So I am sitting in the cafe working on a new poem.

And two ladies walk in and shuffle around with the waiter in tow, trying to decide on their destination table. They chose one close to mine, just a metre away.

It’s always interesting how the proximity to others will effect or not effect my writing flow.

Sometimes, I purposely don’t look at people, not more than a passing glance as they approach perhaps, so that I don’t have a detailed visual of them and thus can find it easier not to be distracted by them.

But sometimes, a certain voice, certain conversation - either it’s dynamic or content - will be hard for me to completely ignore.

A part of my brain analyses what I hear, the nuances, the emotions in the voices, the dynamic of the interplay between the players.

In this case, right now, these two are not overly distracting. They are reasonably somber and self contained. Some people do a bit of showing off in public - which I find irksome - others are more relaxed, discrete.

What I did notice though - without so much listening to the content of their words - was the ebb and flow of the conversation - the way that they each influenced each other’s mood and response.

It made me realise how any pairing of two people is going to be so completely different, depending on the individual energies. And how, if you were making a film, for example, the chemistry of the two players is so crucial. I suddenly realised just how much difference it makes. In the direction of the interchange, the dramatic levels, the mood.

They are talking a little softer now and with a more flowing to and fro.

Wait. No. One has gone silent for a while.

I like that. Means they are reasonably comfortable with each other. I can detect forced conversations and they are not rhythmically as pleasant. The slight unease is palpable.

I am not listening to. the actual sentences being said, their voices are of a reasonably low register, so it is almost a hum I am hearing.

I think it may be mother and daughter. I am not going to look. Sixty/forty it is, though. That kind of dynamic. One voice is definitely younger, the other offering advice like suggestions, it seems.

Other sounds I can hear are the traffic outside the window behind me, a low volume pop song from the far corner of the room, the shuffling of the sous chefs at the bench to my left, an occasional ‘bing’ from the bell when a dish is ready.

Some random snippets of conversation coming from people passing by outside. Cutlery crunches. The low hum of a bus engine. The clamouring lid of a large pot. The scrape of a wooden chair leg on the concrete. The tap of the espresso handle from the barristers corner. Plates ringing as they are stacked. Another chair is pushed along the floor, this time more vehemently. A small motorbike passes by, then another.

I have been studying music production for the last year and a half now, so I realise that I have been training my self to listen with more acuity. To accurately pick out select sounds and frequencies and to pay attention to them. This is part of what I do when making a song.

I just finished a new one today. It’s not mixed yet, but the main body is there. I like it. I like most of my new songs immediately after they are done. Generally speaking your latest is your favourite. Not always, though. Sometimes you will luck out and make a really beauty that stays at the top of the list for three, four, five songs forward.

I haven’t written much in these journal entries about my musical production. In some ways this is because it is so special to me. It’s a whole new area, a completely new domain for me to learn about and explore, create in. So I have kept it kind of sacred, been silent about it, not wanting to quantify or examine it because it is still precious and fresh. I haven’t wanted to dissect or discuss the process - just to get on with it and into it.

But now, after having finished probably fifty or sixty original tunes, I finally feel ready to release three or four into the world - make my debut as a musical artist.

I can listen to them and feel happy with them, that they represent who I am. I have by no means mastered the art of song production but I have found my own way through it to the point where the sounds that I am selecting, refining and juxtaposing into a coherent piece are an authentic representation of my feelings, my head space.

Through a mixture of dedication and focus, daily application and experimentation, I have found my groove, eased into a style that is uniquely mine, a sound that pleases me in it’s inventiveness and it’s sonic signature. And there is a coherence in the most recent pieces, the ones that I will release, that unites them harmoniously, even though they are individual tunes. This is a good thing, what I have been patiently aiming to achieve.

So, I am now almost at the first level of being a music producer. My first representational works are nearing release. It is exciting.

They won’t change the world. My expectations are realistic and humble. For me, the greatest pleasure is in the production itself. What happens with them, where they go and how they interact with the outside world is not up to me and quite honestly, is not my concern. I have been an artist and a writer of prolific output for four decades now and have yet to have even drawn the average of a standard wage from my creations if you add up my time spent and materials outlay. Whatever early fantasies I had of making money, or even a basic living from my art output, have dissipated completely. I am not being defeatist, just realistic. Self promotion has never been my strong suit. I like to just get on with making new things. It is likely, I could have been more financially successful if I had put the time in to translating my stuff into money, but it is not in my nature. So be it. So, I hardly expect any dollars flowing in from songs - not at any stage. And I am totally cool with it.

