r​I was lying on my bed just now, awake and mellow, mind drifting from thing to thing after a half hour early evening, post-dinner, pre-slumber nap (a rare but occasional indulgence) when my mind traversed back to a time around the year 2K when I briefly dated a twin. I cannot remember her name but she was petite, fit, blonde, somewhat chirpy, somewhat ordinary and just as complex and undefinable as all of us. (Covered my bases with that description!) I met her at the Middle Bar in Sydney during a time when it was customary for me to go out to bars and clubs regularly and seek out exciting and engaging encounters with women. I was around forty, single, I had my own (rented) pad in Bondi, a steady, disposable (evidently) income and a new found passion for the nightlife. It was a good time in Sydney to be doing this with some great clubs and bars around Kings Cross and Oxford Street.
 
On this particular night, I had already spent a few hours at my favourite, super-classy, lush, delightful bar called The International. It was always my starting point. I would get there at about 9pm, dressed in all black - slacks, shirt, jacket and (cowboy or motorcycle) boots. I would wear interesting necklaces (purchased from market jewellers in Sydney and overseas), a thick leather wrist band, chunky rings (including a gold one that used to belong to my grandfather). I had long hair and a goatee. I wore a single rose gold encrusted diamond (were they real?) in each ear. Before going out I would have a shower, spray or  dab on one or two eau de colognes (Burberry, CK, Acqua di Gio, Hugo Boss... I had twenty or more mini bottles lined up to choose from), blow dry my hair, slick it back a little with coconut oil, and sometimes dab some glitter gel on my temples. For a while there I even took to applying temporary tattoos on either side of my face - simple line motifs a la Mike Tyson. I was not a wall flower, let's put it that way. For me it was theatre. I was playing a role. Romeo, the pirate, the seducer, the poet, the lothario, the lover. Dressing up like this was part of my confidence and my bravado - an identity I could assume; one that made things clear to the women I met: I was available. Fantasies fulfilled - apply here. A sense of danger - but safe. Street - but articulate. Mysterious - but accessible. A dark loner - but not if you join me. Etc.
 
The International closed at midnight. I knew the managers, the doorman and all the bar staff. I was a regular and a good tipper. Years later, one of the managers told me that I was their best and most regular patron. I had a spot at the bar, right on the corner, just outside the enclosure that became my spot. There was joking talk of putting a plaque there. Drinks were not cheap but they were worth it. Cocktails. My drink of choice was the Cadillac. A margherita base in a heavy tumbler glass, over ice, salt rimmed, with a splash of Grand Marnier. Mmmm...  I loved them. Every second or third drink was free - courtesy of the barmen. Although the first one often went down pretty quickly, I paced myself over the three hours. I enjoyed getting to the perfect point, thoroughly relaxed but completely alert. After all, I was on a mission. Sometimes, I would go home with a lady straight from the International after closing, but often, I would, friend in hand or solo, at the Middle Bar - walking distance, at the top of Oxford Street.
 
There, too, I knew all the staff, and had the pleasure of being able to forego the queue and be waved through by the doorman and duty manager. It's a great feeling, I won't lie. I was sixteen when Saturday Night Fever was released, after all, and Tony Manero taught me how to float on air. So, it was at the Middle Bar, at maybe two or three (closing time) when I sat down on a couch next to the pretty girl in a dress. She had been out with some friends celebrating something. She was a little tipsy and she wasn't ready to call it a night. We connected pretty quickly, effortlessly, seeing in each other a similar need and desire, a way out of the regretful and defeating return home alone when spirits are still high and willing. We held hands as we sat there. It was kind of innocent and almost cute. It certainly felt natural and meant-to-be and yet, at the same time, exciting and promising. We went back to my place, straight to the bedroom, straight into bed. We went from the first kiss to having made love in about an hour. Sex with (relative) strangers is always different. This time was unique in the sense that it felt like we were in high school for some reason. She worked in a bank and lived a pretty straight forward life. She liked going for runs and going to the gym. She liked cooking, too, and invited me to her place for dinner the next night. I accepted. In the morning, she caught a taxi home - she had something to do - and left me sleeping in my bed.
 
The next week she invited me for dinner at her apartment. We ate and then had sex. Later, her flatmate, came home. It was her twin sister. We were introduced. It was pleasant but there were many unspoken undercurrents. I didn't really think to much about it at the time, but tonight, lying there on my bed, for some reason I thought about it. About twins and their sex lives and how people react to them.
 
Here's what I was thinking. What I would say to the duplicate diva: For starters, if I am attracted to your identical sister, I am attracted to you. You know this. It's not the first time for you, I'm sure. I'm a decent person, so I surpress any flirting. You love your sister, so you don't flirt either. But, that just makes things more heightened. Our thoughts are naughty. What happens if I tire of your sister and you and I find ourselves alone together? What if you and your sister are well ahead of me and I have already slept with you without knowing? (Unlikely - but what if?!) You are in the next room, while your sister and I are making love. Is that uncomfortable? Are you tempted to ask for a turn? The original sister must know that each of their boyfriends will, at some stage, at least fantasise about being with the other sister while doing it. Is this bothersome? Do you discuss it? I know these thoughts are a bit schoolboy and perhaps unfitting, but I thought them. It is a strange scenario/dynamic. In my case, I didn't stay in the picture long enough for complications to evolve... but part of me wishes I had. Just to experience it. I wouldn't want anyone to get hurt, but I wouldn't have minded seeing what it was like sleeping with a replica.
 
