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Paperback Reader, Reader

26/3/2017

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I didn't read this book but seeing it on the table at the op shop brought back some strong memories from another time and another head space. As is apparent from the cover design it is a paperback from the seventies. And the seventies is when my love of paperbacks began. I would say around '74 - when I was thirteen/fourteen.​

I started out with comics which we bought from a tiny second hand book shop in Roppongi on Saturday mornings and young adult books like The Hardy Boys (the end of every chapter a cliff hanger!) which I found in the school library. Our first visits to the library with the class when I was ten or so were a revelation. To me the library was like an adventure, like rummaging through a treasure chest. So much to search through, so much to discover. And I enjoyed the freedom of the process, too. No supervision, no length instructions. Get in there and find what you like. And then when you do - you can take some of them home. For free. What's not to love? I still love libraries and go regularly. 

Book shops, too. On Sundays, with the family, after a movie and dinner, sometimes we would go into a Tokyo bookshop that had an English language section right up the back in the far right corner. We weren't a rich family and the new books were imported and premium priced - so purchase was not an option. But looking was free. And in it's own funny way, this restriction made the paperbacks even more appealing. I would found ones that I was interested in and imagine what it would be like to read them after fully scouring the cover, the mini reviews, and snippets of the contents. 

My parents were readers and had a pretty decent size book shelf in their bedroom. I don't recall reading any of their paperbacks - different tastes - but I poured over all the larger format art books (my Mum is an artist), the full colour, glossy, large format travel books and eventually, and impactfully, the mysteriously alluring, illustrated classic; The Joy Of Sex - which provided a complete and illuminating education. 

So the reading culture was a firm part of my upbringing - and I'm grateful for it. Mum and Dad encouraged it and as a household, we subscribed to Time magazine, Newsweek, National Geographic and Reader's Digest. A few years later, I used my pocket money for a personal subscription to other magazines (from the US) including National Lampoon, Details and Esquire.

But books - paperbacks - were my big love - on par with my passion for comics - which was huge! (What are comics if not abridged books, packed with glorious illustrations? Or elaborate story boards for movies of the imagination?) 

I found a tiny bookshop in Hiroo, just up the road from the station, which was not too far from our house in Nishi Azabu. Up the front on the right hand side, just about eye level there were three shelves with English language paperbacks. This became one of my main sources of self selected reading material for a number of years. Even though, there were probably only a total of less than a hundred titles - I would often an hour or longer, after school, sifting through them. I would limit my purchase to one at a time, mostly - unless there was a new influx of numerous guaranteed winners - which wasn't that often - but was exciting and appreciated. 

They usually cost about 200 yen each at the time which was not a lot but still a considerable amount. My methodology was thorough. I would narrow my options down to top three and work it out from there. My goal was to never buy a book that I would not be compelled to finish. Pretty good was not good enough. I was looking for treasure. Of course, you can't always know until you get into with books but you can hone your assessment skills.

We had to wear (dumb) school uniforms - grey pants (itchy and boring), a white collared shirt (choking), a red tie (clownish) and a heavy dark blue blazer with the school's (SS-like) insignia on the front right hand pocket. The jacket was the only thing I didn't mind - because it had lots of pockets. Two hip level ones, one top front and an inside right hand one, as well. And anyone who knows me, knows I love pockets. I used to carry one, and sometimes two, paperbacks at all times. One at each side. Like a literary gunslinger. Out of my class of say, thirty, there were two others who also came to adopt this convention - Chris Styles and Zach Callagher. We would always know what the other was reading (or had lined up for next.) We sometimes did some swapping but not all that often. Off the top of my head, some writers I remember reading were Alistair Maclean (so compelling!), James Clavell (a masterful storyteller - King Rat, Shogun) , Michael Crichton (The Andromeda Stain blew my mind!), John Fowles (The Magus - game changer!) and the immensely relatable and infuential Horse Feather by Woody Allen. Just as enjoyable and meaningful were some more obscure titles by less celebrated authors that were quirky and esoteric but still enticing and nourishing. I remember one about a teenage girl with evil powers (title unknown) and another about a female spy in Hong Kong who had a lesbian encounter around page 83. Another great one was What Really Happened To The Class of '65? - which I found absolutely fascinating. 

