Why Write?

August 3, 2022

Today while on my daily walk a question crab crawled behind my eyes. I was looking at the scenery, taking photos of same, tweeting them and all the while there was this feeling – question  “Why Write?” The question arose because I’ve been working on a book that I want to complete the first draft by the end of this year. In the background there’s another book I started and restarted many times that I also want to write after this one.  A part of me says, just leave them, no one cares if they’re written or not. Why put yourself through all this anguish? Another part of me says, no you have to do it.

But why? Why write?

Do I write for fame? Well, that’s a joke, especially for someone my age. Even if I wasn’t old why would I want it? I love my invisibility. I don’t mind occasionally sticking my head out from the cave into the spotlight for a few seconds – a small spotlight, for a good purpose. To have that light on you every day, that would be torture. There’s a lot to be said about using a fake name. This is why I like Twitter. You can be kinda anonymous, say your stuff and just disappear.

Do I write as a side hustle? To make some extra dollars? That’s another joke when you consider that the average book sales in Australia is 813. This figure is the last time the Australian Bureau of Statistics collected comprehensive data on the publishing industry  back in 2003 – 4. In 2015, 20,000 new ISBNs were created of which 390 books sold more than 10,000. Now a best seller, in Australia, is anything over 3000 copies.  Hmm….and then you get 10% royalties on the net profit. So, if you have a best seller and sell, say 5000 & net profit of each book is say $15, you will get about $1.50 per book. You’re looking at about $7,500. Now, this is for a big best seller. If average sales is say 1000 you’d make about $1500. If you self publish the earnings are about 60% of net profit.  I won’t bother going into details but suffice to say you won’t be making a living from it…unless you are lucky and have a super best seller.

It doesn’t look like I want to write to make money because it won’t make money. The other reason is that just making money doesn’t turn me on.

How about spreading a message, you know, changing the world? Telling people my politics and writing the ideas so that people take them on and hoping more people do it so that there’s a change in the world – for good. Yes, that appeals but it doesn’t require the discipline of writing a book to get those ideas out. I wrote an email Call to Action for the Flotillas of Hope to Nauru.  Not a book, just an email. Did it change anything?  Yes. John Howard’s conservative Government released 77 asylum seekers due to the Flotillas of Hope. Ideas do change the world and I can see that it’s a good reason to write. However, given that a best selling book in Australia is about 3,000 the chances of my book changing the world is pretty limited. I’d much rather write an email than a book if my purpose in writing it is to change the world.

What about leaving stories for my family and future generations to know who I was after I die? Yes, that’s a good reason to write. Out of all of the reasons so far, this one resonates. But it’s not enough. It doesn’t answer my question “Why Write?” It gives a partial answer but doesn’t explain this inner need to write that I feel.

What if I spent a few years writing my masterpiece and getting it published in the traditional way and no one buys it except family? Well, say my partner, my kids I don’t think would care. I won’t make money on it. I won’t get fame from it. I won’t change the world through it… and my family won’t really be interested.

If there’s a nano chance of achieving any of the above goals from writing, why write? Especially today with the web, print-on-demand and so so easy self-publishing. All of these self-published and traditionally published books flood the world with at least a million new titles every year. Let me say that again, a million new books, every year!

The question arises – is it a waste of time and effort to write a book if only your partner and maybe two others read it?  According to publishing metrics if only 3 people buy it, the book is a gigantic failure. So, was it worth the effort to write it and then get it published, either traditionally or self published?

Well, something deep inside me is calling out YES! It’s this voice I hear when I write. It’s not logical, reasonable or even smart. It may even be idiotic but I’m subject to idiotic episodes, as my life demonstrates . What is this voice? Who does it belong to? It’s a voice I’ve listened to when I dropped out of uni, hit the road and traveled around Australia with hardly any money, fallen in love, left jobs, changed direction and sailed 8,000 kms with no prior experience in sailing. This voice can be dangerous to listen to but simultaneously can open a door to amazing adventures and emotional journeys. It is the voice of my heart. Heart? That muscle pumping blood? Maybe that’s where this voice resides, like my mind resides in the brain. Anyway, my heart informs me through feeling that I must do what must be done so that I feel OK. When I don’t listen I get depressed, I get a feeling that I’m dying inside. When I listen to its promptings I feel energised, alive and full of purpose. I have meaning in my life. Put a gag on the voice and I die.

So, why do I write? I write so that I answer the call of the heart. The heart may have other names – the Higher Self, the Muse, the inner god, the Wild One. Whatever name it has I have a need to express and this need is the heart calling me to do so.


