You ever listen to a crazy guy
On the street corner
For a while longer than you normally would
Because maybe he has something worthwhile
Maybe there is a gem in there
A diamond amongst the rubble
A tiny missing piece of the jigsaw
The one that's been giving you trouble

You are hyper aware
With super sentientience to spare
Attune, you can zoom in
To what is going on around you
Even though you zone out a lot of the time
Because essentially convention bores you

You used to like to sit still like a Buddha
In busy urban places
Bustling with people 
Gaze at the passing faces
As they traversed in multidirections 
Feeling awash by humanities magificence
Was one of your favoured predilections
It gave you a charge
Made you feel trippy 
You did it in Tokyo
You did it in New York and LA
You did it in Kings Cross, Sydney
And sometimes still now in Mullumbimby
But you wouldn't call that busy

You used to be thrilled and delighted
More often
Appetites extreme, immense
Unlimited confidence
Adventures bold
Romances intense
At times, it should be mentioned
You were stifled by depression, 
Melancholia, anxiety
Yeah, you got attacks
But you sought assistance 
And it helped
That, and yoga, and swimming laps
Rebalanced you
Got you back on track

One thing you know for certain
For damn sure
Is that you experience life
Deeply, acutely
The good bits - that you love
And the bad bits, the nasty bits
Those hellish, horrible ruthless hits
You've faced them front on 
And survived
To fight another day in another way
Within this realm from which there is but one escape

Flicks of faith in a sceptic's flavour
Abandoned ideals
No longer wastefully waiting for your saviour
In this gritty realisation
This overwhelming drama dream
Certainly infinitely more complex than it initially seemed

More dire and demanding than ever expected
Don't always get what you've projected
New age optimism has felt the pinch
That new world outlook has a fallow tinge
But like that crazy guy said:
Everything would be sweet as shit
If I could just get out of my head

No clear idea what is coming next
Some days you wanna just stay in bed
But glad you did not today
Cause you wouldn't have met that parameter buster
And gained new insight, a brush with luster 
You wouldn't have been inspired to transcribe this verse
You wouldn't have progressed with the prescribed course
In coming to terms with what is, what is
And that - it seems - is what this is
A noble attempt to expound what is that is what it is
What it is, what is

 It was by no means a planned thing, in the way that most of the good things that happen to you are not.

I was living in Byron Bay. My first place was a share with my best friend (from Sydney) and her new husband (a monk from Queensland) and their new baby (my dearly loved godson). We hung out for a few years and then the house got sold. They found a cool spot pretty quickly but it was a smaller place (as in no room for me), so I had to find a share elsewhere. It came as a surprise and I had to scramble. I found a place in Lilli Pilli. The bedroom was tiny but I got full use of the garage and made it my den, workspace, think space, man cave. The woman I was sharing with was a published, celebrated writer and a member of Mensa (IQ around 140). It was her place and her rules but we got along just fine. Two quirky people, each into their own thing, their own worlds, making light contact on the reality plane every once in a while. There was mutual respect and appreciation with the tiniest hint of attraction. But we both knew the consequences of letting that grow, so we kept the space between us steady. I mean, she was in Mensa, she could work that much out. Sleeping with a flatmate. Er, no. She was too big a personality, too grand and refined a mind, too much someone who is the master of her own universe, I believed, to entertain the notion of a intimate union. It would have been gloriously wonderful. Until the first disagreement. You know? One of those kinds of chemistries. So, after a year or so, I moved out. Again, the place got sold. I enjoyed the time there, made the best of an unusual arrangement and dynamic and I think she did, too. If we had been ten years younger (we were early forties) or perhaps had gotten really drunk one night, things may likely have been different. And not better. So leaving with respect and a mild affection for each other was the optimum result. But I wasn't sure where to go next. 

My friend, the monk, told me there was a small room - a bit like a cabin - attached to the main residence. It had jsut enough space for my bed and my desk. It was vacant at the time and was offered to me as a temporary solution. It was part of a Buddhist temple and Zen Do (pronounced 'doe'). The head monk, from Japan, lived in the main house. There was also a room in there for a monk in training/his assistant and a meditation hall that was used by the monks twice a day as well as occasional visiting practitioners. 

I fit in easily. I grew up in Japan and speak Japanese and, more importantly, know how the Japanese behave. It's all about respect, politeness, deferment, consideration. And from my experience, this is true on every level in Japanese life. Their society is highly evolved and their social behaviour is elegant and refined. Much of my connection with the head monk was on this unspoken level. It's a way of being that is deeply ingrained in the Japanese and it makes for fluid interaction. Of course, on top of that, the master was a man of highly evolved consciousness. I was very much aware that I was in the presence of a special person. What was so special? Nothing out of the ordinary. But after time and observation it became clear that his very ordinariness, his humility, his love for humour and levity, his dedication to his practice... all these added up to a being who had successfully transcended most of the trappings, the entanglements of 'normal' life and was someone to truly admire and learn from. 

I met and spent time with many of the monks. Some would stay for a few days, others weeks, a few for months. I got to know them all. All very different, different backgrounds, different stories, ways of being, reasons for practicing Zen. I got on well with almost all of them, became close with a few. 

