I can't talk for everyone. I can only talk for myself. But, ironically, it seems the more accurately and honestly I talk for myself the more it is aligned with everyone.

Make sense? 

I come to this forum and communicate here without schedule or external motivation. It happens when it does. Sometimes I wish I was here more often - because, frankly, there is never a lack of things to express/explore - but I have reasons for not making the effort. Sometimes I am just too lazy. I mean it does take a level of discipline and application. It is an effort to access, assess and describe what is going on in my head, in my being. It is often interesting for me to see what comes out - to read where I am at, so to speak - but it still requires some dredging, concentration and motivation. Not doing it is so, so easy. Having said that, I have been recording my state of mind/spirit/heart regularly in journals since I was fifteen. All the way through. The bulk of it has never seen the light of day, which is as it should be because it is primarily done to inform and enlighten (and lighten) myself.

It's only in the last few years that I have been opening up (as it were) to other inhabitants of the same planet in the belief that somehow by sharing my individual truth in a straightforward and unedited manner like this may be beneficial to others. I don't know who or how but if it has a positive effect in any way, lessens the burden or brings a smile to even one person, then it's worth doing. Because sharing is caring. LOL. Cliche. But true. And I do care. I really do. I have always been empathetic, sometimes at a cost  to my own well being, but it's a good thing, not a bad thing. We're all bits of the same big one. LOL again! That statement reads like the first words of a sermon by a caveman preacher. Which is perhaps, something I would have been OK with back in the day. Way back.

Interestingly, my paternal grandfather, for a time, was a preacher and used to speak his truth on the streets of Kings Cross. I think it was somewhere after his divorce and just before his playboy phase. He died in a fiery Ferrari crash in Europe, loose ends - financial and emotional left scattered back home in Aus. A dramatic departure but quite fracturing to his family. He left a big gap - he was quite the big man, self made multimillionaire, friends with Billy Graham and Shirley Bassey, a dandy dresser with a hefty appetite, a big tipper (a good thing), and a showman. I didn't know him very well. I was only nine when he left. My single strongest memory of him is him taking my Mum, me and my brothers out to lunch in our first ever fancy restaurant in 1969 Sydney, then taking us to a toy shop in town and saying 'Whatever you want, boys; on me!' How could I forget him! (I went straight to the bicycles but my Mum though it too extravagant - so I settled for a game of Twister. Harumphhh!) Didn't really get my money's worth till I played it semi naked with the girl next door. (And then it was like riding a bicycle.)

So, yeah, caveman preacher. I reckon way back in the day, in an earlier incarnation (yes, I do believe in reincarnation) (have done since a few lives back), I would have been comfortable in the role of observer/overseer/speaker of truth. Got a bit of shaman in me. Wise man. Pass the pipe. Come hang out and we'll have a yarn about what's bothering you. Yes, those fucking dinosaurs! I know. Life in general isn't easy when you are a hunter and gatherer - on a physical level - but it isn't smooth sailing when you are spiritual journey cognoscente, either. But, hey, I am not complaining. (Cause I know complaining is a waste of time. Early lesson.)

But yeah, like I was saying it's not always easy to write this stuff. Admittedly, this one has been and rather fun, but, but... my point? Who cares! It is what it is. Life is full of contradictions. The point is to find what you like and are at least semi-good at and go for it. Don't think too much. If you can find something worth doing - do it. We all have to do something - even if it's slacking off most of the time and then writing a few words of lighthearted drivel once in a while and considering it meaningful. Even if it's that! You could have my job, eh. Then I could retire from sermonising altogether and commence my next phase: rich playboy. Sounds like a plan.

Please don't make the mistake of thinking you know me - or anything about me, really - from reading this blog.

Everything I write is one of a few things:

1.) The re-telling of a memory.
2.) An explanation of a recent bump in my perception.
3.) A spontaneous expressive word play (aka poem).
4.) There's probably a fourth thing but I can't think of it right now.