I am dedicated to creating new stuff. That’s what I do. Everyday. It’s what I am good at.

The ladies are still here, chatting away. They are slightly more animated now, aloft with their second caffeine shots.

I completely zoned out of them for a while there, when writing this. That’s what happens. That’s what I like about writing, making art, making music. That detachment, that immersion.

The blissful escape, the transcendence. Worth far, far, far more than money. ​

I was just doing ordinary things yesterday when around 5:30 in the afternoon, as I was walking up a regular street, I got a burst of a feeling of how extraordinary ordinary life is. 

These feelings are most poignant when they come out of nowhere, hit you by surprise. It's a bit like you are coming awake in a dream and realising it's not a dream but real.

Nothing happened, per say, I just suddenly realised how miraculous it is to be present on this planet and participating amongst my fellow humans, many of whom were walking by me, each with their own dispositions and outlooks (often readable from their faces, their walks), in this amazingly complex and impossible to truly comprehend matrix we call reality.

Everyone was going somewhere. We're a busy species. Everyone, from what I could read on their faces (assume), was thinking about things in their life. I could suddenly see and feel all the mix of emotions and thoughts streaming around me. Life - the whole thing - is so immense that we tiny little humans with our personal stories and agendas are essentially insignificant. Our stress and worries certainly are. And yet, at times, they consume us. We get caught up. Everything we think is important we truly believe to be important. But it's not. It's all transient. Life is actually just a cosmic ride. 

It would help us all to shift our perspectives. Easier suggested than adopted, of course. But, really, really, we are shackled. We are victims of our own minds.

How to self liberate? Step one: know it is possible - and desirable. Two: try. Take yourself out of yourself and just observe. Remove attachment. Surrender. Be in the moment.

It all becomes a string of cliches - and this is a pity because the substance and power behind those words is key. It really is the way to begin to unleash your own truth and find a wider, more soulful understanding of what it is we are doing here.

I'm no guru. I'm down in the trenches with the rest of us. In it's own way it's comforting, familiar. But in another way, it is sad and wasteful - of our true potential. We are magnificent beings, much more than we realise. It is a dream we are living. And we can wake up into it. 

When you get a moment, as in 'get' a moment - hold onto the feeling of what can be. Find the hunger for it, for expansion of consciousness, for a taste of enlightenment. It's what we are here for, as a collective, all in it together. We're each distracted by our solitary stories and only rarely break free to see the grand beauty of the big picture. But it is there, it is there. Right now. Right here. Reach, reach!

I love the smell of abstract in the morning.

Some days I wake up after exciting, lucid dreams and feel that I am able to see the world slightly differently.

Every day, I make new images and I have done for many years now. Today, I made five new images. The one above was my favourite. It wasn't quite working at first and almost felt like a discard but I kept with it and let it find itself.

When I was finished, I really loved it. I will often like what I create but only maybe really love one in a hundred images. This is one of those. Makes me feel good. 

I want to state - for anyone who doesn't create images, who doesn't know the feeling of painting or drawing, conjuring up a fresh life force with line, colour, shape, composition - that it's a wonderful thing to do. It can bring immense pleasure. You focus, loose yourself, question things, answer things, experiment, take risks, assess and reassess... It's a mind's eye game. It's a connection with the source. 

In the best moments, you become a conduit for pure universal energy. When you have practiced enough, you learn to get out of your own way and let the flow happen. It can be ecstatic and tantalising. Of course, along the way, and still, on some days, it can also be frustrating and hard work. But for me, generally, these day - I'm free rolling, having a grand old time. Art is my jazz. The picture above is my improvised solo from today's jam session.

Yep, it's been proved, once again, as the title say, 'Art gets me high'.

