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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes I have to really make myself sit down to write. I have avoided it for long enough and there is a topic to explore - one that has been patiently waiting for days, perhaps even a week. To ignore it would be doing a disservice to myself, the creative process and, well, to Buddha himself. Not that he would care, really, or concern himself with such things - although he might, if it were etched into a leaf in ant dung and it fell on his lap. But even then... he would have to have his glasses on. Didn't know Buddha was a four eyes? Probably because in most of his pictures and statues he is wearing contacts. Not vanity just happened to be wearing them when the portraits were done. Now that we've sorted that out, I can get on with my topic.

Back in the 80's when I was living and working in Tokyo as a freelance illustrator, there were two dudes, both approximately a decade or so older than me, who became my friends/supporters/mentors. 

The first one was called Yuji Sato and together with his live-in girlfriend (who was quite beautiful, reserved yet strong - a bit like a Japanese Charlotte Rampling - I think she'd appreciate that comparison), had a boutique design company in Ebisu, just up the hill from the station. I first met Yuji at a photoshoot for a fashion label. It was a recreation of The Beatles' Abbey Road cover with the four models wearing the brand's attire. I was cast as Paul McCartney. Yuji was the AD and producer. As the only one there who spoke Japanese, I helped out with the communication - as I'm sure friendly Paul would have done in that situation - so it was in character. Yuji and I got on easily and readily. He was a good natured, open minded chap. We went out drinking after the shoot and the friendship was sealed over sake and onigiri (rice balls). My faves are the ones with fish inside but can do the sour plum (umeboshi) too, if no fish ones available. For the record. 

Yuji and I would catch up every few months for a dinner or some drinks until I returned to Australia for a while. When I got back to Tokyo, he was my first port of call, and I was freshly married by then, so we'd go out dining as a foursome. Although his style - his company was called Cube - was more high-end, restrained and 'design-y' than my stuff (colourful, playful, pop, comic-y, raw), whenever he could he would throw me some work - book covers or whatever. It was gratefully accepted by me and very helpful to us financially. Tokyo ain't cheap. We lived in a tiny studio apartment which was basically a room with a half fridge, a gas top cooker and a modular toilet/shower attached.

Aside from the dinners and job related meetings, I would sometimes go over to Cube's small office and just talk about life with my mate. He was calm and wise and pure of heart. It was fun for both of us to discuss ideas and outlooks and learn from each other - mixed in with plenty of humour.

My other friend/mentor was the head Art Director of Popeye magazine (the best selling Men's mag in Japan at the time). I met him on the rounds with my portfolio. I did a lot of cold calling in the early days. Looking up numbers in the fronts of mags and trying to meet with the ADs. Lots of knockbacks but I only needed a few good hits - so I kept trying. Arai Ken and I also had an instant connection. He had long black hair and seemed to be a bit of an outsider/loner - even in the huge building/company that was Magazine House. They produced, I don't know, probably forty or fifty titles at the time (80's). Ken was quiet but underneath you could tell he had a great eye and intellect. By the way others treated him, I could tell that he was highly respected. 

I remember, we met down in the lobby the first time. There's waitresses who bring tea or coffee, orange juice. Lots of meetings happen there. My stuff was pretty diverse. Hand-manipulated SX-40 polaroids, surreal collage, slides of large paintings from my post art school days, crayon drawings.... It was different from what he would normally see. Many of the other ADs I met could not get there heads around it. Ken got it straight away. He saw the passion, the playfulness, the experimentation, lack of restriction... And he liked it. I was raw and maybe a bit of a risk, but he couldn't not give me a go. He gave me my first, modest, assignment right there. We went upstairs to the offices and he gave me a brief. I was stoked. 

He must have been happy with it, because a few weeks later, he called me in again and told me that he wanted to talk about something. Cool. I rode my Kawasaki KZ650 into Higashi Ginza and went up to the bustling 7th (?) floor, sat down at this desk. I wonder if you would like to become a regular contributor to Popeye magazine, Lewie-san? Wow!

My job was to do four small, related, illustrations for the opening pages of each issue - the Pop Eye section. Little faces, comics, whatever. It was a bi-weekly, so I did eight a month, as well as a few other larger pieces here and there. It was enough to pay my rent plus some. I loved it. Total free reign. Ken was like a kind hearted emperor. We would talk about the contributions, on occasion, but all he ever did was to praise and encourage me. What a legend. To have scored a regular gig at such a prestigious magazine, opened plenty of doors for me with other work. I was sanctioned.

I did it for a few years and even continued to do them after returning to Australia - sending them by post - for another year or so. But not being there, dissipated the energy somewhat and eventually it was over. Ken and I remained good friends, though, and we would meet up on subsequent visits to Tokyo. 

My friendships with both Ken and Yuji were pre Facebook and even pre-mobile, pre-email (!) days, so somehow we lost contact. But I will never forget their kindness, guidance and generosity. Two stellar gentlemen. Creative, brave, fun loving. The kind of qualities that one can look up to and attempt to emulate. Thanks, bros!