Of course this all just base level fantasy. It does not take into account emotions and personalities, proper relationship stuff. It was only an extended one-night stand - lasted a few weeks, I guess. She seemed equally un-attached to the notion of longer term and equally as free spirited and promiscuous (that word! Hmmm...) as I was, so letting it fade wasn't an issue. I remember a few details of our union vividly, mostly I have forgotten. Like I said, it was mutual, almost high-school romance like. Better than not doing nothing, that's for sure.
 
I remember the special moments with each of the women I was with during that period. There was everything: the flirting, the sometimes salacious glory of seduction, the surprising tenderness, desire, lust, fulfillment, connection, thrill, thoughtfullness, playfulness... All the stuff that our sentient species gets up to when they choose to give of and explore each other physically. Most of the unions began after midnight and peaked around 4 or 5am. Some lasted but a night - others for a few weeks. I got a lot from that time, more than memories. For me, it was about the intimacy. Going from zero to, not a hundred, but say eighty or even ninety in a short time. Jumping off a cliff together, into the wild sea. It was thrilling and rewarding. Some say it leaves them empty - but I never found that. I appreciated each person for who they were and felt lucky to go deep with them, even for just a short time. There were no motives beyond feeling an attraction and acting on it. Being bold. Cheeky. Free. It was a mini - sixties recreation! In Bondi. And Kings Cross. At my place and theirs. In the car, in stairwells, in parks, on couches. But mostly in beds. Beds. How great are they, just generally? A place to escape to.  And if you can do it with another - with a bit of friction, some fiction, heat and coolness, skin on skin, secretions and sweat.... well, bring it on! Loving is good. Anytime, anyplace. Makes you feel alive.

Some of my most wonderful life experiences have, without a doubt, been in sharing time with women. So have some of my most challenging. Often, but not always, they are with the same woman.

One such woman, I'll call her Claire, I met in New Zealand while shooting a Japanese TV commercial a few decades ago. She was hired by the local producer as a production assistant, also known as runners. They help out wherever they can on set or location - doing anything from driving, to getting meals, handing out call sheets, etc.

Although I do remember the first time I was introduced to Claire, in the production office in Wellington, it wasn't until we were on set a few days later that something really pinged and I realised that there was some attraction there. She was a bit like a cat; quietly confident, graceful and sleek, and, I was soon to find out great to curl up with, fun to make purr.

We started out playing some cheeky games with ice cubes, one day on location when the main crew were out on the camera car getting some shots. She was up for any challenge and we shared a sense of humour and play. I love that moment when you both realise that eventually you are going to be together. Maybe you are not 100% sure, but it's 90% from both sides and you each use the last 10% as an ongoing oscillating tease. 

That evening, after the crew dinner in a small town pub, halfway down the south island of NZ, we snuck away to a secluded courtyard area and shared some time alone together to see if your chemistry was indeed what we perceived it to be. I remember, at my suggestion, we played a word game. A simple one but quite telling and revealing of each other's headspace, world view and nature. I would say a word and she would respond with the first word that came into her head, to which I would do the same and so on. 

It was smooth, funny and dynamic. I was surprised and delighted by her complexity, intelligence and layers. The 10% was reduced to 1%. She suggested we go for a drive. By now it was around 11pm. The call time for the next morning was six. "Let's go!" I said without hesitation and jumped in the passenger seat of her assigned mini van.  

After she had been driving for about ten, fifteen minutes, in the abandoned countryside, I asked her if she knew where she was going. "I'll know when we get there." was her response. It seemed a little strange, to be heading out so far into unknown territory (for us both), but I shrugged it off and relinquished control. We drove in silence for a while longer and then we crossed a bridge. I recall looking at here driving and suddenly getting a feeling of dread, a strange and powerful gut feeling. What was it and why? I did not know. I surpressed it, though. I was too into her. I was willing to see the outcome. It was a mild, inexplicable panic. I did not want to succumb to it, although it was noted and filed. By the time we pulled up on the side of the road, in the middle of nowhere, it had passed. We got out of the car and climbed over a fence and ran across a large open paddock. Our destination, using only the available moonlight to guide us was a giant, multi-layered stack of hay bales. Like a couple of crazy kids, we climbed up to the mid level, and laying out coats down as a blanket, we began to get intimate.

You know you are with a good match when you really just want to keep kissing. Kissing is more than enough. Your body is pumping chemicals like there is no tomorrow, your eyes are closed, all your senses are on high alert, your faces are smashed together, saliva is being exchanged, tongues whirling in playful delight. There is nowhere else in the world you would rather be. You are experiencing one of those moments on planet earth that is as close to perfection as you'll ever get. You are connecting with another person in a way that makes you feel incredibly present and incredibly transported to another dimension at the same time.

