It has been great doing this blog over the years, I started it in 2011 and it was an opportunity to try and organise my thoughts. I would post up ridiculous stuff that was mildly inflammatory such as my Mosque a mile project for the north shore and normally my posts were poems. My style is conversational and it is as though you and I are sitting together while we have a chat. The lack of positive quotes and conversations about mental illness lead me in a way to show there was somebody home. You have been an ear for me and I have given you an earful. I went back through posts in 2012 and deleted posts that I felt were a little callous, that was a mistake. Some posts I still have buried away somewhere, they can be a bit like this in 2012:

VariationsJust caught a small variant in its flux, a small moment from the flow, there are so many variations but we only can catch a finite few from the universe, so many variations beyond measure.”

That little ditty was about painting gouache work, a series I called “Variations”. The main thing is there is some sense even in the nonsense. So where am I going with this post? Well I wanted to introduce you to a problem I have. The problem is called living in my imagination and making all sorts of things to fulfil my own drive. The drive is simply to see something, to hear something maybe to help heal a wound. Though I am not wounded, maybe it is to map out a scar though truly I am not particularly scarred. So what is it that drives me to create lots of things people don’t particularly want or care about? It is something that lives in my heart, it doesn’t bother me or anyone else but it wants to say ‘I told you so’, and ‘I knew it was there all along’. Just as the holy ghost binds believers art binds our hearts to truth. That is the wound of being human of the human condition, looking out at the world from that feeling in your heart. The heart reaches out even when people deny it or ignore it, it is in a state of knowing and searching. Once a person was trying to get a book of my aerosol work published around a decade ago and the title I wanted was “Sydney searcher”. It plays on the criminal but it was about the spiritual longing which we confuse with material goods, so we search in vain for our true reality. I suppose my understanding is primarily Christian though I am more a believer in everything that I can possibly believe and I don’t think suffering leads to enlightenment. But I believe in the search and it is like the ‘objet petit a’ the unattainable object of desire that keeps us going and what of the end?

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