On the Road, Rusty and Mam Jak

Rusty pauses and a world descends around him... The great forests, the vast plains, each knot and blade of grass moving as he strolls that great land.  The oaks bend to follow. "Damn this grit!" speaking aloud to no-one and all the same. Ah... but what can be done with a single grain of sand? 

"What do I see Mam Jak? The dust of forgotten empires and conquered lands. A tiny shell a grain of stone, here a weapon, an army charging down a rocky slope and the blood of its prisoners. You should perhaps ask what do I want to see in the sand... You and Crinna are both wrong. Have you noticed how hard it is to leave a pattern in the sand? Yet the tiny shell remains. How old is that shell? Its name is lost, but its presence has left a mark. I want to leave a pattern. The desert carries a taint, and that taint casts a shadow, even at midday. I intend to make sure that the shadows' taint is removed.  I am grey. I stand between the shadow and the candle."

He takes another sip of the dark coffee that has been brewing in the fire.

Different in every way and yet here and now in complete alignment, surefooted on a dark trajectory.

On the Road, Mam Jak and Rusty

If you were to ask Mam Jak she would sit and think a long time.  She would do this in order to form the words in a way that can express what she so clearly and intuitively knows.  

It is a warm evening, but a hint of the winter yet to come is breathing along the valley floor. The fire has burned low, and the embers dance into the clear night sky.

This is what she would say:

"Be not afraid of magic: some are born magic, some achieve magic, and some have magic thrust upon 'em - hehe, which preferably leaves only their

smoking boots!."

"Rusty, we choose which shadow world we wish to see.  For the fighter, there is rock solid reality - they see no shadows because they run into into the light, into battle.  Or because for some, there are no shadows, because there is no light.  Your monk friend is powerful, but Crinna

sees the world as a shadow of her mind.  She seeks to know it better by knowing herself - yet she knows nothing of true enlightenment - she looks in the wrong direction.  

"There is Huitzilopoctli and Quetzalcoatl.

"That is all that matters.  

"We are not in a world of shadows, squinting internally the better to see - we are luminous and the world is alight. We bask in the glow and warmth of the Divine.  It is we who are their

dreams, and we dream ourselves because they will it."  

The embers settle slightly and the fire seems to sigh.

"What shadows will you see Rusty?  What do you see in the sand?" 

This is. The part where I say, "I don't want it"

So I pushed myself to go to Europe, and, unexpectedly, Africa (though that was an easier decision). And on the whole it was good. I had some fun, some truly awesome fun, met great people, saw incredible landscapes and places, had some blues, misbehaved, hung out with some lovely guys, and only occasionally wanted to bolt, felt included and excluded in equal measure, was challenged and challenged back, and I saw some true colours of people that I didn't really expect to see. 

In the end, I've found myself feeling both strong and fragile. Strong because I know and understand my core values a little better. Fragile because, in the words of Jane Austen, "The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters" (Pride and Prejudice, 1813).  

Overall the experiment has worked I think. And a good thing to do in this significant-birthday year. It's interesting to see people pushing their agendas, communicating poorly. Perhaps I'm the same. 

It's time to wrap up this experiment though. I'm an old man and I crave my little comforts - the pillows that don't hurt my neck, smoke free air, clothes I haven't worn every second day for a month and that have been cleaned and dried in the air, soft towels, decent coffee, simple home cooking and an afternoon lazing in front of a good sized tv. And solitude. Quiet, blissful solitude.  

Obviously I have a list of things to do on my return. Some mundane, others a set of self improvement resolutions. Some things can only be seen with perspective. And I don't claim clarity in that regard, but the time out has been useful. Perhaps the only real challenge in life is to know yourself. Honestly. Properly. Brutally. Forgivingly. 

I agree with Shrek: ogres are like onions - they have layers. I feel that, while I'm still moving through layers, I might have moved this year into a different onion. It's different to how I've felt in the past. Time will tell. We all have our baggage. I can tell that I've discarded some through this process. Now it's time to repack what baggage remains - just a backpack, with the essentials. 

So thank you to everyone that has helped me on this journey. Yes, and to everyone less than helpful too. Everyone has their part to play. 

It's been good, though I feel bittersweet about it. I need my own space and my own company. Time to hang up the traveling bag and the universal power adapter for a while. Time to go home. 

With thanks to Ariana Grande

The Chamber of Missing Things

It's been dark here. Not for any terrible reason. Fearful maybe. But mostly just forgotten. Overgrown with weeds and sinews. 

Now I've opened the curtains. Rediscovered the place, like a ruined abbey. Or a disused sanctuary. It once felt safe and sound there, even though it never was - quite the opposite. 

As I look around its soft grey stone, is has a calming coolness. There is moss there, bright green, and soft leaf litter around the stones, like a glade in a deep forest. It isn't dank, or even wet. If it had been the site of a massacre there is no trace of it now. Except perhaps in the lushness of the ferns and greenery. 