Eventually, the animal takes over and nudges even the most romantic, slow burners towards intercourse. We were just beginning, maybe five or ten minutes into it, when we noticed car lights at the gate. After a few moments of confusion - we were out in the middle of nowhere at 1am - I leapt up and pulled my pants on, headed towards the lights. What I saw gave me chills. It was a man holding a rifle. Not just holding it, but pointing it at me as he walked towards me. For a second or two I was frozen. 

"What the bloody hell are you doing on my property?"

He was angry but not psychotic. I told him we were just out on a drive and decided to do some star gazing. In the meantime, Claire had put her clothes on and gathered the rest of mine, joining me at my side. She apologised with me and I believe that the old fella worked out exactly what was going on and realising we were no threat in any way, chose to cut us some slack. He did not become friendly, but he did lower his gun as he invited us to piss off.

It was an unexpected experience, a heightened experience. When we got back to my room at the motel our intimacy was continued, perhaps improved by our shared brush with danger. We took our time and knew that our bodies were as meant for each other as our personalities and minds. There was no question that this was something special.

We only had one other opportunity to be together in private and that was on my last night in Christchurch. Claire snuck back to my hotel room quite late, after the wrap dinner. Not being sure when we would see each other again made it bitter sweet. 

Of course, we had to see each other again. We conversed transpacific a few times and soon arranged for Claire to come and visit me in Bondi. It was so exciting to see her again and it felt like something real and potentially long term. We were so compatible. As well as being gorgeous in an understated way, she was a very cool person who had a quiet confidence and alluring charm. It felt like I was the only one who had access to this truly amazing being. I was euphoric. After some time in Bondi, I decided to treat her with a trip to Australia's chilled, spiritual rejuvenation, coastal mecca; Byron Bay. It was on our last day there, after a week of laughing and loving, heavenly hanging, that the dream came to a sudden and shocking halt.

It came in the form of a message on my mobile phone. Mobiles were still pretty new then and basic. Texting didn't exist. Calls were often missed or would go straight to mail box. This one came from a private number and went straight to messages. I pushed one to listen. It was a voice I did not recognise. It went something like this:

"This is Ben. I'm Claire's boyfriend. I know you are with her in Byron Bay. I'm at your place in Bondi right now. I'm waiting in the stair well with a knife. I'm not afraid to go to prison. I have been there before. I'm not even afraid to do life. If I can't have Claire, there's no point in living anyway. You've taken her from me and that is unforgivable. I've got lots of nasty friends in Sydney who..."

And on it went. Increasingly desperate, unbalanced, shocking, threatening and psychotic. After another few seconds, I hit the discard button. Shut it down. I was spooked enough. The message was clear.

The place we were staying was booked out. We moved to a hotel on the Gold Coast but did not catch our scheduled flight back to Sydney. We holed up there for a few more days and nights. I arranged for a mate to scope out my place. Claire assured me that he wouldn't be there. That he was a lot of bark and only some bite. Still. Bite's are painful.

Who was this guy? And why had I not known about this?

Turns out he was a recent ex. A dangerous character. She had left him, finally, after an unhappy, tormenting and prolonged break up. But in his mind, it was not over. He had found out about me through their friend's network and somehow got my phone number and address. 

Was he really dangerous? Did he really have bikie friends? 

Yes and yes. But, she didn't think he would really actually kill me. But he could, maybe. Friends of their friends had taken out hit orders on people before.

A whole new side of her became apparent. She was someone who walked the line. Live dangerously. Under that sweetness was cold blood. She was attracted to my free spirit and comparative innocence. I've had my share of scrapes with trouble, sure, but I've never taken out a hit on someone. 

Anyway, she rang a mutual friend of theirs - the leader of a bike gang in NZ. After a few conversations to and fro, including the big dude calling and allegedly placating Ben - I was given the all clear. No assassination today.

From Sydney, she returned home. She promised to get it sorted out before the next time we would meet. I was going to go down there. Spend some time at her place, meet the family...

We continued to talk on the phone. But things were different. I could not comfortable integrate into that world. Her and me... yes. The rest of it... no, thanks. The calls became shorter and less frequent. Time, in it's giant rolling snowball way, whited out everything. As it does, as it does.

Sometimes, I would think back to that very strong feeling I got before it all started. In the van on that first night. I believe I sensed the trouble in her, around her. She showed none of it, but it was there, hidden away. I sensed it. I could not have known - and I wanted to be with her, so I let it dissipate. But it was one of a very few times in my life I have ever felt it like that. It was spot on.

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.

I met a lovely girl on the first day of art school in Sydney, a long time ago. She had big eyes and easy, natural smile and shiny long dark hair. She wore it in two plats and was wearing a suede vest and skirt. She looked a lot like an American Indian squaw. I was captivated. 

Turned out she wasn't an Iroquai nor a an Apache chief's daughter after all. She was from the Island of Mauritius. A genetic blend of Chinese, French, Spanish and the other kind of Indian. My mission was to get to know her as intimately as possible. Having spent my teens in Tokyo nightclubs, the usual romantic cycle for me was meet, have drinks, sleep together, then say goodbye. I was not versed in regular world courtship. My seduction took longer than anticipated. It was further complicated by the fact that she had never been with anyone before. No rush. Things took their natural course. We were in the same classes everyday. She was very easy going and fun loving, popular with everyone. 

