You dream of music. Life gives you silence and boredom. You'll say no. You'll seek out hype and buzz and distraction. You'll fall asleep moody and drunk-dream of music.
You dream of orchards. Someone hands you a seed and a spade. You'll say no. You'll drink cider and wish on that five seed star.
You dream of a land of milk and honey. Your father dies and you inherit a land filled with cows and bees, early morning milking, cow shit and bee stings. You'll say no. You'll cry.
I know you will say no because you are just like me, just like everyone. It's what we do. We bury our dead in their Sunday best, as if we can bring them back to Normal, but the biggest adventure is calling them on. Them and us. You will be called out.
You will say no. I understand. Hold on to your hat...
You dream of orchards. Someone hands you a seed and a spade. You'll say no. You'll drink cider and wish on that five seed star.
You dream of a land of milk and honey. Your father dies and you inherit a land filled with cows and bees, early morning milking, cow shit and bee stings. You'll say no. You'll cry.
I know you will say no because you are just like me, just like everyone. It's what we do. We bury our dead in their Sunday best, as if we can bring them back to Normal, but the biggest adventure is calling them on. Them and us. You will be called out.
You will say no. I understand. Hold on to your hat...
You're going to need a mentor, but you won't need to meet them. Woody Guthrie was a mentor to a very young Bob Dylan long before the two ever met. It was the songs, not the conversation, that did it. The songs and the worldview, the freight train travel and The Road as home. Cisco and Sonny and Leadbelly too.
Maybe your mentor will actually be a worldview, a philosophy. Or a religion. If you never go through a religious phase you won't understand most humans, so you might as well get it into your system early.
Maybe it will be a scene. Or an author. It might even be an actual person who you speak to in real life, in real time. Maybe it's a series of faxes to a young songwriter.
You're going to need a mentor. They will find you. Be ready.
Maybe your mentor will actually be a worldview, a philosophy. Or a religion. If you never go through a religious phase you won't understand most humans, so you might as well get it into your system early.
Maybe it will be a scene. Or an author. It might even be an actual person who you speak to in real life, in real time. Maybe it's a series of faxes to a young songwriter.
You're going to need a mentor. They will find you. Be ready.
It's easy to leave your small town. Walk. Go. It's not so easy to leave your small town thinking, though. You can take the boy out of the suburbs but you can't take the suburbs out of the boy, you know. Colonisation of the mind is the real killer, and you often don't even know it's going on until after the fact.
But you start by leaving your small town. Or your cool part of Melbourne. Or the Western World or your drug buddies or your church or your bank job. You'll know.
You will leave. You will come to a point and you might even realise the significance of the moment: "I've never been this far before." Or it might only make sense in retrospect: "That was the moment..." Go. Take that step. You don't need to explain to anyone. You don't even understand, yourself. That's the point.
You've been called, you've refused the call, a mentor has found you and your excuses are empty. Go.
But you start by leaving your small town. Or your cool part of Melbourne. Or the Western World or your drug buddies or your church or your bank job. You'll know.
You will leave. You will come to a point and you might even realise the significance of the moment: "I've never been this far before." Or it might only make sense in retrospect: "That was the moment..." Go. Take that step. You don't need to explain to anyone. You don't even understand, yourself. That's the point.
You've been called, you've refused the call, a mentor has found you and your excuses are empty. Go.
The story of Moses is so archetypal it's almost as if it was made up. Hold that thought.
Moses is raised as a prince, but his people are slaves. A stammering simpleton, he is called out by a burning bush (?!) to lead his people through the desert to The Promised Land. He refuses the call, his brother offers to help, there are plagues and famines and a million dead firstborns. Then he parts The Red Sea, the army of his adopted family drowns, those slaves are outta there and then shit gets real. You should look it up.
Like I said, it seems the story of Moses is made up. There is no archaeological evidence that a nation of slaves ever inhabited Egypt. Doesn't matter. Myth is a series of lies that tells the truth.