What these things are for me:

1.) Taking what I recall of an experience from the past and shaping it into a small story that makes sense. It is based on what happened and I am not making any of it up, but is surely, by the nature of any such recounting, not only highly edited and subjective, but biased (in one way or another) and bears only a fleeting resemblance to what actually occurred. But that doesn't matter. Because, I was there, I experienced the situation and the retelling for me is a series of triggers to activate a kind of re-living, re-visiting of the circumstances and events with the new element of distance, abstraction and hindsight. Over the course of decades of living there are a number of experiences that stand out as worth sharing for whatever reason. Doing so, in a way, unburdens my mind, unleashes them from my memory bank while at the same time brings them back to life temporarily to be dusted out, shaken, aired, lightly polished, then repositioned on the shelf or mantlepiece.

2.) When I share my perceptions, it is an opportunity for me to give these new feelings and thoughts an anchor in reality. Give them a space to exist outside my mind. It allows me to explain myself to myself so that I can then think about myself from the vantage point of a detached self which allows me insight into my insights. Trippy, I know. But, for me, trippy is a really good thing. Good trippy, anyway. Not bad trippy.

3.) Poems are loose, fun, in the moment expressions using words, meter, bounce, imagery, feeling and dynamics. They are like making music in silence. It is riffing, it is jazz. You record it, but you don't own it. The greatest part of writing poems is the process. Sometimes, too, re-reading them makes you feel in tune, funky, happy, smart, bohemian...

What these things are for you:

1.) Stories. You inhabit my headspace and get a vision of an event that occurred. There is no doubt, however, that the way it is playing out in your mind's eye and the way it plays in my mind are probably very, very different. And, the way it actually happened - different again. So what is happening for you is that you are being pinged, activated in certain ways by certain elements but they are based on your own world view and set of experiences, perceptions and not mine. There is likely to be some crossover but it is minimal and not important anyway. What you are looking for is stimulation and insight. If the story is well told, based upon an actual event (or memory of one), and you can relate to certain elements of it, then you will feel satisfaction, activation.

2.) In reading about my recounting of something noticeable in my perception, you will be able to absorb and filter the information to inform and expand your own world view. If it is something that is of relevance to your current state, then it will be a useful, perhaps refreshing new perspective. If it is not directly related to, or relatable by, you, then you will find it interesting, boring, amusing or confusing. Still, if it is new to you, you may not need to judge it, just absorb and carry on; it's relevance and impact may become apparent at a latter time.

3.) Poems are strange things. They are kind of like arrows. Once in a while one hits the bulls eye. Most of time they just go flying off into open space, landing randomly, to be later picked up of the ground with a grunt from the shooter.

So, what I am saying, here, really is:

There is me. The person writing this. But that person is in no way definable by what is written. Yes, it originates from the mind of me, but that part of the mind is only a small aspect of me. And even when I say 'me', I only use the term in the most basic of ways. Me is what I inhabit in order to exist. Me is what I use to travel to other countries. Me demands that I eat, breathe, keep safe, shit, sleep. Me sometimes delights itself in any number of ways. Me sometimes spooks me. Me is a million times more than what I am able to present in these forums. Me is undefined and undefinable. A work in progress. I, aside from the obvious, have less and less attachment to me. 

So that is why I am explaining this to YOU. 

Because I have become aware of the inter-changeability of me and you. I am talking to you, ostensibly, but I am actually talking to me. YOU are absorbing these words right now but what they are doing for you in actually unknowable to me. That is because I am fully busy just deciphering my own experience and perceptions. So, with the experiences and bias and subjective absorption through which you filter everything, the gap between me and you is as great as the universe. And yet at the same time, there is no gap at all. 

So, what I was saying at the beginning of this piece about not knowing me from reading this stuff is essentially true - even if only because - none of us are truly knowable - not even to ourselves - what I am really saying is that what you are coming to know better through reading and sharing in my words and concepts - is yourself.

And you are seeing your version of me - which is, and can only be, you.

Weird, huh. But I am writing this. Correct. But only as a tiny contribution to the massive ethos of our ever expanding communal consciousness. Only cause I feel like it. Only because I am compelled to by the universal spirit of which we are all a part, and all contribute to in our own unique and crazy, cute ways.