I would read my paperbacks on the subways, at home in the evenings, during class - tucked in behind a text book or on my knee - even while walking, sometimes. I was a reading junky. Nothing has changed - like many - I love to escape. Paperbacks were like iPads of the time. Instant access to another realm. Admittedly only one at a time - but that one was usually deeply engrossing and most sufficient. I read voraciously. I loved reading and it really meant a lot to me. The quietness, the transportation, the magic of the whole process. Books were portals to other dimensions. It was a time when I wasn't magnificently happy in my life - due to struggles at school and at home. I was a deeply emotional kid, moody, stubborn, individualistic. I hated bullies and they hated me back even harder. I did not fulfil the expectations of my parents on an achievement level and felt out of place often. A quiet rage was building inside me, a rebellion. Many family dinners I would eat in complete silence as a protest to what I considered emotional oppression. Of course, I know now that my parents were doing their best with a not easy to define and contentious teen, but at the time I felt like it was me against the world. I refused to bend or acquiesce to asshole teachers and would often end up in detention or even be suspended from school (which was rare at that school, in those days). I was a little chubby, my hair was longer than permitted, I was unkempt (didn't give a shit) and refused to hustle in PE or ever go to swimming classes (self conscious). And though I did love a practical joke or shouting out funny things in class when I thought of them, I was never unkind or harmful to anyone. I was like a mini cheeky hippy - who probably would have been a goth - if they had been invited. I knew the dark side - having come close to death twice by the age of twelve - and endured more than my share of physical discomfort during my growing years. I also cried a lifetime worth of tears, alone, very alone, in my bedroom many nights. 

But books, books; they were my friends. Books were all giving. They required nothing more than one's attention and in return they gave so much. I lived in paperbacks during the years from thirteen to sixteen. They cushioned the perceived harshness and confusion of my developing years. They were my teachers, my guides, they suggested wonderful alternatives. They presented glorious possibilities and mostly, too, tied things up neatly within their own worlds - which was comforting. They were unlimited - but contained. Finish one and I would crave the next. The quest was to find another at least as good - maybe better. I took it seriously. My addiction. My salvation. The simple paperback. Words on a page. They saved me. Soothed me. Unselfishly assisted in the creation of my complex and unique interior structures. Some of which are still sturdy and of assistance to this day. They were fundamental architects in the building of the launchpads for the rocket ships which catapulted my imagination into the limitless multiverse of timeless wonder. Like that last sentence? I can imagine it in a soppy compulsively readable paperback!
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Echoes Inside Us

25/9/2016

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- You see, what happens is I get the rhythm in my head, the rhythm of their words. The rhythm of their words and the atmosphere and direction of their retelling of their journey. And it stays with me for a while after I have bent over the little paper corner and folded the page chunks together - to trap in all the good stuff until I next venture in.

Just like with people that you meet, you connect with varying intensities. With this guy I am connecting strongly. It's not so much about similar experiences - it's more about his expression of his perception of his recollections and the easy going, dot-connecting retelling - that is comfortable and familiar. He has a poet's flow, a writer's eye for detail and an outsider's clarity of the bigger picture, told from a vantage point of complex feelings mixed with a slightly amused detachment.

White Out is the book and the dude's name is Michael W. Clune. I read his previous book - A Gamer's Life - and truly enjoyed it's honesty, perceptiveness and originality. Nothing showy, just his soul talking. I asked the library to get this one in and they did. On the same day that it arrived, so did Dave Eggers new one about an intrepid woman in a bomby campervan with her two young kids in Alaska and I started reading that first, having relished all his previous publications, especially Zeitoun. Alas, Alaska left me cold. Fifty pages in I started skipping. By ninety I was out of there. Open White Out and mmm.... yeah... inviting and familiar. I am a quarter way through. Savouring. (Which doesn't mean reading it slower.) 