Because I remained an outsider - I was the only one there not in training or already ordained - I was able to benefit from their teachings, their learnings and their struggles without being fully immersed or attached. This also allowed them to enjoy my company in a fresh way; I was just a long haired, mellow, artist dude hanging out there for an unspecified time (and reason). 

I have always enjoyed this role. Being part of something but at the same time, not. Being just on the outside of the circle. A free agent. 

Yes, it does mean that the final commitment is not there - which, in many cases - means that full integration, absolute engagement is not possible, which is sometimes risky and potentially unfulfilling - but it's a position I am comfortable with. In some funky, personal way, I find it fits. I like to go 98% there, then stop. It can be excruciating, infuriating (for others), frustrating, limiting. But at the same time, it can be highly rewarding. And in this case, my time at the Zen Do, it was. 

I did sit sometimes, I did consider becoming a monk, I did study and learn some of the ways. But, I knew, it wasn't my path. And beautifully, wonderfully, so did the master and most of the other monks. And still, they allowed me to live with them, eat with them, come and go as I pleased. It was truly a position of honour. 

Eventually, after three years, quite out of the blue, I was offered a chance to travel to the US to create and perform a comedic monologue in a festival in New York. My flight over was covered and a months accommodation. It was an invitation to change tack, a new path to follow. I decided to move over there, do the performance, then go and live in LA and follow one of my dreams and work as a screenwriter. It seemed right.

For the last two years while living at the Zen Do, I had my own comedy radio show at the local station. It involved twenty hours of writing per week for each show. Then, practice with a band of voice actors and ten or more original skits performed live each week. I was into developing and presenting comedic scenes and characters. My time at the Zen Do had given me peace and a place to focus on one of my passions. This gave me the confidence to accept the new challenge of America and to pack up (what little I had) and head West, er, Northeast. 

So, what did I learn there? What gems can I share, nuggets of wisdom that were garnered from living in such a special place as a lucky guest?

I learnt about simplicity, respect, humility, patience and focus. I learnt from watching, listening and thinking. Many of the monks, no, all of the monks, were flawed characters. But what set them apart was their dedication and devotion to something greater than themselves. A kind of reverence for life itself. Manifested in a practice of stillness and acceptance. 

Of course, you never 'get there'. Nobody was anything other than a humble being, struggling and suffering in their own way, with their own destiny. But, at times, there was great reward to be found in scuttling around the peripheries of nothingness. There was a quiet, delightful salvation within sight on a few occasions while sitting silently with these most admirable practitioners, these dignified, humble and humbling beings. 

Like just almost everyone else on the planet, I've always loved movies.
And like a large number of those people, I've always dreamt of working in film, making one.
And then, like most of that large number: I have tried - and failed.
Well, failed to reach my ultimate goal: to make one.

My attempts were valiant. And ongoing.

I was thirteen when I first announced to my parents my desire and intention to make movies of my own. Sadly, it was still the early seventies and such a declaration must have sounded rather far fetched to my father. It was quickly dismissed. I was told to work harder at school and stop getting in trouble lest I end up at the checkout at Woolies. I followed neither of those directives and while temporarily sublimating my instinctive goal, I focused on my natural skills: writing, art and comedy. I started keeping a regular journal of my ideas and stories. I immersed myself in books. I drew everyday, especially during class, when I was supposed to be listening to tedious lectures on history, physics and Latin (yes, Latin!). I shouted out pithy one liners during class, whenever the whim took me, and was vociferously encouraged by my classmates and reprimanded by the teachers. I did drama and choir. Video was non-existent back then and film was prohibitively expensive. I did make a few shorts on super8, but they were never even edited. Still, the spirit, the interest and the intention were there early.

Through art school and beyond, into my late twenties I kept journals with film ideas alongside my poetry and short stories. At around thirty I began publishing a zine, called Free Spirit, which included my written works with some comics. Think New Yorker, ha ha, but all the way at the other end of the spectrum. If New Yorker was a skyscraper, Free Spirit would be a single left over brick down in the basement. Still, for myself and a few friends and followers it was a brick that brought pleasure. It wasn't a brick that was used to bash in heads, it was a brick for love and peace and joy and butterflies and was full of influences from Woody Allen, Monty Python, Raymond Carver, Japanese haiku, Robert Crumb, David Hockney, National Lampoon magazine and 70's and 80's comic books and album cover art. In 1990, surrounded by fellow creatives, hanging out at the Tropicana cafe in Kings Cross, I was encouraged to apply to film school. I made it to the trial week and the personal interviews, the short-short list. The head of production, Gil somebody, got me, got where I was coming from. He said my creativity was undeniable but they believed that I would be stifled by 3 years in their institution. He recognised the rebel in me and surmised that I may tire of being imposed by guidelines and rule books and would drop out before the end of first year. They could not afford to risk it with me. Of course, I protested. "I'll be good!" I said. "I will stay!" But they were not convinced. Maybe they were right. I took it in stride. 