A Dream

April 2, 2022

I’m walking through a corridor whose walls are plastered with newspapers. I come to the end where there’s an abyss below, empty space above me & nothing to my left or right. I turn to run for safety & just as I turn before me is a gigantic spider with a woman’s & a man’s head joined together at the neck.

Before I scream the spider’s belly rushes at me pushing me into the abyss. In the background I hear Roy Orbison singing “In Dreams”. I fall and fly first up then down, then left then right. I turn to see the spider & it’s sitting in the centre of an immense web. I fly thru fog like smoke spaces between the web threads. The spider’s hairy legs are black against the billion stars. The legs & body of the spider cut a living symmetry in eight diections.

I am dizzy & see the web is everywhere & within each segment of space allocated by the web crossings are smaller webs. Each of these has a spider – webs within webs, worlds within worlds.

As my mind tries calculating factors of relevance, I fall and my back hits a hard surface. It’s wood. I lift my head & I see sails. I’m on a boat. I wake up.


Guardian Angel Counsellors

February 11, 2022

In times of necessity, when the wisdom of another becomes crucial, an inner yearning surfaces for counsel, for the touch of understanding. I search for a counsellor whose care plums the depths of my existence—embracing thoughts, fears, hopes, secret desires, and those laid bare. A holistic guide, I reckon, can only be found in the ethereal domain of an Angel, a Guardian Angel.

At the core of my beliefs lies a steadfast conviction that each of us is accompanied by a Guardian Angel, entrusted with the solemn duty of protecting our souls in this ‘vale of tears.’ While it may seem romantic or mythic, this belief carries a resonance far from melancholic, semiotic, or idiotic. Beyond the veiled rhetoric of the ‘Guardian Angel’ is an organic reality that resonates more with the harmonies of music than the flutter of feathered wings.

Enough of such pondering. Communion with one’s Angel is attainable—a harmonic interplay akin to a sea shell unfurling its silken contours into a symphony of waves. The elusive whispers behind a sigh, the intricate dance of coincidence, or the resplendent déjà vu are not just celestial dialogues but also moments of beauty and wonder that inspire awe. They serve as the celestial lexicon of our Guardian Angel, transcending the notion that angelic forms resemble earthly entities like apples, stones, or trees; instead, they embody a mathematical proportion, an architectural geometry akin to the sacred phi—the Golden Mean.

Sometimes, my Angel communicates through dreams, the innocent mouths of babes, the pages of a book falling open to a predetermined passage, or even a simple sound. Yet, all these celestial dialogues hinge on my receptivity to subtle hints. This receptivity is not just a passive state but an active choice to be more observant and open-minded. In the tired haze of semi-consciousness, I navigate the realms of existence, aware that I am not the sole wanderer in this somnambulant domain. We, the residents of this earthly plane, often traverse the landscape of existence in a state of half-slumber, akin to a vegetative sleep, oblivious to the profound currents that ripple through reality. Occasionally, a slender beam of light penetrates our closed eyelids, and within that crevice, the Guardian Angel utters its voice.

Admittedly, such revelations are rare, prompting the need for a deliberate means of communication with our Guardian Angel. This communication requires specialized tools and devices imbued with a mystical essence and intricately connected to our intuitive faculties. These devices, such as the Tarot, the I Ching, the divinatory facets of Astrology, Runes, and many others, serve as conduits to bridge the celestial and terrestrial realms. They are the mantic instruments that unveil the profound wisdom encoded within, allowing us to commune with our Guardian Angel at will.

Conversing through the Book of Changes.

Someone lost a feather.


More Photos from my Neighbourhood

November 7, 2021


An Experiment with the Third Mind

July 24, 2021

After reading The Third Mind by Brion Gysin and William Burroughs I thought I’d try my hand at it. The technique uses cut-ups and involves taking texts, cutting the pages, and then rearranging and combining the pieces to form new narratives. I used some of my own spontaneous prose which I cut up and made this.

Doors flower here, my secret parents told me a long time ago.

I was standing outside the driftwood gate near the rusting letter box.

Yes, the one where the letters you sent me didn’t arrive.

Heart trip blue, harbouring despair – smoke symbol outside the drift wood gate near the mountain top.

A show of innocence, Earth moments, Venus breaths and Martian chaos.

A smoke journey, a curling language, a wording made of clip clap foot steps and sacred sighs …

Sadness in the sky, blue Trumpet Justice.

Into the losing night light

he raised the candle

tattooed snow

cobra fish moon mind and my moon vision.