Eventually we slept together and quite frankly, the chemistry was not great. Some of it could have been due to her inexperience. Some of it could have been due to the fact - that I as later to discover - that she had been molested by family members in her youth. To what degree exactly, I never clearly ascertained, but obviously, any level of such a loathsome and heartless behaviour would cause trauma and leave scars. 

When she turned up in photography class after a few months of our being together with a packed suitcase, I was surprised. Was she going somewhere? 

"My Dad hit me..." She showed me a bruise on her thigh. It was fairly nasty. "...again." she said. I was speechless. My first encounter with inter family violence. "Can I come and stay with you?"

This was not in the plan. Not at all. In fact, because of our lack of natural sparks in bed, I was considering notching the relationship back to a friendship. But how could I say no. Tears glistened in her eyes. Those same big, innocent eyes I had initially fallen for. 

"OK, for a few weeks. But then you've got to find a place of your own."

Cut to six years later. We have been on again, off again, over and over. She has used those tears (unlimited supply) mixed with emotional pleas, threats, coercion seduction and blackmail to keep us together. Many times she put her life on the line and I had to decide, save her or let her possibly die. Of course, I never had a choice. She was a truly beautiful person, just damaged. 

Eventually, there was a new pressure. Marriage. 

Never, I thought. She can't make me. It's not what I want.

What's that phrase? Resistance is futile. I came to understand it first hand. Things were beyond my control. I had more power of will, discipline, clarity of thought. But she had the power of emotion and a woman's way.

We were living in a house in Bondi Junction at the time. I was working as a freelance illustrator. She was working in a girl's fashion wear shop in Centrepoint in the city. Life was not bad. We made the best of things. We cooked, watched videos, hung out with my brother - who was sharing house with us - and her family as well. We bought a puppy. 

But, deep down, I knew, I did not want to get married. 

Still, the pressure was there. Her parents and sisters joined in. Her elder sister and her husband (who is still a wonderful friend today) would come over and hang out and show how good married life was. How natural. I was told her father, a slightly scary man, was becoming impatient. 

One night the two of us were watching an old movie: The Birdman of Alcatraz. There was a scene. The old fella, a lifer, is telling Burt Lancaster something important. He whispers it to him in a gruff, hardened voice....

"Sometimes, son, the only way out - is in."

Bing. It hit me. I recall walking outside on my own. Sitting on the fence. Pacing. OMG. It was obvious. I knew what I had to do.

The following week I bought a ring and proposed. The wedding was wonderful, a coming together of two families and fantastic, loving friends. At the church, when she came around the corner in her father's arms and headed down the aisle, the look of happiness and joy, fulfilment, in her eyes - so true and so pure - made me spontaneously burst out in tears, standing there at the alter. If I could make someone this happy, even just for a short time, it was worth it.

We didn't have a honeymoon away, because we had plans to leave for Tokyo, to go and live there soon after. But we had a honeymoon night at the fancy Kings Cross hotel were the reception occurred. The party was wonderful, great speeches, dancing, a true celebration. People spoke of it for years to come. We all had a great time. 

But once we were alone, in that big suite, surrounded by presents and champagne, a deluxe fruit platter, the truth, to me at least, was undeniable. We were strongly connected, officially man and wife - but not two lovers. I'd had a few love connections before and I knew this wasn't one. There was love, but it wasn't based in passion, there was an absence of chemistry.

Still, I decided, I would give it a go. We moved to Japan. Found a tiny apartment in Shimo-Kitazawa. And when I say tiny, I mean tiny. It was one room. There was a modular shower and toilet, a cupboard, a tiny fridge and a benchtop single gas cooker. We slept on a futon and folded it up each morning to allow us space to put a tiny folding table and two folding chairs.

I didn't mind the idea of being married. Being a husband. Saying; this is my wife. It felt kind of fun. We both taught English at language schools in Shibuya and Shinjuku. I rode my Kawasaki around in my downtime - taking interviews with art directors at agencies and magazines, showing my portfolio of work. Eventually - just before going completely insane from having to tutor - I was getting enough work to do it full time.

After we had been there a little over a year, things were going relatively smoothly. It was a kind of adventure. Things were slowly coming together. She loved being in Tokyo. For me it was familiar. Comfortable. I had grown up there. 

A tradition started. Every Saturday night we would hang out at the fountain outside the train station entrance, with a gathering of local musos. There were plenty of guitars, cigarette smoking, and drinking spirits out of bottles purchased at the adjacent 7-11. We connected with the local misfits, rebels, free spirits. It was fun. People came and went over the months. A few key players became friends.

One guy in particular, a younger chap, charismatic but with a humility, a truck driver by day, loved to sing Elvis tunes. And he was good. Really good. He had swagger. We both liked him. He was a mix of traditional, honourable Japanese (from the countryside) and young Western rebel.

We would hang out at that fountain till sunrise with the carefree crooning group, often.

Eventually, I tired of it. I wanted to go home and read, or draw, watch a video on our tiny 18cm second hand TV. My wife did not want to join me. She wanted to stay on. To party. 