Just a little spark is all I need
Like this morning
I was awake
More awake than some mornings

Just a little spark
I read a word
Just a single word
That lit a fuse

Ignited by passion
It's not a predictable thing
Passion lives in a world of it's own
With it's own rules
With no rules

I think of Raymond Carver
His words
Chosen
Select
The effect
Sublime

I think of the artist
Say Picasso
No, Van Gogh
Or Hockney, yeah, Hockney
The colours presented
A miracle to behold

I think of a lifetime
So much struggle
By the time we realise
It's not the game we thought it was
It's too late
Too late

So any spark
Be it in the morning, at night, at twilight 
Forget the cocktails
Get up from the patio
We're gonna dance
We're gonna dance
Cause this may be the last chance we get

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

Someone asked me the other day why I like putting skulls in my art.

I like skulls because they are powerful icons. They represent many poignant things. Life, death, mortality, fear, even freedom.

By making them colourful, ornate, lively, it softens their confrontational power and makes them accessible and almost friendly. After all, every skull used to be someone kicking around on the planet with organs and vessels in a skin sack attached.

They evoke contemplation about the past and the future. In a sense about the whole enterprise of existence. How fragile it is, how temporary, how paradoxical. No one knows what is next - it's life's greatest mystery - but a skull is a reminder - it's coming!

Making them into colourful art is like trying to bring some life back to the dead. Not possible, but fun to try.

You can see some of my recent skull work on this site - click on skull guru. Git some skull into ya!

I get into my room and close the door and the world is mine. I am away. I am detached. Flying free.

It's not a very big room, or glamourous. Say three metres square - enough room for my bed, my desk, two bookshelves and a small space to stand up in in the middle. The floor is wooden and I've placed a fuzzy black bathmat beside the bed for when I step out of bed. Bit of luxury for the feet, you know.

The walls are covered with my paintings of various sizes and using removable hooks I've hung a few dozen nicknacks. A little Mexican skeleton, a smiling heart, a poker medallion, Indian dream catcher. The ceiling is high; which I like and appreciate. I've covered the window pane - comprised of three single, metre long, opening-out windows (always open) - with a mesh I found in a cupboard to keep out creepy crawlies. There are, however, spider webs in every upper corner. I don't mind them. Sometimes I see a spider and once I saw a tiny mouse.

When I come in here, I almost always close the door. It's my retreat. I eat my breakfast (sliced fruit in bowl - watermelon, papaya, kiwi, banana, passionfruit), in here every morning. When I say morning, I mean my morning; it's actually closer to lunch time more often than not. On the rare night that I am not out at a poker tournament, I will eat my dinner in here (salad or scrambled eggs), too. 

After I have done all my net surfing, research, writing and creative stuff of an evening, say around midnight or one, I will drag the small folding desk away from the wall and closer to my bed. There I have set up some pillows and cushions in the corner against the wall. Instant lounge room. I plug in my TDK cordless headphone jack into the back of the Mac and click open the orange cone logo for the VLC player. From my hard drive I select an episode of my latest favourite series. Could be anything ranging from a Canadian cooking contest (Chopped Canada) to the latest UFC bouts to comedy like Portlandia or Parks & Recreation. If I want a snack, I'll have those rice disks that everyone loves with some hummus. I've been meaning to make my own, but I usually buy it. Sometimes, I'll add a dollop of sweet chilli sauce to customise it. If I am still watching something around two am, I'll make a coffee with one of those Robert Timms coffee bags. It doesn't stop me from sleeping when I am ready. 

I share the house with two others; a girl and a guy, both around my age. We are all peaceful, quiet, creative. Karen designs and makes unique, luxurious garments and Mikey is a substitute highschool teacher and a high ranking chess player. There's a herb and vege garden outside and a roving chicken. There's a caravan up the back and Scotty visits a few times a year. He makes a living on the stock market. We are all single and OK with it. You get to a certain age and realise that being in a relationship is not the redemption, the reward, the necessity that you used to believe. I feel lucky to be in a household with two other decent and compassionate, respectful people.