After gaining experience working with my brother, Mookie, on Japanese TV commercials as a bilingual production co-ordinator, I decided to invest some of my earnings in some short films of my own. Over the next few years, I completed five or six shorts on both video and super16mm. They were all comedies. Two of them made it as finalists in the Tropfest and were shown to an audience. The first one was in the inaugural year - so it wasn't that hard to get selected. There were only a dozen of us! The whole idea of the Tropfest was cooked up at a table in the Trop with me, Johnny Polson, Rob Mac, Stephen Fennely and a few aspiring filmmakers brainstorming about how to get our stuff seen. John took it further, ran with it on his own and meticulously built it into the wonderful celebration of film that it is still today.

Some of the titles of my shorts: Alpha in Tokyo, Santa in Sydney in Summertime, Bondi and I, Troo Lurv, Trust Me, Darling and Elevation - my final biggest budget one - shot on super 16 - that I never got to edit cause I ran out of money. The reels are still sitting in storage. Maybe one day. No. Maybe not.

For years I labored away at my first feature script. But it just wasn't gelling. Unlike story writing where instinct can guide you, scriptwriting is a craft that must be learnt. There is a format to adhere to. Much time can be saved by studying it. So I did a few night and weekend courses in Sydney and that helped. I also attended guru McKee's 3 day seminar - which was enriching and inspirational. The guy is a dynamo. But it wasn't enough to actually help me get my first script written. It did amp me up, though, and make me feel like it was going to be possible - that I would be able to make it happen. I loved the language of cinema, I loved the magic of creating something from nothing - and this was my new chosen form. I would not stop until I had done it. Written at least one complete script that I was happy with. (Then hopefully make it or see it made.)

 At the time there was a great little shop in Chinatown called the Script Shop - run by a good hearted and enterprising American film afficianado. They had all the best books on the craft - which was great - but as well, there were two big shelves full of actual scripts of classic and current films. I was his best customer. I think they were 20 dollars each with a bonus 6th one if you bought five. So, I'd go in there, almost every second weekend and get six of the freshest imports. Over a year or two I amassed a collection of many hundreds. I chose carefully - and read them all. Some screenwriters are truly talented and entertaining writers - as well as being good with scripts. A few of my favourites were Joe Esterhasz, Shane Black and ..... I really dug the brevity of the form. Not a word is superfluous. No wasted space. 


I took a leap of faith and invested all my savings to enroll in two summer courses in the US, one on each coast. At the International Film and TV Workshop in Maine, I studied with Robocop co-writer, Michael Miner and screenwriting expert, Christopher Keane. At UCLA I did the master screenwriting course with Lew Hunter as well as one with the dynamic Richard Walters and a third, night course with Phil Hartman, the co-writer of Pee Wee's Big Adventure. They were all fabulously instructive in their own ways. All five of the instructors taught me something worthwhile. While I was over there, I also attended the Hollywood Film Festival and soaked up stories and direction from the writer of Gandhi, John Briley, and others. It was a veritable feast of screenwriting. I was saturated and poised to commence scenarios of my own. 

One funny thing that happened to me while I was studying at IFTV in Rockport with Michael Miner was that as our final presentation we were to pitch, to the entire school, on the last day of the entire course for everyone (others were doing directing, producing, cinematography, etc), our favourite film idea. Each of us had five minutes and the live mike in front of the gathered audience of two or three hundred. I had been kind of quiet at first in the classes, just focusing and trying to take it as much as I could. Americans are a pretty vocal bunch and there was no point in competing. Inevitably, though, my cheeky side leaked out and I became that 'hilarious Aussie guy with the weird sense of humour.' 

An aside within the aside: One of the most useful things of the course was our one-on-one sessions with Michael. Each of us got an hour of so with him to discuss and brainstorm the actual script we were working on at the time and presented in order to be selected into the course in the first place. So everyone had at least a first draft. When Michael told us that two days would be spent with these one-on-ones I was a bit pissed. There were some cute girls in the group of about fifteen and I was suspicious that our six foot two, whiskey voiced, LA lothario, was just vying for alone time with some fresh honeys (with talent). The course was not cheap and I felt that losing two full days of face time - minus the private session - was bordering on rip-off. I even considered not going to the meeting at 'his cabin' in protest. 

But I did go. And, whoa!, am I glad I did. It was without a doubt, the most rewarding and useful hour or two on my screenwriting path up until that time. Micheal, who had written eleven features at that time, got paid pretty handsomely for Robocop (directed by Paul Verhoven, of whom I am, incidentally, a great admirer) and had optioned (for about 100K each) five or six others, knew his stuff! Surprise, surprise. A true mentor. We got on really well, clicked, and he knew all the right questions to ask me, suggestions to give and ideas to float to turn my hodge-podge of a script into a cohesive, potentially producible concept. I would still have to completely rewrite it, of course, but after our invaluable session, I knew where I was going. It was a truly enlightening and rewarding experience. I walked away high (not literally, although had been so inclined that may have been an option, too), and completely transformed as a screenwriter. How silly my initial reservations and petty and misguided mini outrage had been. Lesson learnt: get out of your own way.

