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Getting There

15/7/2018

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It was my first day at a new school. Not only that but I was starting in the middle of the year. And it was a new country for me; I had just arrived. Greeted by snow and civil, gentle people speaking in a tongue I was unaccustomed to. The school, however, was an international one and English was the main language. Not Australian English, though.

I was from the bush, on the edge of Sydney, and a week earlier I was sitting in my old school, The Bush School, Wahroonga Public. Hand built, wooden shack style classrooms. I had only recently been shown a map of the world. I was used to running around barefoot, playing in the creek, climbing cliffs and avoiding venomous snakes. Now I was in one of the biggest, busiest cities in the world, sitting with a bunch of strangers from a variety of nations. Sons of diplomats, businessmen, wealthy families.

Where was Dom, from down the road? Jane Lumby, my very first crush? Mr. Harding, my fourth grade teacher - the kindest, warmest teacher I had met? Do they even have Twisties in this country? (No.) The school is massive! Multiple buildings of multiple stories. And everyone is dressed so formally! A tie? A jacket? Seems excessive. I’m a singlet kid. My hair is long-ish, I like being outside - playing. This all seems a bit serious all of a sudden. And now everyone is staring at me. I have been asked a question.

The new kid. Everyone is curious.

“Do they play basketball in Australia?”

I had seen the gymnasium earlier. It was humongous. This school was big on sports, competitiveness in general. We used to play chasings and the game with the four squares drawn in chalk and a tennis ball, but that was about it.

I must have seemed a little vague. I felt slightly overwhelmed. I knew my two brothers were out there somewhere in classrooms of their own, facing challenges of their own - but I doubt I could have found them in the sprawl. I didn’t like that feeling. As the eldest, I was protective of them. Liked to know where they were. And my parents. They had dropped us off - in a bright orange taxi. One that had an automatically opening back door. That was cool. But the driver did not speak a word of English. Luckily, my father had memorised three key place names - coordinates between where we were and where we were headed.

Tengenji. Furukawabashi. Isarago.

Maybe one day, I would need this knowledge myself. I learnt the sequence, speaking it to myself over and over, like a rhyme. Every morning my parents would accompany us in a taxi, drop us off and then carry on to the office - where my father’s business was. Before we arrived in Tokyo, he had slept there, on the floor on a futon. Getting things set up. He had convinced a select number of Australian companies - a glass manufacturer, a chemical company, an envelope company -  to give him seed money in exchange for representation in this exciting, rapidly growing new economy. He and my Mum had already taken the time to do an intensive course in Japanese language at ANU in Canberra in preparation. As well, he had visited Japan before, as part of a team representing his father’s chemical company. He had seen opportunity there, connected with the culture, appreciated the people. After all, they were in many ways like him. Thoughtful, considerate, forward looking.

So there I was, just a few days in to what was initially planned to be a two or three year adventure but turned into a protracted stay that would last two decades and shape and nourish my family and myself in untold ways. But this was still week one. I didn’t even really attempt to grasp what was happening and how things may unfold. I was just taking it a day at a time. It was exotic, novel, abuzz.

“Do they play basketball in Australia?”

It was the teacher asking me. Attempting to welcome me into the fold. Find out more from the sprightly but shy Aussie kid - probably the first that any of them had ever met. His accent was heavily American, a drawl. The school was populated by 50 different nationalities but the academic system was the American one. Many of the teachers were Canadian. Catholic brothers. And the majority of the other students were American.

I wasn’t sure. Some kids threw out explanations, mimicked ball bouncing, shooting for the hoop. I got it. Must be netball. I had seen girls playing back at school in Wahroonga. But only girls. So I told them.

“Yeah, only girls...”

But because I was a little Aussie and my accent must have been broad it came out sounding indecipherable to them. A mass ‘huh?!”

“Gills.”

What? Huh? Giggles, echoing.

“Only gills.”

It was an all boys school. Netball was for girls. Wasn’t it obvious? Why wouldn’t they even already know that? And why couldn’t they understand me. There are only two sexes in the world. Males and females. We were all male. Surely they knew about girls. (Though I hadn’t seen any there.) I was confused but persistent.