As well as self expression, through images and poetry, as well as notations of the artistic experience, I have been utilising this space as a record keeping venue. Somewhere to express my memory of experiences from my past that had impact and meaning to me.

Over the past decade or so, my reading has become almost exclusively autobiographies and memoirs. I just finished Kim Gordon's book, Girl In A Band. I had no idea who she was before picking up the book but it gave off a good vibe. She is a lucid writer and observer and I found it engaging and enriching. I had never heard a Sonic Youth song before, but once I got half way through the tome, I hit You Tube and checked a few of them out. It enriched my reading experience to have done so.

I think an artist's life informs their creativity and creative output. Of course it does. Der. But what I am saying is that it's not only stuff about art and making things that is interesting. The details and situations, the feeling and experiences of a person, not necessarily ostensibly related to creation are, in and of themselves, equally as nourishing and informative as the artistic stuff. 

If you think about it we are actually all living works of art. Works in progress. What we do, what we choose, how we elect to express our personalities through our behaviour and actions are not only intriguing but they also add up to form a picture of a human's being that can broaden the outlook of and inform, inspire the observer in their own lives. 

That's why I like to read memoirs. At the moments I am reading about a mercenary in Afghanistan. I've been reading the true life account of Shirley Maclean's daughter, snippets of Julia Bishop's personal story, the highs and lows of a mountaineer, a drug loving chef from Newtown, photographer Sally Mann's erudite tome...

These are lives vastly different from my own. But what I love is hearing their voices, reading about their choices and the consequences. Understanding their feelings and motivations in important moments. it is comforting to connect. I acknowledge that they have taken the time to open up - some more than others - and to share what is meaningful and cherished to them. 

Some of my favourite memoirs are the more obscure ones. A guy that grew up in orphanages around Queensland, a woman who fell in love with a Columbian coke dealer, a man wrongfully imprisoned in Lebanon, etc, etc. If it rings true and feels real, it has an impact and value for me.

So, that's possibly one of the main reasons I have chosen to share some of my stories in this blog. Because, frankly, also, if I didn't then there are things that no one would ever know. Huge (to me) life experiences that would be just blow away like leaves in the wind. Of course, there are many, many such experiences that will never be revealed - ones that I choose not to share for whatever reasons as well as ones that simply do not come to the forefront of my consciousness when I am in the writing mood. 

If you really think about it, probably 90% of our internal lives - including the stories we make up about our real life experiences and the meaning we give to them - are never to be uncovered, never reach the surface. They make up the smouldering flame of our deepest, truest selves. They give warmth and flavour to our personalities, they mould our characters.

I remember when I was younger, more social, my friends and I would share our stories. Tell of what formed us. Certainly, my closest girlfriends from over the years have heard some of the most poignant, shocking, elucidating true life tales from my childhood till my 50th. After that, I have gone solo. My new girlfriend is my blog. 

Maybe not. There's no cuddling or sex. But my blog has become my confidante. 

Don't I worry about these things being read by people I know, people I don't know? (Which is better/worse? Hmm...)

No, I don't. We are all the same. My story becomes yours and yours becomes mine. There is no shame in being a human. We do what we can. We do what we must. 

And sometimes, some of us get to share the juicy bits. Like a repast. A delicious meal. Served up and ready to devour. The best food comes from real ingredients cooked by a chef with the right intentions. One who wants to share, one who wants to brings joy, knowledge, passion to anyone who cares to listen/read.

And this blog sometimes serves as my humbe kitchen. My life experiences the raw food. My words the oil and spices.

Feast.

Don't bother to hold on to anything.

Not your things, not your concepts, not your

It's all impermanent. Like everything; forever changing, evolving. And, in fact, it makes sense to surmise that the quicker you evolve the stronger you will be.

So much, so much, holds us back. Mostly things that we ourselves feel we can not let go of. 

I am speculating here, not giving a sermon. I am going with the flow of my own stream of consciousness to see where it leads and, if perhaps, there is something worthwhile at the end of it. 

Writing as discovery. Writing as play.