So, back to the big night... everyone was huddled into a barn-like, makeshift auditorium. I chose not to present the script I was working on, but a new idea that I cooked up in situ. Of course, like everyone, I was a little nervous to get up in front of such a large group, but once I began - almost immediately - the crowd warmed to me and began with a snowballing laughter that ignited my spirit of playfulness and joy and made the presentation a hugely satisfying experience. Afterwards, there was an abundance of high fives and back pats and even an offer from a fast talking LA based young producer (who claimed a strong affiliation with Tarantinos' producer, Lawrence Bender) to help me get my idea produced once it was written. Of course, Michael, was proud as punch that one of his students was the star of the show. Once it was over, after a flurry of celebration for about  half an hour, it died down quickly and everyone returned to their individual temp dwellings. I was staying in a tiny road side motel, out the back of nowhere, as I had got in too late for the student apartments closer to campus. I retired to my little room with an crummy old tele and fell asleep satisfied and happy with a black and white classic humming away in the background, dreamt of a technicolour future.

The kicker is - and it's always good to have one - think The Usual Suspects - that my story was about a non-conformist, underdog, quirky dude and his wacky adventures. I made it as funny as I could but I was surprised at just how much laughter and egging on I was receiving from the crowd. Thing is, and I was to find out after it all, as one of them took me aside, was that my protagonist's name - and the title of the entire story - was Pud. Unbeknownst to me 'pud' in American vernacular means penis. Pud did this, Pud did that, I was naively flopping the word around to the wicked delight of the growingly raucous crowd.

On my return to Sydney, I immediately set myself to the task of writing and within less than a month I had completed the first draft of my first script. It was a wild, rollicking adventure-comedy set in Australia and New Zealand called Resident Alien. I joined the Australian Writer's Guild and registered it. Then I set about writing my second one. Followed by a third, fourth and fifth. I was powering. Full focus. Direction. Dedication. Obsession? 

Hell, yeah. That's how I roll. If Michael could write eleven, I could do half a dozen. I think number six was my first real chance at a go pic. It was called Tokyo Rush and was the coming of age story of a  young man graduating high school in Tokyo and spending his last summer there, partying at night in Roppongi and inadvertently getting dragged into life threatening drama with the Yakuza. It was a real page turner and I had high hopes for it. I took it with me on a return trip to Los Angeles but I had no great contacts or leads, and over there it was just one of thousands of scripts presented daily. It got buried. Lost. Ignored. I've never been a salesman, a hype man, a push person. With a shrug, I returned to Sydney, making notes for my next script on the plane back.

But number seven never eventuated. I had done my dash. In a way, I conceded. I went back to regular writing and self-published a book of my poems, stories and essays called 'All I've Ever Wanted Was What I Know I Can Never Have.' I had a great launch, sold all my copies, loaded up my old Rangey with my essentials and hit the road, headed up to Byron Bay to live for a while, see what was next.

CUT TO: Present day

I have no regrets about the entire time and process. I really loved it, in fact. I got right into something new and went as far as I could with it. Is there a number seven, number eight in me? For sure. They are there, waiting. Their time will come. I'm easy. I don't like to pressure myself about things. As long as I am doing something creative, numerous things actually, each day - whatever form they take - painting, drawing, writing - I'm OK with life. Cause that is my job. What happens with those things after I have made them has never been something of much concern to me. 

I feel lucky to have been granted a creative spirit. 
I revel in it, like a kid in a kid's pool. 
Listen carefully, and off in the distance, you might hear me.
I'm in it everyday, chuckling, squealing, flailing around with delight. 

"On a whim..."

Don't you love that expression?

Sometimes it leads to something surprisingly rewarding and magical.

After I moved to Byron Bay to live in the early 2000's after having lived in Bondi during the 90's, I welcomed a slowing down, a mellowing, new directions. I continued with my creativity, of course; working on what was going to be my second book of written works - poems, short stories, haiku and comedic fiction. I actually did finish it, even got it print-ready on Quark, but lack of funds at the time made self publishing it not possible. Then, the Mac that it was on - one of those coloured bubble ones - suddenly died and all 250 plus pages of it was lost. 

I took it in stride, though, and moved on to the next creative project: a series of zines called 'Idle'.

On a whim, though, I contacted a photographer who I had got to know when we worked on some Japanese commercials together. I said to him that if he was ever shooting up in the Byron area, that I would be happy to help out, work as his assistant. I had never done it before, but photography was half of my major in art school, as well I had observed assistants on set and location many times over the years and was confident that I could handle it. 

Maybe it was on a whim, too, that he rang me a few months later, saying that he was coming up for a shoot and was I ready. 

It was a sharp learning curve and I was a touch nervous on the first day but I quickly became adept at all the requirements. He'd brought a veteran first assistant along from Sydney who was patient and mentoring. 

That little job led to other shoots over the next couple of years - in Byron, the Gold Coast and Noosa. I became part of the team. He also referred me to a few other Sydney snappers and I got to help out on their shoots, also. It was mostly fashion - with gorgeous models, so I was smiling a lot. The teams were good spirited and fun loving and I was glad to have found a place amongst them. Being the lowest one on the totem, pay wise and responsibility wise, meant as long as I did my part with efficiency and style, I could be comfortably included in the teams. 