The embodiment/mimicking/temporary inhabiting of a character also happens sometimes with movies. I suppose it's not an uncommon thing. The voice gets in your head. It's not unpleasant. Like a visitor. With reverb. It lingers, sometimes for minutes, sometimes for hours. 

It has prompted me to transcribe my thoughts right here, now. I have not been as regular as usual with my logs. (I don't mean poos.) Truth is, I have been busy. I have been seduced in a way. Drawn away from my painting and writing for a time. And what has captured me? Kidnapped my imagination and siphoned off much of my creative output time?

Music.

Over the last six or seven months I have been building tunes on Garageband. Every day. In my usual focused, tunnel vision way, I have devoted myself to the audio invention process and completed over 120 new songs. It's been my little secret. I haven't wanted to speak of it, less it's power be dissipated. But now it's cool. My first CD has been pressed and will be released next month. It's called Lolipopman. Twenty tunes. A mixture of folk, pop, punk, spoken word, old white fella hip hop and ambient. It's a new work of art - just in musical form. The writing is still there - it's relatively abundant in lyrics - but the colours are now sounds. The concepts are compositions. For me, as a comparative novice in the music field it has been a delightful departure. 

It has interfered with my comic, painting and writing output - but you can't do everything all at once. And these songs are like my newest fling. I am captivated. 

There. Confession done. No more sneaking around, making excuses for my infrequent blog appearances. To apologise is unnecessary, but I have felt a little guilty some days. I like being here, translating my up-to-date thoughts and feelings and observations about art and the creative life. Free flowing the little white words on black background from my mind, through my fingers and onto the screen. I like communicating with my friends in the clouds, across the skies, who are, like me, swimming in alternating turgid and serene oceans of their own. I like our conversations. Even though they are more like monologues. But they're not. I can hear you listening. I feel connection. Just like when I read the words of Eggers or Clunes or Carver or Salter or whoever gets through to me and finds a welcome place in my evolving consciousness. I know I am at home with you sometimes. And it feels comfortable, even comforting. Echoes inside us. They lead us closer to our destination. Our every changing destination.


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We'll See

24/5/2016

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Last week, a twelve year old boy in Taree set fire to an important infrastructural cable box and cause a massive internet outage stretching all the way up the north coast. This included Mullumbimby. So we were without connection for about 24 hours +.

At the time, I didn't know it was the whole area down and tried various measures to investigate and fix what could have been just our household. Nothing worked. Offing and onning, plugging and unplugging; the usual stuff. Resigned, I just did other things with my time.

I am happy, of course, that it is now back on. Being online is fun. There are limitless pathways in all kinds of directions. Facebook, movies, news, editorials, humour, messaging friends, social updates, things for sale... Like I said; limitless. 

Anyway, before we were reconnected, I thought back to the early days, back when I was in my teens and twenties. There was no internet then. Not even computers. And no mobile phones. It's weird to consider that now.

What was different? Well, for starters there was considerably more inter-personal relating. I refused to have a television for almost a decade. (I hated commercials. And the sameness and constriction, lack of choice of TV - especially back in the 80's.) So, there a lot more reading going on. And other simple pleasures like listening to music (records), staring at the covers, perusing and considering lyrics, making sculptures, making zines, painting, doing outdoorsy things.

Because it was harder to contact each other, we tended to stay in hubs, connect and co-ordinate activities together. It was surprising 'primitive' comparatively, for lack of better word. One could also say more grounded, basic, simple. And these are not bad things. In fact, they are overly diminished these days. A re-balancing is in order. (But unlikely.)

I'm a big fan of technology and use it often and thoroughly. I use my iPad to make music, I draw comics and create complex collages on my large screen phone. At home, I'm on my iMac in the evening, on Photoshop or Indesign, or scouring the net for juicy new things for a good four of five hours. I love the fact that I can have facetime with my brother and his boys in San Fran, that I can email my Mum a few times a week, send images via text, bounce emojis back and forth with friends, enjoy the variety of posts of my fb crew. I missed all that shit when the net was down. I noticed it's absence.