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.

Bosozoku. Japanese motorcycle gangs.

The literal translation is Speed Tribes. They sure liked speed and were an effective and homogenous tribe that lived by their own rules.

There decades of ascension were primarily was the 70's and 80's. I was churning thorough tumultuous teen years of my own in Tokyo. 

I first remember seeing and hearing them  when I was just ten. They were truly wild. Daredevils. Often riding without helmets (a ticket offence for any other bike rider) they'd have their kamikaze scarves across their foreheads or V-ing across their mouthes. When they went by - everywhere - they'd bang bats together, fill the usually Tokyo serenity with their custom made melodic horns. They'd be sparks. And fire. 

I didn't really know it but they also enjoyed fighting amongst each other's gangs and clashing with police.

They were tolerated, though. But mostly all. (Who's going to argue with mad max machined maniacs high on adreniline and who knows what else.

The police, though, had an understanding with them. Stay away from innocents. Certain streets, areas, times. Not like a rule book but a standard and acceptable set of behaviours that would not embarrass either.

It was like a circus riding through town. They'd shout and swear with an almost over acted enthusiasm.

When I got my own bike in Tokyo, occasionally, they'd appear beside me, outta nowhere. I'd honk and follow as best I could like the youngest brother on his tricyle. Sometimes I'd just enjoy the majesty of a force of nature. It was like Akira, in real life.

It was said that they didn't like foreigners but on the few occasions I encountered them they were good humoured and encouraging. They liked that I spoke Japanese and had long hair. I might have even had a peace patch on my bag. (School bag - not weapons bag.)

They had no fear. They were truly wild and reckless. What sixteen year old kid isn't going to have some respect for that.

I have always loved collecting things. 

When I was eight and we lived near the bush, it was special rocks and twigs. And tadpoles. And marbles.

At ten and eleven, when we lived in Tokyo, my brothers and I would go to a tiny but amazing model shop near Roppongi. The owner was an amazing model maker and always had awe inspiring scenes set up in his window. Inside was stacked to the roof with a comprehensive selection of plastic model kits. We used to buy and make aeroplanes (Spitfire was a fave, and the Stuka with its bent wings), tanks, and less often, a battleship or a destroyer. I was never that keen on the toxic smelling and hard-to-get-off-fingers adhesive that came in a tiny silver tube but I would diligently assemble a small army collection. What I loved most was painting them and putting on the decals - which needed pre-soaking a shallow dish of water and very delicate and precise handling.

Around thirteen I discovered the splendid and rewarding joy of reading books. New paperbacks (in English) were prohibitively expensive but I soon discovered a shelf or two of English language paperbacks in some local Tokyo bookshops. Again, the shops were narrow and tiny and crammed with merchandise. My area of interest and focus were up the front on the right of the Hiroo shop, down the road from our house. Just two or three shelves worth, each less than a metre wide. I would visit often and study every new book, considering it's value and possible reward. I really disliked buying a book if I wasn't going to read it, so I selected carefully, often reading the first twenty or so pages while standing there, sometimes for an hour or more before choosing. Luckily, in Japan, tachiyomi (literally standing/reading) is common and not discouraged by shop owners whatsoever. I would get out my fifty or a hundred yen and pay for my new treasure. The library at school was OK when I was younger with things like the Hardy Boys series (much loved!) but had nothing that would fast track the development and maturing of a hungry and curious teen. A few authors that spring to mind are Alistair MacLean, Roald Dahl and John Fowles. I would also read some slightly raunchy and macabre B grade novels - about witches, fighters and promiscuous experimenters. I was well known for carrying a paperback everywhere in the side pocket of our school blazer. Two other kids, Zac Callahan and Chris Styles, also started doing this and we would often check out what each other was reading and talk stories. Most of the other kids in the class associated reading with school work and shunned it. For us it was a doorway to new and exciting worlds. I'll always remember the feeling of finding a really good new book in the shelves. And the joy of reading one - wanting it to never finish. The Magus by John Fowles was an especially thick one and satisfyingly lasted for quite a while. I considered it a masterwork of the imagination. He also wrote a book called The Collector.

Part of the satisfaction of collecting is the thrill of knowing your subject, area of interest well and becoming familiar with all the popular and semi-popular items within it's realm. Then what happens is every time you go out seeking additions it becomes increasingly harder to find something new and worthwhile. You either have everything good or at least know about it and don't need to acquire it for reasons of taste or space. When you collect you are honing your knowledge and developing a personal taste and quiet opinions about the things within the microcosm of your passion. It's a very healthy and nourishing thing to do. I learnt a lot about art and developed my taste through collecting comics and album covers. I never bought new ones of either of these groups, preferring the chance and thrill of second hand hunting expeditions.

Other things I have collected over the years: movie posters, magazines (especially early Esquires and National Lampoons), film scripts (ordered by post from LA), poker card protectors, hippy necklaces, stickers, caps, skulls and bottle tops.

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.

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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