A few years later, when I was visiting LA, on a whim again, I mentioned to a photographer friend there what I had been doing and he invited me along to assist on his shoots in and around LA. That was an extra thrill - shooting celebrities and being an observer/fringe participant in the glamour and hype that pervades the industry there. I worked on half a dozen shoots. There was some tension, especially with a couple of the actresses who had frail egos and were overly pampered. The most interesting, spirited and down-to-earth celeb I encountered was Greg Kinnear. He was delightfully, open and friendly and we had a splendid day. 

Being an occasional photographer's assistant over those few years was an interesting and rewarding aspect to my existence that literally materialised out of nowhere and then disappeared just as ephemerally. All of it, from a faint notion, acted upon, and the smiling nod from the gods of serendipity. I like those gods and I'm grateful to them for the opportunities. They like it when you are open to adventure and willing to put out feelers. They reward you.

Where do they live, those gods? I don't know. But, it doesn't matter. They're never out of touch, no matter how dormant or non-apparent they may seem at times. So keep an eye out in left field. There could be a fly ball headed your way at any time. 

It's been over twenty five years now, so I feel like I can tell it.

It's a love story, a life story, a series of experiences and interactions between a man and woman over a one year full of passion, uncertainty, love, drama, excitement and romance.

It's a true story, one that I lived. An undeniably prominent and unforgettable relationship, unlike any other.

It was never ordinary.
It was never simple.
It was never boring.

A raging fire of a love affair that spanned three continents and oscillated between emotional highs and lows with wild abandon. I feel lucky and privileged to have lived it, to have been half of the equation but I am also aware that I paid the price. It was no free ride.

It began simply enough. A chance encounter at a dinner party. It was her last night in Sydney. It was an Italian restaurant in Kings Cross, there were more than twenty people present. Although she knew my brother, we had never met. Somehow, we were seated beside each other.

Looking back now, it all seems inevitable, really. Right from the start there were sparks, chemistry. We were both very different and neither of us entered the venue with any expectation of anything out of the ordinary occurring. But it did.

What was she like? She was a Californian girl, about thirty years of age. Italian American. Brunette. Olive skin. Deep, dark eyes. Medium height. I never thought of her this way - but if I was to attempt to build a visual composite from old school beauties I would say that she was mix of Raquel Welch, Sophia Loren, and Ali McGraw. She was wounded. There was sadness and rage. She was proud and accomplished - a high achiever. A self-made success story with a little something missing in her life. And that thing was companionship, connection, love.

Enter me. At that time I was around the same age, a true free spirit, a poet, a painter. Living a bohemian lifestyle; I had been unshackled since my divorce two years ealier - staying with family and friends, in motels, hostels, couch surfing, travelling up and down the coast from Bondi to Byron, even sleeping in my car when I had to (a Cortina, ornately hand painted like a true hippy mobile). My possessions were few, my commitments fewer. 

Was there something missing in my life, too? That same thing, perhaps? Did I realise it at the time? Probably not, I was too busy being free. Did I realise it after we spent that first night together in her Sebel Townhouse hotel room and she left the next morning? Maybe, some. And in the subsequent days, did I notice her absence? Indeed. Had a fire been lit? Was something grand created and then suddenly taken away? Yes, yes and yes. But, she was gone far away - back to the States. I thought of it as a dream night. Perfect, sumptuous, unrepeatable. 

When she rang me, from LA, a week or two later, I was surprised and delighted to hear her mellifluous, whispering, slightly raspy voice. She was someone who made things happen. A very successful TV commercial producer. She was not willing to let it go. File it under the most wonderful one night stand ever. She had a proposal...

Paris. She was headed there to shoot an ad the following week. She wanted me to join her. Would I? 

I can't afford it, I told her. I had less than a hundred dollars to my name. I'll pay, she said. For everything.

I was taken aback. I didn't expect that. I needed to think about it.

Don't think about it, she said. You have to tell me right now or it's off. Wow.

I've got to admit, on the plane going over, I was about as excited as I've ever been. I wrote poems, did sketches in my journal. I listened to CDs on my Walkman. It was a three leg, twenty four hour flight.... Singapore, Alaska, Paris. We disembarked at Anchorage. There was a massive bear in a glass case in the airport and a huge duty free shop. I couldn't afford to buy anything. But I didn't need anything. I was running on adrenaline and anticipation.

I got a taxi from Charles de Gaulle airport. As arranged, the concierge paid the driver. I went straight up to the room. There was a note. I'm working till seven. Go out, have some fun. When I get back we can go somewhere for dinner.

She loved good food and good restaurants. She smoked Marlboro Reds and drank Margaritas. Each night for the next ten days we would dine out somewhere exotic and special, drink and smoke, cab back to the hotel and make love. It was always tender and heartfelt. Never a showy or sporty or fancy kind of union. It was sex as a manifestation of emotion. Sex as a display of desire, yearning, opening up and tumbling into each other. After, we would fall asleep easily and quickly. In the mornings, she would be up early, ready for a challenging day shooting on location. Sometimes she would leave my some francs. One time, as a joke, she threw them on the bed as she was walking out. As though I was a whore. We laughed. I pulled her back onto the bed. She left late and her hair was messed.