“Gills, gills...”

It became kind of absurd. A guessing game. Lots of kids were laughing, shouting out speculations. Mr Potter was determined to get to the bottom of it.

“Is that a sport in Australia?”

“No! Gills. Only gills play it.”

Blank faces. Giggling.

The whole thing had gone from being a simple question to a minor international incident. The flow of the class had been disrupted. I felt out of place, indeed, I briefly questioned my entire grasp of and understanding of reality. There are women in this world, right? I saw some on the way here in the taxi!

Tengenji. Furukawabashi. Isarago.

Gills! Gills! Gills!

I couldn’t quite work out how to explain them.

Then finally, I figured it out. Since they are too complex, mysterious to define, I can say what they are not.

“Not boys. Boys don’t play it....”

Instantly a bright flash of light, comprehension illuminated the room and all in it. The puzzle had been solved.

“Oh, grrrrrrrrls! Grrrrrrrrrrls!”

“Yeah.” I meekly shrugged. Like, obviously. What a saga!

Everyone clapped and laughed raucously.

Then the energy moved on. I was relieved. First test passed. A thousand more to come. The adventure had just begun.


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Yeah Nah

10/6/2017

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I'm sitting here in the cafe, working on a couple of new projects simultaneously on my iPad. A new book, some cover designs, the content framework for a future keynote presentation. I look up and notice a dad in his early thirties with his wife and baby. And I think...​

Hmmmm, I never did that. I skipped it somehow.

I had some chances. I lived with some beautiful women in my twenties, thirties and forties. I dated quite a few. I had sexual intercourse - the thing you do to make babies - with even more.

But no babies appeared.

Relationships came out of nowhere and dissolved just as mysteriously. Some only weeks, others for years. I did get married once. In my twenties, but I knew that one was not right for me. I wanted out even before I tied the knot. (It's a long story.) I am glad that I got to experience being married, but ultimately, I am glad that I did not make kids that time.

If I had had some with some of the others - you know - if it had happened that way, well, I think I would've been cool with it. Embraced it. Some of my girlfriends were very lovely, special women. And they went on to have children with subsequent partners.

Some of them, I don't know what happened. They are from other countries and I haven't seen or heard from them in decades. They are from Sweden, the US, New Zealand, Italy and Japan. I broke up with some of them but with some we were separated by continents and just drifted apart. To be honest, I can't even remember the family name of some of them. But I will never forget their beautiful personalities, their spirits, our times together. Sitting here now, in some ways I lament our separation. There are probably three or four women that if they appeared here, right now, in front of me, and they wanted to be together again - right now - I imagine I would. But life doesn't work like that. Have you noticed?

So, I see families and I ask myself. Would you rather be in that situation? A father, a husband? I think about it. Mostly, the answer is no.

No, I am happy here. Happy to be single. To be free. To be unattached. If it was the other way round, I would be happy, too. But this is the way it is. I'm fifty six. It's unlikely that I will be making a family henceforth. And I'm cool with it. I really don't like being hemmed in. I like as little responsibility as possible. I don't respond well to demand made upon my time or my person. I don't like drama, uneasy compromise. I can handle it for a while but eventually it wears me down.

I've got a way of living and it suits me. I've become accustomed to being alone. I like not having attachments. I can do as I wish. Once in a while, very rarely, I will feel a little lonely but it's not for long and it's not with regrets. Emotionally, I am self sufficient. I know myself through introspection and deep reflection, through blood and guts, down in the dirt interaction with life. The link between me and my creativity is sinewy and powerful. I am at home in an immense imagination, a unique and multi flavoured relationship with the metaphysical and it's quirky and mesmerizing relationship with the actual.

I've been in relationships and I know how it is. It can be great but the price you pay for the upside is quite high, too high for me. Too much has to be given up, too much of the stuff that I savour - independence, spontaneity, irregular hours, long periods of focused pursuit of my art forms - have to be foresaken. I don't think it would be fair to deny a partner or children my attention to the degree I would have to in order to be as devoted and productive as I currently am with my creative endeavors with which I am fully engaged. Every day. And night. For many hours. Time undefined, uninterrupted.