As a side bar, since we are talking about writing, I borrowed a big fat, squat, chunky book from the library last week called 1,001 Books You Must Read Before You Die. I actually took it out for some sketch ideas for my comics, but as I have been leafing through it, it turns out to be a fascinating compilation and even in a single page synopsis, reveals much about each piece of fiction and it's author. What struck me is how most of the featured writers are visually eccentric, charismatic, striking or mysterious. Writers create worlds that did not previously exist. They bring mini worlds into our world. They offer up places to go and characters to get to know. I have found this book to be immensely inspiring, insightful and motivational. What a noble pursuit. What a gift to humanity, a wonderful legacy a well crafted and enduring work of fiction is. 

Anyway, I have taken a tangent. I was talking about holding on and letting go. I was riffing on the subject. Seeing if I can surprise/educate/liberate myself with some automatic writing.


As you get older, your priorities shift. Your motivations change, your needs morph. You are lying in bed and thinking back on activities a decade or two ago, some still fresh in memory, present in influence on current character/behaviours, and you realise that since those times so much has changed - circumstance, cast, location.... reality! ..... that it may all just be a story. But it was only just yesterday! It happened! I was there! 


Meaningless. It's gone. Life has shifted. Everything is different now. 


You have to catch up with yourself. You cannot linger too long. What about now. Now is going to be the memory of ten years from now. Are you making it worthwhile? Or are you wasting time re-running old clips?


Take stock. Be rigorous. Be ruthless. Don't keep what is no longer of any use. And that includes concepts. In fact, especially concepts. What use are the old ones? This is now, now, now!

Past a certain age there is more and more that cannot compete with the highs of youthful delights. You can't be as wild, you can't fuck as much, you can't ride high on ego and delusion and drugs and induced micro oblivion sessions. You can't run as far or as fast - to things or away from them. You can't delude yourself into believing that you are going to change the world. You can't get caught up, lost, in romantic notions, fantasies of perfect results or days of wasteful, hedonistic indulgence. You just cannot. You have come head on up against one of the undeniable realities of existence - we get older. Then we die.

And at a certain point of getting older, even getting older becomes something precious. You want more of it - as challenging and, in some ways (if you are using the old, un-adjusted ways of thinking) less ostensibly enjoyable (on the surface level) as it is - because well, the next phase is... is.... death. And no matter how diminished it may be or may get, it has to be better than the alternative.

Right? The inevitable alternative.

So, between being young and being old (as in debilitated level old, compromised old) there is a stage of reckoning. 

I was this and that. Now I am. 

A level of acceptance is necessary. One could call it a degree of surrender. A letting go.

All that is left is what is to come.

Let it go. Face forward. Peer up ahead. Not too far. Not the edge of the cliff. What's left of the journey. Do you want to go somewhere in particular? Amble? Rush? Take it as it comes? It doesn't matter. 

But what does matter is what you feel matters to you is treated with respect and reverence. You need to honour your higher self. And you can do that by bolstering your present self with as much dignity, passion, thoughtfulness, care, time and joy as you decide is necessary.

The game is not over. Not by any means. It has just changed completely. Its not that the rules have been rewritten. It's that you need to rewrite them. Gulp. Right?

What did you expect? Easy? Nah, save easy for when you are dead. 

Now is the time to really awaken and embrace all the fucking beautiful and wonderous shit you can.

Be astute, be open, be willing. 

You have been given a second chance. 

Sure, in some ways it's not as loaded up as the first chance, but at least this time you know it's not going to last. So you can make each moment count more.

Ready? 

You were born for this!

I lived, till the age of ten, in the bush, in a house my Dad helped build, on the edge of a National Park, in Wahroonga, Sydney, at the time one of the most outer suburbs of Sydney.  I went to the public school called The Bush School. I played up trees, under waterfalls, up and down cliffs, down tracks, by rivers. Basically surrounded by and immersed in nature.

When I was ten, the family moved to Tokyo, Japan. It was the complete other end of the spectrum. A sprawling, seemingly limitless city, brimming with buildings, packed with people. Electric, dynamic, pulsating. Criss-crossed by a massive, super efficient train and subway system full of an industrious, busy, kind and benevolent culture that was, in some ways, the polar opposite to my own, I found myself in a new playground of a new paradigm.