But I still close my door. I like being alone. Withdrawing. Letting time float by. I like the night. I like silence. I like the feeling of being mildly stoned that comes from just being really mellow and peaceful, solitary. Sometimes I just lie on my bed and think about things. Sometimes I drift into slumber and dream magnificently. Days and nights can blur and blend, weeks can go by without a ripple. I don't mind. I know the path leads nowhere/never ends. I am in no hurry. My needs and desires are minimal these days. It's easier. Nothing to prove, nothing to lose. I appreciate nature, children, humour from any source... I appreciate still being around to see and experience whatever happens. I delight in my own limitations and insignificance. 

In my lifelong struggle for liberation, I have found it in a little box. Alone at my desk or prone on my old bed. Soulful, serene and satiated by simplicity.

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

I was walking along the beach this afternoon, thinking. Thinking, as I always do. I try to trudge out any noisy, annoying, negative thoughts within the first kilometre or less, so that I can get to some useful cogitation, some thoughts of substance; elevated mindfulness. 

The early part of the walk, the downer thoughts usually have to do with the sadness I carry around. Sadness that comes from childhood. Sadness to do with the lack of love and support I received as a kid, the inner struggle that was ever present, the loneliness, the insecurity, the tears.

I try to see beyond, to make amends, to forgive, forget. But I can't. Sometimes I feel like I am damaged goods. That I am doing the best with what I have got, but that I could have been so much more. Other times, I just, shrug and say fuckit, carry on. Expect less. Accept. Surrender. 

Waa, waa, waa. Isn't everyone just the same, though. Aren't we all fallen angels, broken machines, injured souls. I think so. So it's really about coping. And carrying on.

Anyway, I was walking along today and on my way back, I mentally compared life to the beach stroll. At a certain point, you turn back. On the way back you are covering the same ground, but you see things differently. Just like when you hit your forties or fifties, you have lived a fair chunk of life and you can actually use it to look back on and consider who you are and what you have done. When you are in your teens, twenties, you just go for it. You have no perspective. 

Obviously, things slow down as you get older. Some things you have done hundreds, thousands of times. You are well versed in the everyday requirements and expectations of being a human. (Hopefully.) Your needs and urges wane. Your ego has taken countless beatings and can now shut the fuck up sometimes, take a back seat, maybe even disappear. 

You've most likely been through at least a few wonderful relationships that end, either badly, terribly or not very well. You've seen the ugly side of yourself and others. You have tried and failed. Tried again and failed again. You sometimes get lucky and somethings work out alright. 

Mostly, though, you realise that life is not all fun and games. It's a challenge. And it keeps on being one. The parameters shift but the rules stay the same. As hard as it all is, you wish it didn't have to go by so quickly. There are many, many things you would do differently, given the chance. But you don't get second chances. Not really.

Strangely, there is a certain calm, acceptance that comes with age. You probably believe more in destiny. You know what you can do and can't do. You know how to make do with less. You know how to enjoy more from little. Nature appears more vividly and has a bigger place. Children offer delight, hope, warmth and a reason for still caring, still fighting. The miracle of existence, as a whole package, can be appreciated more often and readily. You know you are going to die. You've seen it happen to people around you. You may or may not think about it much, but you definitely know it's coming, getting closer. This can be a comforting thing or a frightening one. Depends on the individual, on the day, the circumstance.

Sometimes, not today, but every few weeks, I look out onto the horizon, while on my walk, and think, every picture I have ever done, even if it was expanded to 1,000 times it's size, would only fill the tiniest fraction of a single percent of this vista. Every day, every hour, the glorious outlook; the sky, the ocean, the beach changes and delights. A dynamic, breathtaking, living work of art. What I do, making little pictures, well, comparatively, it's just laughable. Of so little consequence. Why do I bother? It will never amount to anything. It is of absolutely no significance. In fact, my life, is of no significance. Not in the long run. Not really. Not when you realise and understand that it's all just a self created illusion. Not one of us is more that a grain of sand. So why bother? 

See what I deal with on my daily walk? These are the kinds of things that go through my head. And looking at me, from the outside, if you chanced to see me walk past - you'd just see a dude taking a stroll. You wouldn't look twice. But in the silence, behind those squinting eyes - a battle rages. The struggle of self. The coming to terms with the quagmire of existence. The never ending questioning. Like the waves crashing on the shore. Relentless. And yet, soothing. Somehow. Kinda soothing. Comfortable. 