I even love the way I can write this journal, this blog, sitting in my room in my tiny town on the coast of Australia and post it upon completion and know that within minutes my friends in Japan, the US, Sweden, Germany, Brazil.... wherever... can read it, absorb it, comment if they want. 

This kind of thing was unthinkable back in the late 70's and 80's. Now it is common. But still a thrill. 

I am glad, though, that I was able to spend my first three decades in a simpler time. It was a good grounding. It was a different place. I appreciate both sides of the coin, equally. What is coming up is anyone's guess. Well, not really... we know some of the big stuff... augmented reality, 3D printing, electric transport, drones, flying cars, etc. Advancements are getting faster and faster. Hopefully human consciousness and awareness will stay aligned, at least catch up, so that everyone can have a fair go. At the moment, the imbalance is obvious, unjust and unsustainable. The ones with power are lacking in ethics. Oh, yeah, and our environment, the planet, seems to be heading towards possible self destruction. That.

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It is Written

19/2/2016

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​I've been reading for a long time now. Avidly, devotedly, constantly. It's an activity that I truly love. It's an experience had in silence (or, at least, total focus, blocking out distracting audio). You get supplied little symbols, and from them evoke meaning and substance. You get direction - and take it from there. You get ingredients, just the right amounts (hopefully) and in your mind you mix them together for a wonderful feast. Every reader will get a different experience from the same book. How amazing is that alone! It's partly what is presented and it's partly how you perceive it - based on who you are and what your outlook is, your life experiences are. 

My reading arc has been through many phases over the decades. Plenty of fiction - I look for quality of writing and originality of voice. Favourites from over the years that pop into mind include James Salter, Jonathan Lethem, Hilary Thayer Hamman, Tom Perrotta, Louise Erdrich, Lorrie Moore, Carlos Castaneda, Andre Dubus III, David Sedaris, Raymond Chandler and Haruki Murakami. Even writing the names of these writers ignites my passion! Some of their writings are so fucking awesome, so powerful, so eloquent that I get emotional just thinking about it.

What is it about reading great stuff that moves us so much? I think it's the fact that someone not only has talent and imagination but they exert the effort and spend the time to truly form their tales into the best possible presentation they can. Writers care. Writers are devoted and serious about what they do. They are on a mission to inspire, inform, elevate. And the best ones, like those mentioned above, do all three. It's such an admirable pursuit. The rewards are hard earned. The greatest reward, I am certain, is the sense of accomplishment, completion. Sure, a writer will be happy about sales, encouraged by good reviews and reader responses but they do not bring any deep satisfaction. Validation is positive and certainly encouraging but it's not tantamount to the satisfaction that comes from the realisation of a dream, a vision, an idea, a fantasy. 

Having said that, from my own experience, once a story or a screenplay, a book, is completed, it is not long after that one gets itchy to commence the new thing - usually more ambitious than the last. There's nothing glamorous about writing. It is a solitary pursuit. You are wandering through a great unknown, one for which their is no map - and you have to trust your instincts, believe that your innate prowess will see you through. 

The image of a writer, from the outside, is so romanticised. It is so far from the truth. Anyone who writes regularly and with dedication will tell you: it is hard work, often thankless. There is no applause, no pats on the back, no huge financial reward or incentive. It's just you and your mind, firing away: chugging, ploughing, climbing, chasing, wandering, grasping, hoping... for a result that will quell the compulsion, calm the self imposed demands. You start something, you have to finish it. One word at a time. Thoughts in order. Descriptions on target. Characters alive. Meaning implied or clearly stated must be accurate and precise. 
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Consciousness Tracker

6/2/2016

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Lately I have become aware of the importance of writing only things of substance. My pieces, I have recently decided, need to have merit. If they are going to exist, be created, and read, then they need to be worth the time. This doesn't mean they have to be exclusively serious, it just means that I don't wish to waste any one's time.