In the days, I would roam the streets, go to art galleries and sit in cafes writing poems. I was the happiest poet in the world. Can you imagine one happier? No. I wrote a lot. She had a weekend off and I took her to my favourite spots - the Pompidou, a corner cafe in St Germaine, for a ride in the subways. 

It was perfect. Perfect. And then, it was over. We woke up after our most beautiful night together and suddenly it was time to go. She left early - meeting the crew downstairs, I left a few hours later. No one on her team even knew I was there. On the bus back to the airport I listened to Marvin Gaye, tears streaming down my face. It was immense. I was happy, sad, and everything in between. I was at the end of a dream. I didn't know if, or when, we would meet again. There were no promises made. But it was clear that what we had between us was precious and substantial.

We spoke on the phone when we could after that. This was the pre-mobile age. It was frustrating to be apart. We both missed each other. We came up with a solution. My parents were living in London at the time. She had a job coming up. A week in London and a week in Madrid. I didn't want her shouting me a second time, so I used what money I had saved and got across to London to visit my folks. When she arrived, I moved into the hotel with her. It was the same ritual - she would work during the days, we would go out to dinner at a high end restaurant, drink margaritas and wine, taxi back to the hotel and savour the rest of the night together. She introduced me to The Water Boys; her favourite band. 'The Whole of the Moon' was the theme song of not only that trip but our entire affair. It's poignant, emotional, a cry from deep within. 

One night towards the end of the London trip, one of the waitresses in one of the restaurants took a liking to me and could not conceal it. The atmosphere got quickly tense and jealousy reared it's ugly head. In the cab home, we had our first argument. I professed my devotion and honestly told her that there was nothing to be upset about. I was 100% committed. But, she fumed for a while. She was threatened that the slightest amount of my attention went elsewhere, even just for a moment. I saw a side of her previously undisclosed. Back in the room, she calmed down and our lovemaking was more intense than before.

Arriving in Madrid was exciting as well. I got there during the day. My job was to seek out some great places to dine. Again, it was pre-internet, so I used guide books. I found some hot spots and the food was amazing. As is the tradition in Spain, we ate later that elsewhere. This allowed us a few hours playtime before dinner as well. 

On the second or third night we were dining in a delightful Spanish restaurant, sitting in the courtyard. We were overlooked by stylish balconies of local residents. It was a community atmosphere. When we arrived a young girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen, saw us and waved. She must have sensed how in love we were from our affectionate behaviour and she seemed somewhat captivated. She stayed in her place and gazed down at us from a distance. When we glanced up at her a few times, she returned a beaming smile, full of warmth and appreciation. 

Towards the end of the meal, while we were waiting for dessert an older woman came around with some roses. On impulse, I bought two. I ceremoniously gave the first one to my lover. The other one, I announced, I wanted to give to our devoted fan, still watching our every move. I stood up, walked a few steps towards the balcony and threw it up to her. She caught it and beamed with happiness and appreciation to have been acknowledged. When I turned around the table was empty. Thinking she had gone to the bathroom, I sat down and waited. She was not coming back. The maitre'd informed me that she had left, stormed off.

My heart sank. I felt that feeling when all the air is sucked out of the atmosphere. Oh, no. This is not good. Really not good. 

And it was bad on many levels. Just paying the bill used up more than half the money in my possession. Then there was one other thing. I did not take proper note of the name of the hotel we were staying at. I had no idea what to tell the taxi driver, one who spoke no English. Somehow, after driving around for close to an hour, using my internal GPS and a mix of luck, we found the place. The cab fare cleaned me out. I was pretty stressed and kind of angry. I was never a fan of drama and this was drama.

To make things worse, I had to key to the room and she refused to let me in. After arguing, negotiating through the closed door, she finally relented when I told her to just throw my bag out, that I was leaving. She let me in. She cried as I reassured her of my love, our love. She apologised for being insecure. It was the drink, she was tired, it was confusing... Of course, I forgave her and all was good for the rest of the stay in Spain. Leaving again was difficult and I returned to Sydney.

Three months later, she told me on the phone that she had booked me a ticket to New York City. She had a job there and wanted us to meet. I was leaving in three days. 

I decided that our love affair, our connection, was real, truly special. It demanded that I honour it, and her, with a proactive decision and action. I used my entire savings and bought her an engagement ring. It was just one diamond, but I spent a long time finding the best looking ring I could find within my means. I was going to ask her to marry me.

What I remember of New York in that trip is mostly the plush Park Avenue hotel room. We spent a lot of time there. I also remember studying that wine coloured Zagat guide, doing my job selecting and booking the evening's restaurant. It was a culinary indulgence, a luxurious treat. Money was never an issue. Not only did she pay for all our meals in every city, but she was a generous tipper. 