Sure, I said. See you later. I stayed up and greeted her return. We slept in Sunday together. The next few weeks it was the same.  Until, one Saturday, she did not come home. I woke in the early afternoon. Eventually, she turned up.

"A few of us went back to his apartment. I fell asleep there. Sorry."

You know when you know.

I tried to talk her out of staying all night every Saturday. I could not. The following week she was home at dawn. The week after she announced that she was going to stay at his house. I protested. She didn't care.

Yep. It was over.

I felt a mixture of relief, confusion, anger and resentment. Just like that, eh? 

We carried on as usual. A few months later we returned to Australia for holidays. I was lying on the beach, alone, down south, near Culburra. We were on summer holidays with her family. I had an epiphany. I held the warm, white sand in my hands. The sun was bright and strong. 

I am not going back to Tokyo. Forget all the stuff, I don't care. Forget the whole thing. I'm staying in Oz. This is where I belong. I am free.

I announced it to her and she was shocked. I was steadfast. I need to go back and get our stuff, she insisted. Sure, I said. She ended up sending it back and moving in with Japanese Elvis. After a few months she came back. I had divorce papers ready. She did not want to sign them. She tried to convince me. But it was over. She moved on to plan B.

She went back. They got married. I really was free. 

It had been eight years. From twenty to twenty eight. It was a huge learning curve. 

A whole new phase of my life began after that. New friends, new pursuits, new lifestyle, new outlook. My connection to the squaw was released. The new freedom was exquisite. I had paid my dues, come full circle. No regrets, no resentment, I strode forward onto greater new adventures.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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? 

As a sentient being there is no escape from feeling and experiencing life. We like to believe that there is a reason behind it all, a justification, a validation for our demanding and formidable journeys. But what if there is not? What if this realm is truly just a harsh and difficult existence? One that, for reasons beyond comprehension, has to be experienced? Nothing gained can be taken with you. Any relief from the never ending demands are just temporary and fleeting. In fact, they may only add to the magnitude of suffering that is to come. 

Buddhist teaching says that life is suffering and I have to agree. It just seems almost too hard sometimes. I don't see what the purpose of this enforced series of procedures is. Endure, endure, endure, then die. OK. What was that for exactly? Some lives have extended times of loving and beauty and freedom and joy, but from what I have witnessed; most do not. There are times of comparative relief and short periods within a day or a month or a year or a life that are not stressful and demanding but mostly, it's just hard going.

I have engineered my life to have as few demands and stresses as possible. I try to have plenty of free time to pursue art and writing and thinking and just being. I have time for exercise and connecting with nature and relating with good people and play. And yet still, there is a heaviness, a constant, sublime feeling of uneasiness. Sometimes it's simply because life itself is so much to comprehend. We are mere mortals. Puny. We are specks. Star dust. Flippity-floppety little human entities. What are we doing? What are we really here for? It seems as though there has been a mistake made along the way in evolution, we've taken a wrong turn. If this is of our own spiritual creation, our own devising.... why would it be like THIS??? 

I find it hard to abide. Really. Sometimes more than others. And, of course, I acknowledge the incredible beauty that surrounds us, the dignity of fellow beings, the miracle of life, the gorgeous glory of newborns and children, etc. But I still feel that there is a quantifiable imbalance. Life is not what I imagined it would be. I thought that the struggle during teen years, through the twenties.... and on... would lead to some kind of resolution, a settling. Some kind of peace, mental and spiritual. But I have found no evidence of this. Am I missing something? I live in a great country, in a wonderful, peaceful, friendly small town, I have a supportive family and great friends across the globe. I have my health, physical and mental. And yet...

I'm raving, I know. But that is what this forum is for. An occasional ablution is necessary. Even this writing, though, what is it? Little symbols that form words and concepts. You can read them and get something. You can hear my soul. Is it singing or is it screaming? Am I a madman shouting or an ordinary man who is questioning that nature of reality, one who is not content to turn away, one who is compelled, often despite his own wishes, to face the immense, throbbing, pulsating, infinite series of vibrations and molecular clashes that form a never ending cacaphony of thoughts, images, sounds, sensations and experiences? 

I am screaming. Silently. Am I calling for help? No. Not really. Am I looking for acknowledgement? No, not really, that either. Then... ? 

I am trying to express the complex nature of my relationship with life. It is compelling. It is complex. It is relentless. I have travelled through it for 53 years so far. No bad. It's been quite a journey and there have been plenty of times and experiences that I cherish and am thrilled to have had. Plenty. I am not complaining. I am not bitter or angry or resentful by any means. In fact, I am grateful. But the fact remains, that between when I get up each morning to when I go to sleep each night, there is a series of thousands, tens of thousands maybe, of feelings, FEELINGS that pass through me, some lingering, some flashing, many of little consequence, a few profound.... FEELINGS.... that make up my day. By the end I am tired. As I go through it, I am challenged. I cannot name these phantoms, I cannot categorise everything - although I often try to in an attempt to come to terms with it all. 

