spend a minimum amount of time in each space - even if the work wasn't up my alley. But eventually I realised that time spent labouring over something that doesn't do it for me is less time with other things that might make me wildly inspired and rabidly hungry for art, art, art. Since then, if I pop my head into a show and instinctively feel it isn't for me, I will ghost it pronto. Move on. Give it the brush. (With respect, of course.)

There is too much out there that is waiting to inspire you to waste time and viewing energy with imagery (no matter how 'good' or 'bad', celebrated, revered or written about) that isn't creative viagra.

Then when you find a great pic, give it your time. Bathe in it's wonder. Soak up it's subtleties, lap up it's luxurious splendour. And ask yourself, quietly, to yourself, what is it that does it for me about this? How does this relate to what I do - or want to do? What is the gap between this artist and me? 

Always aspiring is a good thing. Always being hungry to be inspired, not losing your openness, your willingness to be engaged or shocked, is crucial to your growth. The best artists are the ones that are true to themselves. The best way to be true to yourself is to get to know yourself. The way to get to know yourself is to pay attention and listen to your intuitive voice and guidance system. 

The inner voyage, the inner voyage. Seeking, seeking, finding. Then moving on. Express what is inside you, exhaust yourself, get refilled, re-inspired, then repeat the process.

Gallery going is a great way to fill up. Go stare at walls. It don't mean you are crazy.

I voluntarily missed out on my night time poker game, so you know it must be important. I was invited to the Steiner school to attend a night of short speeches by year six - one of whom is my beloved godson, Jarrah. 

It was a special activity and they were adeptly coached and mentored by a drama teacher/parent who donated his time. Each kid, all around 12, spoke for 3 or 4 minutes. When they announced that there were going to 28 speeches in succession - it was a little bit like - OK, this is going to be a long haul. I was very happy to be there surrounded by the creative energy, the excitement, the proud parents and the precious children. I was expecting something shorter, perhaps, but, hey, let's see what comes...

In short, it was awesome. Each kid had chosen a topic close to their heart and had written the speech themselves. They had obviously all practiced well - some even spoke from memory. The topics were varied and interesting, topical: Global Warming, Learning From Mistakes, Caring for Animals, The Barrier Reef. One kid spoke on the Importance of Mothers. He got a standing ovation. About five of the boys talked about soccer. Jarrah's speech was about archery - his new passion. It began with the quote from Zen master Eugen Herrigel: "In the case of archery, the hitter and the hit are no longer two opposing objects, but one reality."

Mind focus. Merging. 

At some point in the evening, it was cleear the speakers and the listeners became that one reality. At the end of the talks, they sang three songs. One of them was by Paul Kelly and Archie Roach: "From Little Things Big Things Grow", which happens to be one of my favourite songs. The audience sang along on the chorus. Seeing those young souls there, fully alive and in the moment, gushing with innocence and enthusiasm, I pictured how each of them will grow up to be compassionate and strong adults and was overwhelmed with the absolute beauty of humanity. Tears were rushing down my face. I have not felt so in place, connected and honoured to be a human for a long time. I was uplifted and transformed. New seeds of hope and wonder were planted that night. We'll see what grows.

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'.

Just a little spark is all I need
Like this morning
I was awake
More awake than some mornings

Just a little spark
I read a word
Just a single word
That lit a fuse

Ignited by passion
It's not a predictable thing
Passion lives in a world of it's own
With it's own rules
With no rules

I think of Raymond Carver
His words
Chosen
Select
The effect
Sublime

I think of the artist
Say Picasso
No, Van Gogh
Or Hockney, yeah, Hockney
The colours presented
A miracle to behold

I think of a lifetime
So much struggle
By the time we realise
It's not the game we thought it was
It's too late
Too late

So any spark
Be it in the morning, at night, at twilight 
Forget the cocktails
Get up from the patio
We're gonna dance
We're gonna dance
Cause this may be the last chance we get

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!

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!  

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.

"Miles from nowhere
Guess I'll take my time
To reach there..."

Cat Stevens was a guiding force in my formative teen years. I learnt every word on the album Tea for the Tillerman and would listen to it (on vinyl; end of side A, flip it over and put the needle back down on side B, rpt - a process unknown to more recent arrivals on Planet E) over and over. So many incredibly soulful, meaningful, spiritual songs. All of them as relevant and poignant today as they were when first released in the early 70's. 