The Calling

July 1, 2021

Thought as matter, divisible by number, rendered my beliefs obsolete. Meaning, my existential promise, dissolved. Seeking solitude, I faced the enigma of its purpose. As my body rested, receptive to a message, recognition crept along my spine—a tingle, a gentle stroke. Warmth emanated between my shoulder blades, its source unknown. Who or what called out through my nervous system?

This new ignorance emerged strangely. Recognition came with assigned meanings, without my consent. Could it be forgotten knowledge, buried beneath layers of thought? Deep within, destiny lay hidden beneath the façade of matter. I felt it. Whether an ancient bone or a mere abstraction, it pointed away from thought.

I lit a cigarette and approached the window. The sky cleared, sweeping away thunderclouds with the afternoon breeze. What was the call resonating in my secret emptiness? “Bones surely don’t shape destiny,” I exclaimed. Perhaps destiny was too grand a word. My skin warmed, and I closed my eyes, focusing on the image of a candle flame. A childhood ritual before slumber. I felt the air entering and leaving my nostrils. Deep within my chest, the flame burned steadily. Gentle smoke filled the crevices of my skull. My hands and feet became extensions of an invisible stranger, employing flesh and bone as a gardener wields a spade.

A snake slithered through the air, its presence a silent hiss, brushing against a wall. Gazing upon my hand resting on the window sill, I recognized the snake coiled in gold around my ring finger—the Holy Ghost finger, adorned with a gift from a long-lost friend.

“Babylon is burning at the end of your cigarette,” she spoke. Appearing before me, she held a pitcher of water and a glass. The air crackled around us. She whispered, “Tell me, what is a man? A swirl of windblown dust, caught in the cone of events, swinging across the arc of his life like a pendulum?” Her gaze captured me.

“I take refuge in my beliefs…” I repeated in my mind, a merry-go-round mantra. Doubt’s guns clicked and fired in Russian roulette timing: silent movies, frozen expectations, remnants of a fading life, pantomime gestures. Bang! Frame by frame, each movement posed a question mark in the animation of humanity, subtitled, “I think, therefore I am.” The soundtrack repeated endlessly, “I take refuge in my beliefs.”

Placing the pitcher on the table, she took a sip from the half-empty glass. “You think the true heart lies within your chest, that pumping organ. You are gravely mistaken.”

Flicking hair away from her eyes, she spread the feathers of one wing. Each feather bore inscriptions, shifting from Cyrillic to Chinese, with hints of Arabic, Hebrew, and Greek. Though their meaning eluded me, I pondered if they formed an alphabet of feathers, with “wing” as a verb. Perhaps subject and object were not separated in this language—I was illiterate in the realm of angels. Entranced, I fixated on the area of her wing, left of her elbow. The patterns resembled hieroglyphs, or so I believed. A mystery unfolded—how can something be itself yet point to another for identity?

“Now is not the time to dwell on this,” she interrupted. “The three-dimensional world perceived by your five senses is an illusion. If you could slow this holographic movie to a near standstill, you would discover that flesh and blood are but one step removed from your true body—the imperishable one. The same applies to your mind. You believe you think, establishing perceptual and conceptual boundaries, claiming ownership of the images and ideas in that psychological space. They are as synthetic as your heart.”

She paused, her index finger caressing the glass rim. A low hum resonated, breaking the silence. Continuing in a slightly louder whisper, she revealed, “In truth, your thoughts are those of another, passing through your mind. You are but a vessel. Thoughts cruise and soar within you, unrelated to your volition. They enter, stay, and depart, sometimes lingering against their will. The mind, a cube—an arena and corridor, a cage and voyeuristic peephole through senses.”

Her countenance began to fracture and crumble, fragments merging with the window. Like salt dissolving in water, she seeped through the glass, becoming the orange-streaked twilight dusk.

A snail glides across the dome of historical memory. Echoes of wailing prophets, a curling shell—a cochlea. Earth. I heard the calling, intent unknown.


Some photos of my neighbourhood

May 23, 2021

I love my phone camera. I have it with me all the time and when I see something that looks good I just shoot a picture. I walk daily around my neighbourhood for both pleasure & exercise. Where I live I am lucky that to get to my local shops I can take a slightly longer route and walk along the river bank. Consequently many of the pictures here have been taken along that route. I will let the pictures speak for themselves so there’s no captions. Just click on the photo & it will expand to its true size.

Oh yeah…some pictures are of stuff in my home except the “Metropolis” Man of steel & car parts. That’s from a garage nearby that closed down. Don’t know where the steel man is now. Hope he’s OK. I included a photo of the recent red moon eclipse on 26 May 2021.