I have to believe that surrender, surrender is what should be done. Let it go. Let it be. And I do that. I really do. Still, still, still...! Can you hear me? I am a sentient being hurled into a life form that has become comfortable and familiar, not only second nature, but first nature. I acknowledge that I am a person. Humble, vulnerable, fragile. But with powers to take it on, whatever. With a will to live and endure till the end. A will to survive, to thrive. I am weary, I am wounded. I admit that this brand of reality is not what I would have chosen. I'd like something more like heaven, all the cliched juice with a bit of sauciness and some thrills. I'd like more of the good stuff and less of the pain. I'd like better endings, more satisfying middles and unlimited new beginnings. I would like, you know, utopia. Bring it on. Seriously. Like now, already!

So, if it lays up ahead for us all, waiting to surprise us, reward us for our hard work, our labour, if it is our destination. Well, then, OK, I will continue to endure this weird blend of exquisite suffering until then. But seriously, it better be there up ahead.... or I'm going to be one disappointed corpse!

One of the joys of keeping an artist's journal like this is that there are no plans or pressures. I just start writing, whenever, whatever and let the flow take me where it will. It is oft times as revealing to me as it would be to anyone else. Of course, I have a more intimate knowledge of myself than anyone else, and yet, due to the complex nature of consciousness, psyche and psychology, revelations can and do still appear out of nowhere.

By now, although an amount of ego still remains (mostly dormant, reading a book in the shade), I act predominantly from other areas of self. These writings for example, although about self are not recorded in an attempt to elevate my self opinion or baste my ego. They are done as means of introspection and revelation. I use my self as a case study of sorts in an attempt to dissect and understand the nature of being human. I happen to be this person, so I observe him and make reports. I am glad to be him, er, me, because, if nothing else, as a specimen, I am unique and can be amusing at times. I mean; he is.

The other morning when I awoke, I got up and went online. I noticed how quiet it is, to sit at your computer and sample the internet. I realised that this is one of the things that I like about using my computer. It is quiet. Almost silent. Peaceful. 

A list of some other things in life I really appreciate:

solitude
serenity
as few demands or expectations as possible
freedom
self devised schedule
few time constraints
staying up late
sleeping in
commune with nature
library visit
reading time
thinking time
creative time

I have directed/constructed my days so that there is an ample amount of these things in each day.

My phone rings maybe once a week. This suits me fine. Even less would be better. I used my phone - a large screen Samsung Note 1, with a stylus to create artworks in a program called SMemo. An average of three hours per day which yields four or five new works. I create these works mostly in a cafe or at the library. Sometimes sitting in my car.

My car is from the 90's. It's small, rusty, rattly and lots of things don't work. But it gets me there. A nice car is something I would really like and I do spend a fair amount of time imagining the joy and luxury of owning a Range Rover Evoque, a Lexus or a new model Merc. These are fantasies akin to those that a hungry man on a desert island would have of unlimited access to a bountiful and succulent buffet. They get me through the rocky ride home. And still, I am grateful to have a vehicle that takes me to destinations of my choice.

I live from week to week. My income is at the poverty level. I have enough to rent the smallest room in a share house of four, buy fruit and veges for the week and put petrol in my car most of the time. A few times a week I will have a meal out, the average budget is $11. My favourites are the Sunday curry, which I eat sitting in my car by the river at sunset, the bean nachos from the tiny, rowdy small town pub which I eat while reading my book, surrounded by unruly, loud and friendly old school ockers and the mid week small pesto and pumpkin pizza at the RSL club, which I supplement with a generous amount of apple sauce from the condiments table. These simple treats give great satisfaction.

Although I would, of course, like to have more money to do things like travel, buy big canvases and lots of paints and update my technology (and the car), I am not willing to trade in all my freedom and time for it. I have lived for decades now with very little and have come to appreciate the glorious things that are free. Like the beach, friendships and family, exercise, creating, writing and reading. A characteristic of my personality is that I require a pervading low pressure zone.

In some ways I am a social outsider, living on the fringes, but truth is, it's better here. Society, mainstream society at least, although filled with mostly good hearted and well intentioned people, has some priorities, expectations and demands that are excessive, misdirected, unjust and antiquated. I don't feel like I fit in, so I stay out. Luckily, I am an artist, so I can do this. Compared to a more conventional modern existence, it may appear lacking, but it isn't. Like many fine characters I know, I can't do normal. And, hey, that's OK.

Dear Artists,

It's a funny thing we do, eh?

Make pictures. 

Use line and form and colour, shading and perspective to make images. They come out of nowhere. Out of our heads. From out souls, through our bodies. 

Control and release. Control and release.

We watch ourselves in action, make amends. Where is it going? Shall I reign it in now or keep the flow? Will I go too far? Will I ruin it? Is it any good? What IS good?

Years and years and years it takes to truly find your groove. 

When you are beginning, it's experimentation. It's easy, joyful, tentative. With a few of the early pictures, there's the element of pride and a sense of accomplishment. "Look what I've done!' It feels amazing. It's almost like a drug. As you progress, you venture further, you apply yourself for longer and longer. You realise that it is no longer just a distraction. You become aware that you have found something, an activity, that gives back as much as it demands. 