Once you begin reading something, you usually commit the energy and time to stick with it. You are searching for something. When you read the headline or the title, the opening paragraph, you are deciding whether or not to proceed with the piece. Will I find nourishment? Will I learn something new? Is there information here that will advance my understanding of the subject? Or, even, will I be distracted in a pleasurable way, entertained?

We are not in fucking school anymore. Nobody is making us read anything. (And curse them for doing so back then!) We read what we want to read. We don't want to waste time with fluff or bullshit, lies, misinformation, tackiness, didactic trash. We want to be educated, uplifted, fostered, cultivated by the stream and tiny black symbol clusters. We want to be transformed, even just incrementally. Ideally we want a little bit of magic.

And words can be magic. It's one of those things. I think the word I am looking for is; ethereal. 

We may not even be quite sure what we are seeking before we begin to read something. We just know that we'll know when we find it. We become like detectives, sifting through the evidence in front of us, searching for clues that will add up to a reasonable deduction. We want to crack the case and the case is life itself. Cause, face it, we are actively living in and fully engaged in an ongoing mystery. One that is yet to be solved. Who knows what we could stumble upon in our investigations - through reading, or writing for that matter.

Writers are adventurers. Leaders, mostly solo, the advance party, trackers. We are curious, we like to analyse, build, invent. We work with concept. We are fuelled by imagination. Often we enamoured by the musicality of words and phrases. We ride the sets of thoughts like a surfer does the waves. The more practiced and adept we get, the bigger the surf we take on. Unlike the physical realm, there is no fear involved. Nobody ever got injured writing down their thoughts. But it is about confidence. The more we write, the more we are able to attempt with the next one. We get bored with what we have done, said, thought and written already. We seek new horizons. Not always new, though, sometimes it's the familiar that holds the secret riches. In this case we go deeper. We delve. Nice word: delve.

And the whole time, whatever it is we are doing, writing about, we are rewarded with tasty treats that pop into our heads and are expressed though our hands. Our minds get to reflect their magnificence. Our higher selves are offered an outlet. If we can get out of our own way, we can occasionally tap into the sublime, the wonder, the exquisite soulful limitlessness that resides within us all but is mostly disguised and interrupted by the static of daily living.

In this sense, writing is truly of the most pure pursuits available to us. In tandem with reading, it is an activity that can lift us up out of the ordinary and transport us, offer us a bridge from what is to what could be. We have to return eventually, to our homes in the physical realm, but for the time that we are away, we are liberated, suspended in the divine dimension of unlimited possibility. 

And that is a nice place to be.
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Truth in all it's variations

17/8/2015

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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.
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Disposable Incoming

8/7/2015

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It makes sense to feed yourself nourishing, healthy, natural food. The body responds well to it, functions smoothly, grows and repairs from it. There is encouragement from some elements of society and the government to do so but there is an even stronger push - in the form of advertising and marketing from corporate factions - to get people to consume processed edible items that are overloaded with sugars, salts and a variety of toxins (including GMOs) simply for their taste and/or convenience.

We are used to this now, as a species. Many are trapped in a unthinking cycle of buying and consuming foods that don't sprout from nature and are conceived in a factory and dressed with fancy and alluring packaging. It's a modern malaise and has a high cost to the well being of society.

On a parallel track, one less heralded or commented on, is the trajectory of our mental consumption habits. 

There is a huge volume of shrill and sugary distractions being presented to us every day, coming at us from all sides. On the net, TV, radio, magazines, the newspaper... we are bombarded with information and messages - in the form of both news and entertainment - that is the moral equivalent of junk food.

Hard to resist, tasty perhaps for an instant but lacking any substance or value for one's evolution as a sentient being.

It's interesting to look back on your day and what you may have taken in to see how much of it was actually nourishing your soul and how much of it was clogging and clouding your clarity and essence.

Truth is that is imperative that we make an effort to challenge, improve and expand ourselves; intellectually, morally and spiritually. To do this we can only work with what we put in.

Affirmative actions, positive behaviour and healthy interaction with others - any poz interpersonal stuff - is good. So is stuff like meditation, reading books and quiet thinking.