Here’s some more photos on another post. I have put some of those on this page because I forgot they were on this page. Hey, that’s cool – so we see them twice! >

Around the house and our neighbourhood during Coronavirus.


My Grandkids’ Art Over the Years

February 17, 2021

Here are some drawings and art work my grandkids have made over the last few years. There’s some art of my kids too, though not much because the camera phone wasn’t around then. My kids’ art is taken from screenshots of a video I took many years ago.

There’s no age categories here – just stuff the kids made. There’s no particular order. Some have their names written on them, most don’t.


Jack Kerouac

February 15, 2021

Digging into the mind, listening to Pattie Smith “Dancing Barefoot”,…she is sublimation…she is concentrating on he…here I go again, and I don’t know why …..”

Been reading Kerouac. I thought the guy was a lot cooler when I was a kid. Now, reading him as an older man, I realise he was a sad man. He was brilliant in speaking the heart flow sonic strange music prose. Yes, some of the places he takes me in the mind, literally blows the mind…and it’s all in the way he writes, his style…his own dreaming eye, elastic light form and satori grains. Yes, moments embedded on his road with subterranean angel thoughts and for just these moments, I love Jack Kerouac. Everything else is forgiven.

What is there to forgive? Who am I to forgive? Does it really matter?

His tramping way….he was a tramp, a bum, all be it a Dharma Bum. He couldn’t commit to a relationship except for the one with his mother and in many ways coopted his friends and events to his art and pursuit of fame.

I feel strange writing these words because I love the guy even though all of the above is true. I love his innocent take on the world, even when he’s down and beat, really beat, he comes up with some beatitude sun grains in his prose.

Jack Kerouac died of cirrhosis at 47 – so young.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jack_Kerouac


Think Global, Act Local

February 12, 2021

People have asked whether there is an “archive” of the various human rights actions which I’ve been involved in over the years. I have recorded some of these on this blog but I think one page which takes you to these stories may be useful.

I am aware that there are many people who have done some incredible work supporting social justice and human rights but no one knows about these. Many people across the world do think globally and act locally but we don’t hear about it. One reason is that mainstream media quite often does not tell or record these actions and we find these local actions don’t even make a footnote in a local history book, let alone in a “big” history book.

So, I’ve written about some of our local actions just so people do know about them.

21st Century – what a time to be an activist! I can’t help but reimagining some of the stuff we did before Social Media, before Go Fund Me and drone photography. Maybe, the Flotillas of Hope could have raised so much money we could have chartered some boats?  We wouldn’t have needed a giant Kite with a camera to film the refugees in Woomera. A drone would have done the job magnificently.

Anyway, there’s lots of opportunities and means to fight for social justice today with the technology available to all of us.

What’s our local area? Newcastle, in the Hunter Valley, NSW, Australia.

Newcastle map Aust
Newcastle, Australia

I am listing these local actions in chronological order with a short description.

Cultural Stomp – Cultures in Action 

The Cultural Stomp had its birth in 1997 when Pauline Hanson launched her One Nation Party in Newcastle. We decided that she wasn’t going to launch it without hearing what we in the Hunter felt about it. We formed a group we called Cultures in Action and every year since 1997 for ten years Newcastle celebrated its cultural diversity in Civic Park.

Woomera Detention Centre – Good Friday, 2002 –  HOPE Caravan

Refugees and Asylum Seekers held a hunger strike in this detention centre stuck in the South Australian desert. Some people in Melbourne decided to organise a Festival of Freedoms at the Woomera Detention Centre. Hunter Organisation for Peace & Equity joined them and we became a Caravan, a HOPE Caravan.

Welcome Town for Refugees – 2002 – Newcastle Action for Refugee Rights

With all the racist crap pushed by the Liberal National Party we thought that Newcastle should become a Welcome Town for Refugees. For those not in Australia, the conservative right wing party which aligns itself more with the USA Republican Party & UK Tories is called the “Liberal” Party. Yes, one couldn’t get a more Orwellian name for a political party than that.

Baxter Detention Centre – 2003 – HOPE Caravan

This was another detention centre stuck in the desert. HOPE Caravan, along with many others from around Australia decided to pay it a visit.

Flotillas of Hope – World Refugee Day – 2004 – HOPE Caravan

While we talked about the possibility of visiting the most isolated gulag in the world at Nauru most thought it was an impossible dream. But we visited the island.

Flotillas of Hope – Another Aspect.

The whole project from its inception to the actual journey exhibited much more than just a sailing trip.