It's one of the most complex puzzles that exist. It is never ending. The only rules are that there are none. You can do what ever you want. There are no wrongs or rights. It's all up to you. The freedom is incredible. And somewhat overwhelming, too. So much. Too much. There has to be some kind of structure. One that you make up for yourself. A form, guidelines within which you can let loose. You decide what is good. You feel what is good. It's very honest. There is no kidding yourself. 

Before you have a relationship with art. It's sublime. The more you enter into it, the more time and energy you invest; the more you get in return. But your return is not necessarily evident to anyone else. It is not tangible. It is not a trophy or money or a cheering crowd. No, no, art is too, too precious, too mindful and murky, mysterious and profound for that. It is connected to pure soul. It is not something that can be bought, traded or sold. Not the spirit of it. A great work of art contains spirit, sure, but what is captured on the canvas or the paper is only a remnant of what has gone into. A hint. The size and quantity and breadth of the passion that has powered the artistic creation is immeasurable. Immense. 

Creating a work is not unlike riding a wave. It cannot be boxed, labelled, re-created. It is fully being in the moment. Fully. Being. In. The. Moment. It is ecstasy. It is release. It is a pure connection with the absolute. 

You know what I am talking about, right? You've been there, too? Not often, but often enough. Enough to want more. Enough to be grateful. Grateful to be lucky enough to realise that whatever else may transpire in this chaotic, demanding, wounding, beguiling world: you are an artist. You can transcend. You have been given the tools and you have, with passion and diligence, applied yourself, focused your body and mind, channeled your spirt and contributed to the beauty and wonder of what is real, what is true, what is pure.

You have allowed your soul to shine through. Through the quagmire of daily demands, through the mist of social confusion, through the representation of at times debilitating personal demons - the ones that are out to get you! still!! - through that, through that to something timeless and ethereal, something momentous. You have brushed up against the infinite for a few seconds, in your avid pursuit of image and splash. 

You have glimpsed the glorious nature of nature and the brilliance and light. You have shifted shapes and animated line. You are a knight, a warrior, a hero to no one other than yourself. And even then. No, no, you are  a hero. For a time. You have put your entire being on the line for something you believe in. Something intangible but more real than anything. Life itself. 

You have communed and communicated. Touched and responded to the essence. Struggled and struggled and struggled some more. Until, years, decades later, you have found yourself. Standing in front of an image that you have conjured up out of nowhere. You know it but you don't it. You made it but you didn't. It is more that an expression, a picture. It is alive. It is you.

One of the things that comes with the territory of being an artist is a constant questioning and mental investigation/exploration in the essence of being. As well as creating images on a daily basis, I find myself constantly contemplating the nature of existence. Why is life like it is? What is the meaning/point? Is there a way to evolve through astute consideration/cogitation?

My lifestyle is simple. I make pictures, I do some writing, I take long walks. My haunts are the library, cafes, the beach. One of the great assets of being an artist is that you have time to think and time to just be. Daily life is incredibly demanding for everyone, some more than others and it is rare and valuable to be able to withdraw from the constant demands and stresses to take time to think in solitude. 

It is not something that I necessarily like all the time, but my mind strives to come to terms with the nature of reality. Why is it the way it is? What is the point of everything? Where are we headed as a species? etc etc

These kinds of questions are tackled by philosophers, poets, writers and artists. In a way it is our job. It doesn't pay - at least not in money - but it is still important. Vital, in fact, to the evolution of mankind. By not being busy all the time, we are allowed to zone out of everyday demands and attempt to truly comprehend what being human means.

It's a fucking hard job. Some may call it navel gazing and a waste of time. But I don't think so. By not being distracted by work demands, schedules, timetables and common social considerations, thinkers are able to mentally float free in search of new horizons, new ways of looking at things. After all it's all about perception and perspective. There is no one way. There is no correct answer or single response. Time moves on, and yet, it is timeless. 

Any given event can be recounted by even a small sampling of observant individuals in any infinite number of wide ranging ways. What is the reality? There is none. It is all story. Which story is it that you wish to believe? Are you game enough to make up your own? At what point does illusion reveal it's true nature?

One can go round in circles thinking this kind of stuff and at times it seems pointless. Why bother? Why not just get on with things? But then, why not bother? Why not TRY and work out the eternal mystery? Of course, it won't be solved, not by a mere mortal - there is no solution - BUT - what is wrong with attempting to scale one hundred fold Everest? Each of our lives is to do with as we choose/ are compelled to/ are lead to believe we should. 

An artist is a kind of anarchist. He is a malcontent. He is a fighter in the cause of truth and meaning. He wants to take in everything life presents and ingest it, grapple with it, be seduced by it, be immersed in it, dance with it, get punched it the stomach by it. Then, he will take it all and make something of his own devising from it. He will say, I don't know what the fuck it's all about, but somehow, by spending time with words or colours or sounds, I have created these things. They may translate as something comprehensible to others, enjoyable perhaps, provocative maybe. They may assist in the journey of others to find and redefine their individual meaning of what life is. If that happens, then sweeeet! It it fails to translate or adds no substance, well so be it. It won't stop him from trying. 

An artist is born to make art. That's all we can do. This in itself is kind of wonderful. At least we are not killers, or corrupt politicians, or greedy business people, or sadistic military or police. We are mellow. We are peace loving. We are searchers, adventurers, gypsies, nomads, explorers. 