Is it OK to do what I am doing, I sometimes wondered. She is paying to have me around. Am I keeping within the boundries of my personal integrity, I would ask myself. 

But I felt I wasn't. It was just the way it was. I was extremely lucky to be where I was. It was fate. 

I never did anything that compromised my own morality. I was never fake, I never lied or acted any way other than was true. I was extremely grateful and always thanked her and let her know how much my sharing was appreciated. 

We talked about it. What else am I going to spend my money on? she would say. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me. You make me happy, you make me feel free. Being able to see you and be with you after a hard day's shoot means so much to me. It is as much a dream come true for you as it is for me. I believed her. Whatever the financial dynamics were, our emotional bond was undeniably based on equality, honesty, passion and deep, heartfelt desire. We had to be together.

The ring was burning a hole in my pocket. I wanted the timing to be right. I waited until our last night in New York. The restaurant I chose was the landmark, opulent Cafe Des Artistes on the upper West Side. We had finished our meal and were drinking champagne. I reached into my coat pocket and pulled it out. I can't recall my exact presentation procedure, but I am sure I attempted to make it as romantic as possible without being corny. She was surprised and delighted. She said yes. 

I can't recall the exact way things happened after that but when she was coming back from the bathroom I was chatting to a waitress. We might have been sharing a laugh or a brief moment. Whatever it was, my new 'fiancee' didn't like it one bit. She went into a rage, like a sudden cyclone. She took off the ring and threw it in her champagne glass. I was speechless. For a moment I considered leaving it there. But I picked it out. I went  outside. She was attempting to hail down a taxi. When one pulled up, I jumped in beside her. She started crying. I said nothing. We got to the hotel and went to the room in silence. It was tense and uncomfortable. And in my opinion, completely out of order and unnecessary. It was become clear that this was a pattern. A emotional anomaly. Something was out of whack. I realised that each time these things happened, we had consumed quite a few drinks. That was surely part of it. But the reactions were so extreme. The anger so fierce. The response inappropriate. It felt disrespectful, damaging. 

We went to bed together, after separate showers. Eventually we made up. In the morning, when I woke she was in tears. 

I left my ring behind. I can't believe what I have done...

I hugged her. I've got it. If you still want it.

Of course I do. I am so sorry.

Things were back in place. We were OK again. Another storm weathered. My flight out of NY was after hers. She got back to LA before me. My flight back to Sydney was through LA and I had an 8 hour lay over. She picked me up from the airport and we went to her house. It was interesting and kind of strange to actually be in her home. It seemed to me, from my observations, that it was somewhere she spent little time. It needed more attention, warmth. I got an idea.

Why don't I stay here? I suggested. In LA. We can live together. I have nothing that demands I immediately return to Australia. Why don't we try actually being with each other on a day to day basis, in a more grounded way. 

It felt like an opportunity in a way. It came to me in the moment and I shared it. 

She thought about it but I think it was too fast. My plane was supposed to be leaving in a few hours. It was a big decision either way. She went with maintaining the status quo.

Once again, I was up in the air. Heading back to Oz.

Six months passed. It was excruciating. A little heartbreaking. Talking on the phone was like a cruel tease. She was busy working on more shoots within the US. Arizona, NY again. I suggested she come visit, even stay. Or I could fly back over. But she wouldn't commit.

Long distance relationships are so, so hard. Two months is the limit, I believe. My limit anyway.

I could not put my life on hold. I just carried on as I would. Did my thing. Went to art gallery openings, plays, parties. Along the way I met some lovely women. None captivated me like she did, but a few times there was intense and immediate attraction. I didn't know what was going to happen, so I went with the flow. I went with what reality was presenting to me in the moment. That's the way I live.

Our communications had dwindled to just a trickle. I took it in stride. Glad for what we had had. But I knew she was a tied to her job and was afraid of letting it all go for love. I couldn't blame her, she had more to loose than me. 

When she rang, though, and told me she was coming back to Australia for a shoot, I was pretty happy. Mostly. Actually, a little conflicted. The suffering involved in a long distance relationship did not suit me. I wasn't sure if I wanted to re-ignite the flame, only to have it extinguished again. But she still had my ring, as well, it was far too special a relationship to give it every chance.

Her shoot was to be up in Cairns but her first night was in Sydney. She was staying at the same hotel, The Sebel Townhouse. Back where it all began. We met for dinner in a restaurant on Kellet Street, just nearby. Seeing each other again was electric. It was all still there. Dinner was wonderful.

I made the choice to be completely honest and up front with her. I told her that in the interim, during our time apart, although I had not gone out with any other women, that I did hook up briefly with three women. 

She seemed to take it well and said that she appreciated me being open and honest with her. She said that she had not been with anyone. We went back to the hotel and our night together was as though we had never been apart.

It was a long week, while she was in Cairns, waiting for her to return so that we could discuss a future. 

When she did come back we went for dinner and then went back to the hotel. Everything was beautiful. 

We made love. It was passionate.

Then, right in the final moments, right after the crescendo, in the space between hitting the highest high and floating back to earth, she looked me straight in the eyes, her hands around the back of my neck and said...

While I was away in Cairns on the shoot, I fucked a guy in the crew.