Father and Son
Wild World
Where Do The Children Play
Miles From Nowhere
But I Might Die Tonight
On The Road To Find Out

That's just some of them. I'd have a favourite for a few months and then move onto the next. As a rebellious teen, I didn't get any guidance from my parents or school. I was pretty much left to my own devices to work things out. Real world experiences, friends, a steady flow of books, and a few select albums. Cat was number one. He had it all - the inventive, pure, melodic music with the meaningful lyrics. Other faves were Elton John (Yellow Brick Road) and Jackson Browne.

"Be wise, look ahead
Use your eyes he said
Be straight, think right
But I might die tonight!"

Cat was an anti-establishment, anti-authoritarian guy. He seemed, in his mellifluous, calmly charismatic voice, to be talking to my young teenage self, saying, "you are right not to buy into all the bullshit, find your own way." Some of this I had worked out myself, it was innate, but having Cat back me up, with his wisdom, quiet charm and self assurance sure helped.

When you take snapshots of yourself and select your favourite - what are you looking for? Are you trying to see/portray yourself for who you are or are you trying to capture/present a version of yourself that most fits your ideal self image?

Makes sense to do the latter, of course. But a selfie is just the cover. What really is important is what's inside the book. And what is equally important is that - this may come as a surprise - that YOU READ THE BOOK.

The book of self. New pages everyday. Some bits you write, others are written for you. All you have to do is record them. Some bits get erased. Some segments are abbreviated. Some are drawn out. 

What is your story, though? 

These days there are lots of book covers being flashed around but there is less and less content being revealed. Why is that? 

There's always so much going on that things like long, intimate conversations with lucid friends, meaningful connections, investments of time and energy in those in need, etc - have become less prevalent. 

Character. Personal morality. Philosophy. Discourse. Ethics.

In this money focused, ambition driven society there is less and less time for these things. Perhaps because the world has become so thick with information (and disinformation), in addition to entertainment and various forms of distraction (facebook, twitter, insta for starters), it is so easy to just drift along on a raft and never have to paddle or pull over to the shore and stake a claim or make a home. We are overwhelmed by complex systems, wheels within wheels; social, political and physical.

The world now takes it's own selfie, every day, every minute, every second. And we are not sure what to think. It is always changing! It's alluring, dangerous, stimulating, confronting, familiar and foreign all at once. Are we part of it? Have things gone beyond the point where one person, any given single entity - with their views, opinions, feelings, thoughts, outlooks - really matters? Is it all too much? Is the river now a tidal wave, a tsunami? Are we all just hanging on and hoping to land somewhere safe?

We take selfies to benignly assert our presence in the modern day. Look! This is me! Having fun, acting cool, being silly, sexy, wild! I exist. I am living the life. Whatever that is, at the moment. Don't ask. Questions make for discomfort. Questions stir things up. Especially questions we avoid asking ourselves. Those ones. The ones we are not sure we are even equipped to answer. Why bother? It's easier to just float along from day to day. Things will work out. 

Thing is - who are you?

Don't you want to get to know yourself? Look at yourself? See what you are made of? Get to know your true essence? 

If you do, you can, and you won't regret it. To find, you must seek. And the answers will only come once the questions are asked. And no one is going to do that for you. Not once you are an adult, anyway. It's your responsibility. In some ways, it's your primary one. To get to know yourself. Beyond what is on the cover. Beyond the presentation. Open the book up. Look inside. There is a world as grand and magical as you can imagine. There are things there that might make you uncomfortable, even fearful. But the truth is there is nothing to be afraid of. It's all you. 

And you, my friend, you're a flawed and complex, sentient being. Just like us all. Do not judge or condemn. Accept and embrace. Discover. Uncover. Allow. Once you can do it for yourself, you'll be able to do it for others. 

What does this mean in real terms - beyond the new age slogans? I don't know. It's different for us all. What I am saying - to myself, really - is that there is a need for more substance, more fibre, grit, integrity. What good is it to simply exist, without allowing your character to grow, to be revealed, to be celebrated in essence? Why not at least try to sort through your shit and dust off your dreams, pick up the book you have neglected and start to make up some stuff that you will proud of one day. Make a story, live a story, that you want to read. It doesn't matter what the fucking cover looks like, it's what's inside that matters. We want laughter and tears and meaningful, wonderful events to occur. Substance. You hear me? 

Life.

It's what happens.

I mean, I've been paying attention. Close attention. I've been observing, pondering, recording, analysing, interpreting life since I was a wee tyke. Around the age of nine is when I started asking myself the big questions. Like 'What is this?' 'What are we doing here?' and 'Why?'

I remember one afternoon sitting up on the branches of an orange tree doing just that. No answers were forthcoming but I did eat a lot of oranges.