We care about people and have time to listen and empathise, to learn from our fellow folk. We love life. Yes, it's a struggle but by asking 'what if?' and 'why?' and by considering 'how about..?' and by spending time with the simple and pure elements of life and nature, we may be able to contribute to making this world a better place. 

We are weirdos, yes, by some definitions. But we see well beyond the restrictions of labels and opinions. We reside in the realms of pure existence. We have a place in the world. Our job is to keep things real by being unreal. Yeah, that's it. Unreal, man. Unreal: man.

After all, it's all just a dream, right?

Hey kid,

You're a very sensitive fellow. But you are also very thoughtful, observant and wise. Your instincts are good - continue to follow them and believe in your own, unique, world view. 

You have to put up with a lot of crap from figures of authority. They are often wrong, as you suspected, and are really just stupid bullies. You fight them and lose because they hold all the power. But I admire your sense of righteousness and low tolerance for injustice. Don't let those fuckers break you! (They won't.)

Although you have a naturally positive and adventurous, hopeful outlook, you are often deeply saddened by your circumstances. You feel misunderstood and misaligned. You don't really fit in with conventional ways. This will not change. 

Your curiosity, love of reading, love of exploration and FUN are a centre point to your being. Your instinct is to do what makes you happy. This is a good thing. Stick with it. 

You love people - good people, open minded people, playful people, big hearted people. You are a champion for the under dog. Heck, you are the under dog!

Much of what you learn is though interacting with others - outside of the school system. You instinctively seek and find slightly older mentors who offer you new insight, support and reassurance. This is a good thing and will continue into your thirties. 

You love of romance and woman will continue to grow. Aren't they amazing creatures. As best as you can, treat them with respect and kindness. They thrive on attention and emotional connection. A few will try and get the better of you, but don't worry, they will soon fall away. 

You will be lucky enough to have some wonderful, exciting relationships with some truly beautiful women as you get older. Don't worry too much if it doesn't always turn out right for now. There's plenty to look forward to.

I remember you sitting on the steps, alone, outside the dance or the club, on occasion and feeling alone, sad. Wishing you could find someone to have a heart connection with. Don't worry, kid. They will come. 

You will marry, too. It won't last but you didn't want it to. She wasn't the right one and you knew this before you proposed. But, ironically, getting married was the only way out. She was a tough one to shake. She had emotional power over you. It wasn't until you become husband and wife and she cheated on you that you could sever the ties and walk away with clear conscience and freshly empowered. 

Your thirties are when you will really have some hugely rewarding love affairs and relationships. Some that last years, others months and a few for only weeks. But, kid, believe me, you will not be disappointed. 

Later in life, in your fifties, you'll remain un-remarried. After a promising relationship in your late forties that turns sour, you decide that being single is actually your preference. You love your freedom and independence. 

From early on, you choose to be a free spirit. You do not like to be pinned down, committed, or stuck. You like to sleep when you want, wake when you want and do as you choose with your time. This makes holding a job quite difficult. And after trying a few in your late twenties you decide it's not for you. 

After all, you are an artist. An artist and a writer. Did I mention that? Yes, it's true. Your love of books and art and movies never wanes and you begin to express your own truth. You go to art school. You study film making. You write and publish your own poetry and stories and comics. You even publish a book when you are forty. It's called 'All I've Ever Wanted Is What I Know I Can Never Have.' Nice title!

You study screenwriting at UCLA and end up writing six feature films. None of them get made, so you kind of give up and go back to painting. But you continue to make short films and write journals and poems and comics, of course. You've always loved comics!

You do stand up for a while. Solo and as a duo. You tour briefly. It's a tough road. Not for you. You also have your own comedy radio show. That is good. You always wanted that! You create some great characters and really enjoy writing and performing. You even win an award for you comedy writing! And cash!

You move to Byron Bay for seven years. Then get invited to perform your original comedic monologue in New York! Cool, huh?! They pay for you to go over, so you pack up and go. NYC isn't your style so you move to LA. It's good there, but, once again, you are an outsider and despite some elements that you really enjoy, you decide to return to Australia. 

You love your country more than ever and eventually end up back up north. This time in Mullumbimby. There are cows and chickens in the backyard. The sky is big. The sea is close by. You visit every day - you've always loved, indeed, needed the ocean. The air is clean and fresh. Country living, the simple life suits you.

You don't have much. An old car, an old computer, a small room you rent and a storage shed full of painting from the 25 plus art exhibitions you've held over the last 30 years.

When I say you don't have much, I mean, of course, material things. You have plenty. Health, freedom, imagination. Your future is open to possibility... 

It's hard being an artist. Especially one that isn't motivated to self promote. Still, every day you create new works - two, three, four, five.... You love seeing what comes out. It reminds you of the comic covers you so used to enjoy as a kid. You've got plans to publish a book of your own recent comics - you've done over 200 of them over the last year. That will be good, huh? 

Anyway, gotta go now, kid. Just thought I'd say hello and tell you some things. Of course you won't get this back then. 

But you've got it now. Take it easy.