Bang.

I got off her. I got up and got dressed. I felt physically sick. My head was spinning. I will never forget the feeling of that moment.

I walked out. It was over.

A few weeks later, I get a call from LA. It's her. She is crying. She tells me how sorry she is. How wrong it was, what she did. She tells me she has to see me. We have to talk. In person. I tell her it's too late. She says, no, I am coming. I have to see you. I have already booked my ticket. I arrive tomorrow. Please, please, if even a skerrick of anything good remains, please come to The Sebel tomorrow night. Just to talk. Just so we can talk.

I tell her, don't come. I don't want to see you.

She says, I'm coming. I will be there.

I admired her conviction and gumption. There were some burnt embers still there but not much. Mostly it was a damp, smoldering, unpleasant heap of ash and wet coal.

But I went. I went to her room. She was lying on the bed. She tried to seduce me. I could not do it. I could not let it happen. What she had done was unforgivable. Once again, I walked away. This time, though, there was no anger. Just sadness.

A week later, I got an padded envelope in the mail. Inside was  a small dried rose and some barbed wire wrapped around it. Attached to the barbed wire was the ring.

Nice touch. I had to smile. 

I sold it at a hock shop the next day.

End of chapter. End of story.

So this is where I am at in a loose timeline with my creative life:

On the strength of my comedy radio show, The Wonderful Thing, on Bay FM and my comedic monologues in '05 and '06 for the writing competition Once Upon A Deadline (you can view the actual performances here), I was invited to perform an original comedy piece in NYC at the New City Theatre as part of The Globesity Festival. As luck would have it a close friend of mine in LA was going away on a film shoot and invited me to house mind in Santa Monica for the subsequent six months. The plan was to hook up through some existing contacts and try and get a TV writing gig. I'd completed my UCLA screenwriting courses a few years previous and had written six features by then, so I was confident and ready to attempt living and working there. As fate would have I landed during the infamous (and extended) writer's strike. No work for anybody. 

Cut to arriving back in Australia, still amped and hungry to write / make things happen. I approached the legendary comedian Austentayshus with some film ideas and we did some brainstorming together. Nothing on film came from it but a friendship evolved and Austentayshus invited me to go on a stand-up tour with him and see if I liked it. I was part of a duo - two dumb, Ocker doormen - called The Boing Boyz. I had done stand up solo before on numerous occasions - but never billed and paying gigs.

Let's just say it was a learning experience. What I learnt was stand up is fucking hard. As much as I love comedy and enjoy performance, the pressure and expectation from pub and club crowds tests the mettle of the most devoted. I surrendered. Lesson learnt - stand up was not for me.

Back to painting. I was sleeping on the floor (on a futon) of my parent's walk-in-wardrobe at the time. Almost fifty, yes. I had made it! They were kind and gracious enough to put up with my presence for a number of years as I re-established myself. But was I ever established in the first place? Hmmm... Regardless, I boldly decided to have an exhibition of small works (done in the wardrobic space) of a couple less than fifty paintings called '48 Reasons To Love'. The show went pretty well and encouraged more painting. 

Around that time I met a kiwi girl who also liked art and we made a studio in her Bondi garage. I went to the studio everyday and produced a large volume of works. And they were larger. From there I had two more shows of my paintings. Cut to the dramatic break up. Worst part: no more studio. Hundreds of orphan paintings stored in a-friend-of-a-friend's garage, then when she moved half in another benevolent friend's garage and the rest in the spare room of a divorced guy I knew from poker. 

With nowhere to go to physically paint anymore I was excited and uplifted to discover a symbiotic and rewarding relationship with digital creation. The newly released Samsung Galaxy Note had a large screen, great colours and a nifty S-Pen that allowed me to create a new studio - one that I could carry in my pocket. I created new works everyday in cafes, at the library and in my car, parked at the beach during the day or outside a club at night, waiting for the next poker game to commence.

For the next two and a half years, I made new pictures. I was able to find a way to print the best ones as limited edition art prints and had three successful exhibitions of the works. 

After doing 5,000 of these images, the newest generation of the Note, the Note4 was released. I got it on the release day. It was wonderful to have jumped from one to four. The quality and speed improvements were huge. I was excited. But doing more of the same didn't feel right. It felt like the end of that era. I had graduated. Somehow I decided to work only in black and white. And to include text. And to make them observational, commentary, funny. You know, like comics. Yeah, they were comics. And, with a bit of focus and devotion and trial and error... they came pouring out. 

So, I've done 2,000 of them now. We're in the present. I have decided to collect them and put them in a book. A paperback of 200 or so pages. Actually, three of them. A trilogy. So I have gone back through all the work and selected the top 600. The ones that will be published. I'm going to start with the first book, first. Makes sense. There are considerable processes involved - using Photoshop (which I have skills with) and InDesign for the formatting (which I will have to learn). But, I have my mission. I plan to have the first, self-published, run out by year's end. And, the other two in reasonably quick succession. 

Comics are fun because they make people smile and laugh and feel good about life. And that's something I have always enjoyed. So, it's a good place to be in.