Nah. Things are as they should be.

Don't get me wrong. I love children. Really, really love them and know how absolutely delightful, how wonderful they are. The best thing in the world. But I have my godsons and I have been lucky enough to be closely involved with their journeys so far - from birth to young men. It is one of the most important and vital aspects of my life. I feel lucky to have our connections. So, I guess, that is enough for me. It's a step removed, a big step, but it suffices. They are a true blessing in my life.

Not having a family of one's own is a big thing in many ways. But thinking about it now, it feels like destiny made my choices for me. Things just went this way. Having a spouse and a family and a house and a job... it's not how it has turned out for me. My path is off the beaten track. I chose not be contained, the stories are still being written, the form is still being found. Not being defined in the conventional way, my future is open ended.

In some ways I am the same as I was when I was at ten, at sixteen, at twenty nine, at forty; a loner, a dreamer, a wanderer. Making it up as I go. And I guess I like it that way. No point in looking at what I don't have and lamenting. No doubt, I would have loved to have raised a family, risen to the occasion. But I couldn't have done what I have, become who I am. You can't have it all.

Yeah. Things are as they should be.

Yeah, nah. Yeah, nah.

Yeah, nah.
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Writing in Cafes

9/1/2017

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     It's some my favourite time - sitting in cafes.
I order a coffee (just one these days), get my iPad out, set it up, open Pages and begin to type. It might be a poem, some lyrics for a song or it might be a snapshot of my headspace - like this one - where I just start writing and keep going. Once I learnt to take the pressure off myself - eradicate the false belief that what I record has to be of outstanding merit, have direction, be impressive - I began to enjoy just going and flowing, letting the moment guide me. Like surfing. Like lots of things like that.

There's usually some cool music playing in the background - Bob Marley at the moment - and people coming and going. A veteran observer of human nature, I sporadically look up from my screen and take in the scene. Of course I am drawn in by the allure of pretty girls but they by no means dominate my attention. I scan everyone - looking for their unique style, flavour, flair. I overhear bits and pieces of conversations - just snippets; much more interesting to fill in the gaps I find than hear dialogues in their entirety . Only very rarely is there anything worth continued focus. Better just to perceive the voices as pepper on top the merging clank of cutlery, the grinding coffee machine, the background song stream and the transient traffic noise. I mostly zone out, sound wise, and inhabit a cavern inside my head.

None of this is unique to me, of course, it's a simple and common human pleasure. What is less common, though, is the daily practice of writing in said cafes. Anyone who does it will know the pleasure I am talking about. It's dreamy because you are fully present in reality but also concentratedly attended to your inner world, your creative voice. There's a musical interplay between the two. You are open to outside influences but at the same time self-trained not to allow the extraneous to distract you from your mission.

I apportion my coffee to last for close to an hour; sometimes a little more, sometimes I'll order a second round. I don't eat on these occasions. It is too distracting, saps my energy. Food is an easy high. Writing is like a long bicycle ride - you just want to stay hydrated and have enough calories to keep going and that's all. You need to keep your eyes on the road (the screen) and your body moving (fingers tapping).

In the old days (ha ha) (the eighties), before portable computers, I used write long hand in my journal. Over the years I filled fifty or sixty of them - the content of which often ended up in one of my zines. As a bonus, too, back then, I used to befriend and sometimes have romances with the waitresses. At least two of my all time top five girlfriends were met this way. There are also a handful of close girl friends (two words) that I still have as close friends that also worked as waitresses back in the day. 

I still make easy friendships with cafe staff these days, friendships that extend beyond the establishments, but romances are rarer because of the ever increasing age difference. Yeah, I’m getting older. I've been doing this now, writing in cafes, for thirty five years. Not surprisingly, I am most productive in the times when I have been unattached. And most (potentially) reproductive in the other times. 