Creative pursuits also rank high. They allow one to get in the zone, touch base with the universal sauce, or source; same diff.

Personally, I get a sweet natural high every day doing my comics and/or writing. It's not always easy but afterwards I feel nourished, a sense of accomplishment. It's my job, I suppose - one with very flexible hours and parameters - plus a decent boss who gives me free reign. 

I'm no saint, though. I squander plenty of time: surfing the net, binge watching my favourite series in the evenings and occasionally leap frogging from one foolish clip to another on You Tube. No one's keeping score. Do what you want. But my advice and the gist of this piece is that it is good to be aware of what is going in to your consciousness. 

Sidestep the avalanche of goo-goo garbage generated by the morally dubious entertainment conglomerates and - like picking fresh herbs from a garden or fruit of a tree - get some wholesome and meaningful content into you and pay attention to your own opinions, insights and intuitions. Consciously develop yourself into someone worth being.

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Reading As Transportation

2/7/2015

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For me reading is an integral part of my existence. I find the actual process of reading - rushing across letter, bouncing from word to word, sucking them in with your eyes, letting them swirl around in your brain and amplify into meaningful sentences, paragraphs... concepts. Munching on delicious combinations of adjectives and nouns, inventive, rhythmic phrase clusters that titillate and delight the cerebral neurons like cheeky pixies.

I began really loving reading around the age of ten or eleven - comics were a big part of it, of course, but also magazines like Time and Newsweek and books. The Hardy Boys series was a huge favourite. Those cliffhanger chapter endings! My love for books really kicked into high gear around the age of fourteen when I started reading adult fiction in paperback form. I would buy them second hand from a local second hand bookshop in Tokyo. The shop was filled with Japanese books, of course, but there were about three or four shelves of titles in English. I chose very carefully. To buy a book and not be able to read it, legitimately enjoy it was something I only did once or twice. I hated to think of the title I had missed or excluded that would have perhaps opened a new world. So, I ended up spending one, two hours in the shop sometimes, before deciding on my purchase. As a discipline, and because I wasn't very cashed up, just one at a time. Unless there were two amazing ones, guarenteed reads that I didn't want to miss out on.

It was a thrill to be able to read 'adult' fiction - whatever I wanted from a young age. It helped me mature, formulate my world view, learn things about the world and it's inhabitants. Authors like John Fowles, Alistar Mclean, Woody Allen and on, that guy who wrote The Joy of Sex, all contributed to my development. 

I was known around school for always having at least one, if not two, paperbacks in my blazer side pockets. The commute to and from school was close to an hour - three train lines, two switches - which was two hours a day of extra reading time, thanks very much. There's no question I learnt more from reading books of my own selection than I did from set scholastic studies. It's possible, likely even, that my respect for and love of writing stemmed from my reading passion.

It's a habit that continues today. I always have one book on the go that I will read from cover to cover over a week or two period. Then there are the 'circlers', two or three that I pop in and out of. As well, there are the 'chancers'; ones that deserve a chance - a chapter, 20 pages - if they keep my interested I keep going with them. 

These day fiction writing mostly doesn't cut it for me. I visit the library several times a week - generally gravitating towards the art books, of course, but then the auto biographies. Mountain climbers, creatives, criminals, soldiers, inventors... a good yarn told in the first person - particularly one that is honest and illuminating - is satisfying and often inspiring in some way, insight into the headspace of a person who has done something extraordinary.

So, yeah, to me books are beautiful things. Powerful, mysterious, full of promise - teachers of the best kind; they lay it out there for you to discover for yourself. No pushing. No hard sell. A simple invitation... come along for a few steps... if you are compelled to continue, well, let's take the journey together. At completion you will be a slightly different person. You will have evolved.  
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can't do normal

8/5/2014

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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.


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    ART GETS ME HIGH

    Picture

    Author & Artist

    Lewie JPD 
    Blog Mission Statement: 

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

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


    Disclaimer: He's high!
    Er, obviously.

    Pass the paint brush!
    *no drugs required

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