In some ways it is like a engine bay of a giant machine, but one with the engine long since removed. Only the stone fixing mounts and brackets provide the hint of any such former function. And perhaps the compact shape that could forensically reveal its former occupant, like a frozen waistcoat, if you scraped away the moss and the soft forest floor. Confusingly the space is also small, and the scale is hard to pin down. It is both a jewel box, and the hall of a disused power station. 

It had been a place of memory and gravity. And deep sadness. Now that the boarding up has slipped away, and the curtains pulled aside and the light floods in though it feels peaceful. It feels lighter and still inside. A breeze flows through and you can see daylight across the opening. There is impression of hope in the negative space mapped out its former occupant. But that brings fear too.

Somewhere on the other side of the world a figure with a backpack still moves. Silently. Secretly. Not hiding. But not being found either. Exactly where he needs to be. Moving his cargo of playing cards, bottle caps and the tiny coins of foreign currencies. We only catch glimpses on grainy video, or unreliable reports of his whereabouts. But we can sense he is alive. And well. Secret. Safe. And free. 

I think he's holed up in some quiet pub, amongst strangers and new friends. I think he's having a good time. But the truth is that's all from one picture of him, in a dark overcoat and a wide brimmed double pointed hat, stooping slightly to enter the door of an old tavern, and turning back to look over his shoulder at the elevated camera. What happens after that is anybody's guess. 

The curator knows that it is time to have opened the space. Curiously, perhaps, because he didn't know the space had been there at all. What he also hadn't known was how heavy it had been. But in that first sigh that came with its the opening, like the cracking open of an old tomb,  perhaps a small dark presence, or echo, had been allowed to leave. Now it's sunny in there and airy. And lighter. 

The curator has a nostalgic idea that the engine may return to the sanctuary. And this could happen. But it is far from certain. And not necessary. There is a new space here. Despite its age. 

There is an illusion that meeting new people provides. A choice paradox. But it is a mistake to imagine that quests are so easily resolved. It's a trap. And the most important thing to realise is that there is no quest. 

So I will carry this mossy grey chamber with me for a time. 

Marriage Equality Sans Marriage

Is it just me? 

I'm so happy that I am not home for the horrific charade that is the marriage equality debate in Australia. 

Obviously I'm voting yes. Take out the words marriage equality from the equation and replace then with 'slavery' or 'women's rights' and all of the no arguments are the same. It's offensive really. 

What's more important is for my country to send the real and symbolic message that to be gay in Australia is not to be a second class citizen - that at a fundamental legal and social level it's ok. 

But don't hold your breath. Even if it's a resounding yes the Liberals, and the disgusting coward Fizza at its helm (complete with all his puppet strings) won't leap to change the law. It will stall and flounder until they lose government. Then Labor has pledged to pass the law within 100 days, but let's face it, their track record is nearly as disgusting.  

The bitterest message though in all of this for me is that I won't be marrying. All the single people my age, or age appropriate to me, have either given up, are crazy, or both. Not a productive field. I place myself in the first or maybe the third camp there. 

So every time I hear anything about marriage equality know that it is a double stab - first because it's clear my country thinks I'm second class, and a second because irrespective of any law, it's not going to change for me anyway. I guess I had my turn years ago. 

"And that is why my eyes are closed,

It's just as well for all I've seen

And so it goes, and so it goes, 

And you're the only one who knows"*

Perhaps that's the best way to cast a - well I hate to call it a vote because it isn't, but you know what I mean - vote; not for yourself, but for the benefit of future generations. 

Yes. It is just me. 

* Billy Joel, And So It Goes, Stormfront, 1989

Gesta non Verba

My first photographic exhibition was in 2015, and my first exhibition of paintings and sketches was in 2016. Despite this, I blush when people suggest I am an artist. It's not my day job, and though I think of it as more than a hobby it certainly doesn't pay any bills. A colleague of mine, a recent masters graduate in fine arts, told me one of the most important things he learned in his long years of study. One of the senior lecturers, in the very first lesson, said, "you may have a lot of good ideas for paintings, and you may spend some considerable time developing those ideas in your head.  But let me assure you, people who produce works of art in their heads, even astonishingly brilliant works are called dreamers: People who paint are called painters." He was in great company. The great Pablo Picasso would have agreed, saying, "What one does is what counts and not what one had the intention of doing."

When my last relationship ended, the break up hit me hard. One of my friends asked me to picture a timeline of all the things we had done together, everything of value, all that we had done, talked about doing, our dreams and our expectations. Lay it out taxonomically, pinned down like butterflies on tickertape. Then to take an axe and cut that timeline, severing it at the point of the breakup. Everything on the left of the cut, he said, are the things that actually happened. All the things on the right of the cut, well, they didn't actually happen: they were just what you hoped would happen – your dreams, expectations and intentions. Think about each side of the timeline.