I used to get lonely, way back, write laments and wishful-thinking sonnets about how it could be, would be, if I could just find the right one (the next one). Then eventually, I'd find myself thrown in a gristly and delightful affair for a while (during which I wouldn't write as much) until I would be deposited back on the sandy banks of shore, solo again. Back in my seat at whichever was my fave cafe at the time - in Kings Cross, Bondi, Byron or overseas occasionally - scrawling heartfelt words of insight and speculation. I don't get lonely anymore. In fact, I treasure my solo time. I have never been much of a talker. Silence is my friend. Solitude my sanctuary. I learnt the long way round that nobody else can cure the existential angst of existence. There are some beautiful distractions but that is the extent of what they are - to me anyway. 

I never got around to having a family. It just didn't happen. I was married and divorced while still in my twenties and since then I had probably three live together relationships in which making babies may have been an option - had things been (slightly) different. But things are what they are. I rarely feel regret - as much as I love babies and kids - and I know how rewarding it is to nurture them and watch them grow. Luckily, I have two beautiful, precious godsons whom I love dearly and I have a heartfelt and purposeful part in their upbringings. I also have two nephews in San Francisco, who are close to my heart.

At a time when I could have been considering family production options, in my late thirties/early forties I chose instead to spend a couple of wildly playful years, clubbing and partying. They were undoubtably two of the best years of my life (so far) which would never have happened if I had created a family of my own. Cafes have been a generous source of relationships for me but bars: bars were my diamond mines. For a few years there, I was a very rich man, metaphorically. The film, Saturday Night Fever, was released when I was sixteen and was hugely influential. Something about the electric energy of the night, the music, the group intoxication, unshackling. Searching souls finding temporary sanctuary together. Seduction. Conquest and surrender. It's a fantasy land. Temporary, intensified, unrestricted. Like Earth, Wind and Fire smoothly harmonised: Boogie Wonderland!  

I just not a couples guy, I guess. I like being free to do what I want when I want. I seemed to prefer relationships that start at night, that burn brighter and burn out faster. Download/upload it all in one go. Saturate. Stay together until it flatlines. Then unplug.

I was an incurable romantic in my twenties and thirties - but no longer. I got cured. Relationships cured me. Women still take my breath away, make me giddy, awe me with their alluring, mysterious qualities but I no longer want to commit or possess. We're all on loan anyway - even in the most enduring connections. Nobody is anybody else's answer. 
So here I sit, alone. Doing my thing. Everybody needs a thing. For some it is kite surfing, photography, zumba, making fresh pasta, travel, relationships. For me, it's this. And, I do hope you realise that I am talking to you. Not in physical form, not verbally, but mind to mind. Spirit to spirit. I am saying, hello, this is me. No small talk. Just the juicy stuff. How alike are we, in our own ways? How different? 

We all draw from the source. I get access this way. Writing in cafes. And I dig it.

Tap, tap, tap. Sip. Tap, tap, tap. Look up. Consider. Tap, tap, tap. (Rpt)

How about you - what turns you on?


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20 lessons from 14

26/12/2014

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1. You can go lower than you thought.
2. You can come back from lower than you thought.
3. Not all friendships endure.
4. People influence other people. Not always in a good way.
5. It doesn't matter how good you think you are - it's a delusion.
6. Time can be both a friend and an enemy.
7.
8. Getting older (50 and beyond) can be fascinating and enlightening - but you need to let go of some stuff and pay attention to what you've got.
9. Kids are pretty much the best things in the world.
10. Romance is mutual delusion. Sometimes it will carry you through to something of substance. Sometimes it will dump you on your arse.
11. If you can be good friends with yourself; it helps.
12. As time ahead diminishes; focus sharpens, energy is reserved for what is essential.
13. Laughter is still, and always will be, the best drug.
14. Laughter shared is even better.
15. Any kind of judgement of others is probably wrong. At best it is a waste of time.
16. The smallest things are often the greatest.
17. Some dreams - those no longer attainable - are to be released into the night sky. This makes way for new ones.
18. Consider yourself lucky.
19. When you can (or must) - step up to the plate and give it your best swing. Don't let too many pitches fly past. 
20. Magic can happen at any time. Don't be prepared.
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    ART GETS ME HIGH

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    Author & Artist

    Lewie JPD 
    Blog Mission Statement: 

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

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


    Disclaimer: He's high!
    Er, obviously.

    Pass the paint brush!
    *no drugs required

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