One step at a time. Down the beach and back up it. A dip in the ocean. A frolic in the waves. The sun shines on skin. The seagulls jeer. The spirit is uplifted after a commune with nature's essence. The petty concerns washed away with the tide for another day. 

I'll be back tomorrow to do it all again.

The first girl to ever grab my package was from Korea. Her name was Angie. It was at a school dance, being held at the girl's school. We were in a hallway outside the dance and as we kissed, she just reached down and cupped a handful. It was one of the most mind blowing things that had ever happened to me up until that point. I was fourteen years old. 

I wasn't a virgin. I had already slept with a beautiful Japanese surfer girl called Yayoi whom I had met at Mobius Disco in Roppongi.  I was a full year younger than my friends, Gordon and David, (whose father's worked as diplomats) and they pressured me to have sex with this girl. I really didn't have any idea what to do. When Yayoi and I were about to get started, alone in my friend David's spare bedroom at the Australian embassy with the lights off and our clothing removed, the buildup to this moment had been so great, that I suddenly realised that I had no idea what to do. Yayoi was also a virgin, so neither did she. I climbed on top of her and our bodies took over. I clearly remember being amazed at how proficient my animal instincts were and how they kicked into gear with an enthusiasm of their own, despite my youthful doubts and inexperience.

The next day, after I put Yayoi in a taxi, my mates took me to a fast food restaurant for a celebration and debrief. I do remember feeling different. I had done something that you only do once. I had lost my virginity. I was glad it was with such a beautiful girl. Even those guys were amazed at how I had pulled such a stunning chick. Truth is, she found me. She liked me. And she made it all very easy. There wasn't love, but there was fondness and respect. I saw her a few times after that, but she lived out of Tokyo (she even had her own car - which was a big deal at the time) and despite a sweet connection we drifted apart. 

That's how I ended up with Angie. We used to hang out at the same cafe with the others. Ange wrote poetry and so did I. She had already attempted suicide by the age of 15. She had a dark, powerful allure. Most guys were afraid of her. Again, she was someone who chose me. I just let it happen. 

That grab, at the dance, in the dark hallway. Phew. It was phenomenal. Until it actually happened, I could never have imagined it possible. Then a few months later, after school one afternoon, in the deserted upstairs area of a small local drinking spot, she did something even more attention getting. Something, I experienced for the first time. She really was a tiger. I was shocked, breathless. Half afraid that someone would walk up the stairs, half beyond caring, in a mesmerising mix of disbelief and pure euphoria.

Yayoi from Japan and Angie from Korea. School was somewhere I went because I had to. My real teenage education was from these two females. They were both there, at seperate times, for my graduation - from innocence to experience.

"Miles from nowhere
Guess I'll take my time
To reach there..."

Cat Stevens was a guiding force in my formative teen years. I learnt every word on the album Tea for the Tillerman and would listen to it (on vinyl; end of side A, flip it over and put the needle back down on side B, rpt - a process unknown to more recent arrivals on Planet E) over and over. So many incredibly soulful, meaningful, spiritual songs. All of them as relevant and poignant today as they were when first released in the early 70's. 

Father and Son
Wild World
Where Do The Children Play
Miles From Nowhere
But I Might Die Tonight
On The Road To Find Out

That's just some of them. I'd have a favourite for a few months and then move onto the next. As a rebellious teen, I didn't get any guidance from my parents or school. I was pretty much left to my own devices to work things out. Real world experiences, friends, a steady flow of books, and a few select albums. Cat was number one. He had it all - the inventive, pure, melodic music with the meaningful lyrics. Other faves were Elton John (Yellow Brick Road) and Jackson Browne.

"Be wise, look ahead
Use your eyes he said
Be straight, think right
But I might die tonight!"

Cat was an anti-establishment, anti-authoritarian guy. He seemed, in his mellifluous, calmly charismatic voice, to be talking to my young teenage self, saying, "you are right not to buy into all the bullshit, find your own way." Some of this I had worked out myself, it was innate, but having Cat back me up, with his wisdom, quiet charm and self assurance sure helped.

When you take snapshots of yourself and select your favourite - what are you looking for? Are you trying to see/portray yourself for who you are or are you trying to capture/present a version of yourself that most fits your ideal self image?