I'd always liked exploring, with my brothers, out in the bush. We would go for long walks, adventures, just the three of us, or with our mates from down the street. We would peg rocks, catch lizards and tadpoles, climb gum trees, leap over gaps in rock formations. Tokyo offered a whole new kind of exploration. We would cover ground on foot, by bus, by subway, on our bikes and on our skateboards. Then, later, by motorbike.

In the early years, Shibuya, Tokyo's zesty and youthful hub for fashion and entertainment, was where we would go to watch movies, play in game centres, have a cheap meal and peruse shops with the latest toys and gadgets. From our home in Nishi-Azabu, we could be there in half an hour. It was our favoured destination. It had a friendliness to it, an interestingness, an inviting accessibility. 

There was a wide variety of cinemas to choose from flash and modern to el cheapo dingy. The Shibuya Bunka Kaikan alone, housed four. As well, it had a rooftop game centre, a great bookshop, a supermarket for movie snacks (chocolate covered wheat puffs, coffee milk, dried squid and big fat, puffy twistie like cheese slugs called Karl - were the favourites) and a poster shop. Movies in Japan are always screened in original language with subtitles - a godsend for visiting westerners as all TV was in Japanese language. My brothers and I for many years watched one or two movies on a Saturday, then another with the P's on a Sunday arvo. There is no rating system (G,PG,M,R) whatsoever, so we had unrestricted choice. Watching Taxi Driver at thirteen was an eye opener, almost mind expansive. The same for The Exorcist, the Godfather, Lolly Madonna War and The Wild Bunch.

We loved playing pinball and video games and would spend countless hours at Game Centres. It wasn't till half way through our time there that video games were even invented. I vividly recall my first game of Atari's ping pong - a vertical line on either side with a bouncing ball between them. Green screen, ball accelerating incrementally with each return hit. Then of course, there was Space Invaders, Mission Control and Pac Man. Car racing, shooting games, Galaga. Still, we had an ongoing respect for pinball mastery and would alternate between format offerings.

Japanese people are very thoughtful and especially kind to children. At no time were we ever in any danger or did we come across any difficulty. We were all fluent in the language and humble and respectful in return to the people of our host nation. We always made friends with the twenty-something part-time workers in the game centres, joking around, and would often be rewarded with free games and tokens. It was an idyllic existence for three young Aussie bush kids. From Wahroonga to Shibuya - we were transported from the grounded dirt and big sky free style playground to the electrified, connected, built up, efficient, magnificent wonderland of the East.

                     --------------------------------

PHOTO: Shot by Naoki Leonard Fujita - a friend and maverick photographer and cameraman- who lives in Shibuya. See some of his amazing work here: https://leonardfujita.wix.com/imagemaker

I've always enjoyed reading autobiographies. These days even more so - in fact, almost exclusively. Recently I have read ones by the pilot of a Qantas Airbus flight over Singapore that had an engine explode, an Aussie ex-SAS who went into Lebanon to extract two daughters snatched by their father, got caught and landed in jail, and Portia de Rossi's true tale of her ascent to stardom and battles with bulimia, her sexuality and fame. I know I am going to enjoy a book when the voice of the narrator is steady and honest: a life story that shares trepidations and triumphs with personal detail and insight. (Three of my all time favourite autobios are At Home In the World by Joyce Maynard, Townie by Andre Dubus III and Burning the Days by James Salter - all exquisite.)

At the moment I am reading the memoirs of Biz Stone the guy who co-founded Twitter. It's a bright and interesting read. The thing that stands out about his is his attitude to life. He likes thinking outside the box and making up his own rules. When he was in high school, he realised after two weeks that with his after school Lacrosse practice, plus his part time job, couple with a minor learning disability that if he was to do his nightly homework with any level of diligence that he would only be getting three of four hours sleep. So he made a decision and the next day went in an announced to his teachers a no-homework policy. He explained why and they eventually accepted his reasoning and promises of trying extra hard within class to keep up. Reading this reminded me of my own special deals made during high school.