Of course when I began to look as he had suggested, and pictured the timeline as a dark ribbon, severed and each side now gently flapping about in the breeze, I realised how much talk and expectation there had been, and how little real action. And in my grief the most curious realisation came upon me – that the things I valued most and missed most about our relationship had been the things that were yet to be, the things for which I had hoped and worked, the expectations – these things were imaginary. Why should I be so harmed, and ache so much, for something that was only in my head? Perhaps I should not have been so surprised. "All pleasures are in the last analysis imaginary, and whoever has the best imagination enjoys the most pleasure. Only unreality gives value and is actually the only reality." So writes the Nineteenth Century German novelist, Theodor Fontane in Trials and Tribulations.

But it got me thinking about actions verses intentions. What if I set out to do something truly noble, outstandingly admirable, but it fails, and even harms.  Do my intentions give me an alibi, a degree of nobility? Do they exonerate me from the moral culpability of what I do? Conversely, do bad intentions corrupt good behaviour? What if intend to harm someone, or provide only begrudging, lacklustre assistance, only to have it backfire and elevate them instead – what then of my intentions?

I've come to the realisation that I am, or at least truly aspire to be a man of action. Like Alexander, Caesar, hell, like Batman, to be not what I think, neither what I hide, but what I do. And like any Hegelean hero, whose intentions don’t matter one bit, who I really am, what I really stand for, and what I really believe must demonstrated by my actions. Inserting some intention after the fact is nothing more than an elaborate form of self-deception. Funnily enough, when I thought back, Gesta non Verba was my high school motto: actions not words.  Perhaps it sunk in further than I had noticed.

I understand now why Batman is a loner. Or Logan, the Wolverine. Most people say they want things done, but mostly they want to talk it rather than do it. People say they want sensitive new age men, but when your car has crashed and its on fire, do you really want the man who runs up to the wreckage to say how much he understands and even empathises with your pain, or to rip the door off the car and carry you to safety in his bugling hairy arms without necessarily even speaking. In the words of Shrek, "Hey! I'm no one's messenger boy, alright? I'm a delivery boy." Careful what you ask for.

So if I'm ever in a position to start measuring out tickertape ribbon again, axe sheathed for now, by all means say I love you. Say it with passion and conviction. Say it because you can't hold it in any more. And say it because the words have formed of their own accord as a force of nature. But it's no get-out-of-jail-free card. I don't want you to say I love you – I want you to do I love you. I want it self evidently and overwhelmingly clear from your actions and behaviours. Keep your Hallmark moments. It's like most marketing I hear – If you feel you have to say it to make it true, then it probably isn't really there at all. Gesta non verba.

L is for Elsa or What Disney Princess Are You?

It's my 50th birthday today. Fifty of course is L in Roman numerals (I for one love Roman numerals) but I think perhaps it's not the right symbol to have tattooed anywhere prominent. A friend told me today that I should be looking forward to my 50s as a period in which "everything is just more in control and focus". Perhaps he's right. I feel like I've spent a long time trying to let go of controlling things, but if there is anything the universe has told me this last few months it's that if I want anything to be done, then despite whatever contracts or agreements are in place, no matter if it's the assistance of a best friend or just help from a paid consultant, if I really want it to happen, then the only way it will with any reliability is if I do it myself. I suppose that's the opposite of letting it go.

It got me thinking about whether I've been picking the wrong archetypes this last half century. And so, like a sick Facebook quiz that just wants to rape your email and spam your contacts, I began to wonder what Disney princess I was. 

Now I've been amongst the common people on more than one occasion, and more than once I've once had to ask myself if it was acceptable to be that turned-on by a young middle eastern man, barefoot, brown skinned, semi-topless and pantalooned... but I'm no Princess Jasmine. Certainly I've dated a few beasts in my time, and despite the love I felt for them they never seemed to take human form... but I'm no Belle. Cross-dressing and joining the military have never been on my bucket list, which crossed off Mulan. And while I've often felt like a fish out of water, I'm no Ariel.

Lately it's occurred to me that I'm Elsa, Princess of Arendelle, queen of Frozen. Not just because she's the newest, and by most accounts the most popular princess, but because at the end of the movie she's still single, and she's cold. Loosely based on the "The Snow Queen", a fairytale by Hans Christian Andersen, Frozen's Elsa character is actually a composite of two characters from the original story:  Kai, Anna's brother who is cursed with negativity after his heart is pierced with a shard of glass from an enchanted mirror, and the Snow Queen, fair and beautiful, but made of ice. 

More than that, though, as an overarching theme Frozen preaches the importance of embracing your true nature. But it's not without cost. At the end of the film Elsa doesn't get the guy... it's her sister Anna that does, and after a significant wrong turn. And he's no Prince, he's a cowpoke, well, reindeer-poke. It's a nice twist really, rustic and real. In fact, the whole story is a modern, subtle and subversive commentary on true love and relationships: Olaf is no Prince Charming. Prince Charming is no Prince Charming. True love isn't romantic love. The hero doesn't get the girl, or in this case the guy. And the world is full of trolls. Kids, it's a dark and brutal message about the price you might have to pay for being yourself and what you can expect along the way. 

Oh well. Let the storm rage on, the cold never bothered me anyway. What Disney princess are you?