Makes sense to do the latter, of course. But a selfie is just the cover. What really is important is what's inside the book. And what is equally important is that - this may come as a surprise - that YOU READ THE BOOK.

The book of self. New pages everyday. Some bits you write, others are written for you. All you have to do is record them. Some bits get erased. Some segments are abbreviated. Some are drawn out. 

What is your story, though? 

These days there are lots of book covers being flashed around but there is less and less content being revealed. Why is that? 

There's always so much going on that things like long, intimate conversations with lucid friends, meaningful connections, investments of time and energy in those in need, etc - have become less prevalent. 

Character. Personal morality. Philosophy. Discourse. Ethics.

In this money focused, ambition driven society there is less and less time for these things. Perhaps because the world has become so thick with information (and disinformation), in addition to entertainment and various forms of distraction (facebook, twitter, insta for starters), it is so easy to just drift along on a raft and never have to paddle or pull over to the shore and stake a claim or make a home. We are overwhelmed by complex systems, wheels within wheels; social, political and physical.

The world now takes it's own selfie, every day, every minute, every second. And we are not sure what to think. It is always changing! It's alluring, dangerous, stimulating, confronting, familiar and foreign all at once. Are we part of it? Have things gone beyond the point where one person, any given single entity - with their views, opinions, feelings, thoughts, outlooks - really matters? Is it all too much? Is the river now a tidal wave, a tsunami? Are we all just hanging on and hoping to land somewhere safe?

We take selfies to benignly assert our presence in the modern day. Look! This is me! Having fun, acting cool, being silly, sexy, wild! I exist. I am living the life. Whatever that is, at the moment. Don't ask. Questions make for discomfort. Questions stir things up. Especially questions we avoid asking ourselves. Those ones. The ones we are not sure we are even equipped to answer. Why bother? It's easier to just float along from day to day. Things will work out. 

Thing is - who are you?

Don't you want to get to know yourself? Look at yourself? See what you are made of? Get to know your true essence? 

If you do, you can, and you won't regret it. To find, you must seek. And the answers will only come once the questions are asked. And no one is going to do that for you. Not once you are an adult, anyway. It's your responsibility. In some ways, it's your primary one. To get to know yourself. Beyond what is on the cover. Beyond the presentation. Open the book up. Look inside. There is a world as grand and magical as you can imagine. There are things there that might make you uncomfortable, even fearful. But the truth is there is nothing to be afraid of. It's all you. 

And you, my friend, you're a flawed and complex, sentient being. Just like us all. Do not judge or condemn. Accept and embrace. Discover. Uncover. Allow. Once you can do it for yourself, you'll be able to do it for others. 

What does this mean in real terms - beyond the new age slogans? I don't know. It's different for us all. What I am saying - to myself, really - is that there is a need for more substance, more fibre, grit, integrity. What good is it to simply exist, without allowing your character to grow, to be revealed, to be celebrated in essence? Why not at least try to sort through your shit and dust off your dreams, pick up the book you have neglected and start to make up some stuff that you will proud of one day. Make a story, live a story, that you want to read. It doesn't matter what the fucking cover looks like, it's what's inside that matters. We want laughter and tears and meaningful, wonderful events to occur. Substance. You hear me? 

The power hungry are eating us up
The money people have all gone insane
They're never satisfied, never having enough
But we never chose to be part of this game

Corruption rules, lies are the norm
A government we can no longer trust
Now we grow strong, the castle we'll storm
And take it back, for the people we love

I wanna see it all come tumbling down
The system smashed
Oppressors cut to the ground

I wanna see it all come tumbling down
Cause it isn't fair! And they don't care!
Those greedy mogrels, those self serving clowns

The production of destruction
We cannot let them rule
Trying to sell us lies, seduce us
Do they think we're all just fools?!

The food is tasteless now
The air is unclean, polluted
The planet far worse than
It ever has been, the innocent deserted

I wanna see it all come tumbling down
We'll do it better the second time round
I wanna see it all come tumbling down

Time has come for the pigs to run
The change is us and we'll act as one
Eventually, after anarchy, after calamity
It's a certainty, we'll be free, we'll be free

I wanna see it all come tumbling down!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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