It was junior year. St. Mary's International School in Tokyo. Day one of physics class, first class of the morning. The teacher was Mr Tong. I was sitting up the back. He was rambling on up front. Within minutes, I zoned out. After a while, I thought: a year of this?? I leafed through the pages of the text book. It looked complex and dry and held no interest for me whatsoever. Tong was a nice enough guy, but he was hard to understand and it was evident that he wasn't going to be bringing this text to life. I made a decision. There was no way I could endure a year of this. And first class of the morning, too. No way.

I hatched a plan. I wrote a letter to the principal explaining that I would be much better off doing extra Japanese language and kanji study in the library during this period and that I would devise a format with the Japanese teacher. I can't recall my reasoning for not needing physics but strongly expressed that more Japanese would be much more beneficial and rewarding for me. He read it, with some skepticism (I was a known scallywag), but eventually agreed that if I made a curriculum of study and got it signed off and checked weekly by the Japanese teacher that I could proceed. I took it to her and presented it with zest and optimism. She signed it and Brother Charles gave me the OK. So, part one was accomplished. 

I think I did the first week and got a form signed. Maybe even two. It soon became apparent, though, that I could let it slide. I stopped doing any work and took to just reading magazines in the library. It seemed that both the J teach and Bro had forgotten about it. Eventually, I realised that I could actually come in school a little later, since it was first period. So I started coming in ten, twenty minutes later and going straight to the library. Then I began the ritual of having a cigarette in the toilet by the window. Then my Aussie mate, Gordon, once he found out, would regularly ask for a toilet break from Mr Tong and come in a join me for a few puffs.
It was a successful transition from being stuck in a boring, useless class to having a full period every morning all to myself to relax. It was a triumph.

It nearly all fell to pieces, though, when I asked Gordon if I could borrow the keys to his motorcycle one morning. I had my Japanese bike license by then but was yet to afford a bike of my own. Gordie had helped me learn and was a generous spirit and chucked me the keys. "Get some practice", he said, "just try and be back in time for our smoko time." I was elated. I snuck out of school and into the bike parking area, put on the helmet and started it up. I didn't go too far afield. I did this a few times with great joy, a sense of freedom and success. Much better than being stuck in some dumb class. I had cracked the paradigm. Broken free. In an effort to share my elation with fellow students I drove along a side alley, past the window of the class I knew Gordon was in, three or fours stories up. I tooted the horn. He recognised it and rushed to the window. I went round the block and did it again. He waved. The next round, I beeped more and there were few students. The next one, there was half the class, all waving and cheering. Then, kids from other classes were also rushing to the windows, going ballistic. It was a celebration! One of us was free, had escaped. I was a symbol of liberty and freedom.

Obviously, I hadn't quite thought it through, because when I went past the front of the school on the next round, I was waved down by a very angry teacher. I made up a story about how I was late for school and just beeped once. I apologised for the disruption and promised to head immediately to class (or not-class in my case). I went to the library and sweated it out, hoping the principal would not hear of it and take away my privileges. Luckily, he didn't. All was cool. I kept my first period freedom for the entire year. Initiative was rewarded. Rules are there to be bent and broken. Make your own freedom. Lesson learnt!

Fragments of memories of experiences long gone
Fading but not forgotten
Fortune's favourite song

Keep pushing that replay button

Did you ride high in the sky that day?
Did you holler with pride, screech with joy?
Was the whole world yours for that moment?
Tell me, was it unreal, did it haphazardly happen?
Your one of a kind, unique and special favourite story?

We all have them stored away safely

Some shouted out in barrooms 
Some still secret between just you and them
A few even made the papers maybe
Some just make you want to go back again

But you don't get second chances
In this showreel, fluttering, fleeting
And no returns, no two time burns
The drums just keep on beating

So move on to new peaks and pinnacles
You haven't finished until the end
Do not be dragged down by the mundane or the clinical
You've got the reputation of your lifetime to defend

Fire up
Loosen out
Grind and grind some more
Chin up
Crush the doubt
Power aid your core

With every thousand new dreams
One true adventure is born
Honour your primitive need
To be ignited, invited, reborn

You are still breathing, aren't you?
Then there is hope, there are chances
For in the end, you want to be there laughing, wild eyed
As your skeleton does it's majestic final dances