I remember around that same time marvelling at a neighbourhood girl who was thirteen. Thirteen. Thinking: how? And: will I ever be that mature? Plus, she had a dragster.

This procedure: Life. 

Can't be pinned down. And yet we want to. We need to. We try to give it shape and definition. We need borders and structures and clusters and titles. We attempt to make sense of things. We are by necessity satisfied by whatever we can come up with. Even though it is only temporary and illusory. 

Some people don't question too much. They just get into it. Let the adventure and drama play out around them. Buy into it. Invest themselves. This is a perfectly valid response. What else are you going to do? Sit around all day and try to solve an unsolvable puzzle while in the meantime it all passes you by? Doesn't sound wise. But, but... some of us cannot help but divest from the presentation and take a peek behind the curtains. Leave the comfort of the valley home and trek up that mountain. And the next. And the next. We have metaphysical wanderlust. We are existential nomads. Philosophical renegades. Perpetual travellers. Spiritual scientists. We are drawn to the edges of the accepted realms and driven to stepping that one step, two steps further, beyond the boundries. We need to know. We need to know.

The irony is - there is no rush. All is revealed in it's own time. In many ways it is much, much wiser simply to accept the way things are and enjoy the ride. Life will play itself out regardless of how you perceive, interpret it. Why waste time navel gazing when you could be white water rafting or parachuting out of a hot air balloon?

I took this tack for a while in my earlier years. I tried hang gliding, bungy jumping, scuba diving, long distance running. I spent a year eating only raw nuts, I travelled to distant places, I experimented with LSD, I did stand up comedy, spent time with punk rockers, mental patients, criminals. I got married and divorced. I watched my wife run off with a Japanese Elvis impersonator. I shared intense, fleeting intimacy with girls I met on the beach, in a restaurant, on a bus, on the way to the bathroom. I flew to Paris on love's command after a one night stand in Kings Cross. I was hungry, wild, free spirited. During much of this frantic period I remained slightly detached and philosophical, wrote poetry and recorded my musings, but being hyper involved with reality in a demanding way did lessen the questioning.

But then I slowed down. Gradually. 

Living the simple life in an idyllic country town with a population of three and half thousand, I have returned to my ruminations. Attune to nature, mesmerised by it's beauty, surrounded by more spiritually minded folk, I have a precious commodity to play with. Time. Time to think. Time to take my time. Time to play. Time to waste. But I am paying attention. Looking for clues. I am still an agent of metaphysical aspirations. I want to know. I want to find as much meaning as I can. I have more to reflect upon now. More experience to draw upon in my calculations of esoteric algorithms. I have lived more than half a decade. Surely this must assist in my searching, seeking out.

But it doesn't. Not really. I am still a novice. 

I am still that kid sitting in a tree.

I do still love oranges. So juicy!

As an artist
Uncertainty is certain
Just being is a burden
You wanna break free
Show the world how to see
How much better it could be

As an artist
Vision is pure
You search for your style
The obvious is obscured
By the crap you were taught as a child

As an artist
You yearn and you hunger
You are full of hubris and anger
It doesn't come easy, not ever
To enrapture you endeavour

As an artist
You strive for you own kind
Of perfection
It may look messy, insane
But they are your rules, your game
And nobody can tell you what to do
What's true
What's meaningful
Or necessary
Is that a cricket ball or a cherry?

Some days you hate everything
Nearly as much as yourself
Other days almost heaven
Somehow
It's going to work out
You tell yourself

As an artist
No lies
Except whenever
No limitations
On the number of limitations
Courtesy of society or self imposed 
You lack propriety
You jump on toes
Just to hear the crunch
A shot or a joint before lunch
Some days 

As an artist
You yearn to escape
You need to unwind 
The fucking jumble of gibberish
Awash in your mind
You wouldn't mind
If it wasn't so awful
You wonder what it would be like
To be normal 
Sometimes 
But not for long
You don't need to belong 
You don't want to belong
Now do you

As an artist
Your pain
Is everyone else's gain
Especially after you're gone
You'll be celebrated, idolised
Or forgotten
Who cares
You care
Stay strong

As an artist
You have no choice
But to do what you do
To follow that path to the end
And trust your intuition
That you vision will see you through

Today, at least
Your pain has been released
Onto the canvas
Down for the count
Breathless and speckled
Staring, mouth agape
At the new creation on the easel
A fresh image to appease you

It's easy
As an artist
To tell yourself anything
To sell yourself short
To yell on the inside
To inseminate and abort
In blindingly quick succession

And details too decadent to mention

But at least you have one thing
Of which you can be certain
 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 

As an artist

I don't have to tell you what that is
Now do I