You have been raised by wealth and power, but this is not your home. Get out, take your brother. You will exchange a central-heated home for a wilderness. Some friends will fall away, some will betray you, and some enemies will become allies. Food will fall out of the sky.
Like I said, you need to look this story up. It's yours.
Moses is raised as a prince, but his people are slaves. A stammering simpleton, he is called out by a burning bush (?!) to lead his people through the desert to The Promised Land. He refuses the call, his brother offers to help, there are plagues and famines and a million dead firstborns. Then he parts The Red Sea, the army of his adopted family drowns, those slaves are outta there and then shit gets real. You should look it up.
Like I said, it seems the story of Moses is made up. There is no archaeological evidence that a nation of slaves ever inhabited Egypt. Doesn't matter. Myth is a series of lies that tells the truth.
You have been raised by wealth and power, but this is not your home. Get out, take your brother. You will exchange a central-heated home for a wilderness. Some friends will fall away, some will betray you, and some enemies will become allies. Food will fall out of the sky.
Like I said, you need to look this story up. It's yours.
You will come down from the mountain to the valley. Keep walking.
The hills will shroud you in a cold and deathly shadow. Keep walking.
You will be quietly terrified. Keep walking.
Night falls. Dew becomes frost.
(This cannot last forever... Tunnels lead to the light... The darkest hour is just before the dawn...)
In the frozen grey light of sunrise, your aching feet stumble over stones. You rub your eyes. You are standing on the edge of a cliff. No. Your eyes adjust. It's a hole. Your eyes focus. A screeching bat flies past your face.
It is a cave. Or is it a grave?
You gaze long into the abyss as the abyss gazes back into you. Behind you, the valley is once more shrouded in shade.
The hills will shroud you in a cold and deathly shadow. Keep walking.
You will be quietly terrified. Keep walking.
Night falls. Dew becomes frost.
(This cannot last forever... Tunnels lead to the light... The darkest hour is just before the dawn...)
In the frozen grey light of sunrise, your aching feet stumble over stones. You rub your eyes. You are standing on the edge of a cliff. No. Your eyes adjust. It's a hole. Your eyes focus. A screeching bat flies past your face.
It is a cave. Or is it a grave?
You gaze long into the abyss as the abyss gazes back into you. Behind you, the valley is once more shrouded in shade.
What has been your favourite private ordeal? Your most excellent existential crisis? Your top trial or tribulation?
Remember that time the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune hurled rocks at you, stuck you with poisoned-tip pointy sticks?
Remember that time you wished you'd never been born but didn't want to die because it would cause pain to those who loved you, none of whom were aware you felt this way?
A poem by a poet whose name I have forgotten:
I feel lonely as I gaze up at the moon
I feel lonely as I think about myself
I feel lonely as I ponder on this wretched life of mine
I want to cry out "I am lonely!"
But no one asks me how I feel
I have forgotten that poet's name. Yes, I see the irony.
If it was easy, everyone would do it. Keep going, young hero.
Remember that time the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune hurled rocks at you, stuck you with poisoned-tip pointy sticks?
Remember that time you wished you'd never been born but didn't want to die because it would cause pain to those who loved you, none of whom were aware you felt this way?
A poem by a poet whose name I have forgotten:
I feel lonely as I gaze up at the moon
I feel lonely as I think about myself
I feel lonely as I ponder on this wretched life of mine
I want to cry out "I am lonely!"
But no one asks me how I feel
I have forgotten that poet's name. Yes, I see the irony.
If it was easy, everyone would do it. Keep going, young hero.
I'll be honest with you. I'm avoiding something.
I've had this creative satellite orbiting my mind for months and that pesky thing's just not coming down. My satellites always fall, always have. I almost never have to go get them.
With a couple of exceptions:
I once spent three full days writing and rewriting my song SS St Louis 1939. I was sick in bed with a fever, pages and pens all over the quilt, and at one point my wife said "I've never seen you work this hard." The idea for that song had been spinning around my planet for a year.
The other exception was when I spent three months and two journals working on one poem, A Thylacine in Kakadu. I completed it the morning of my performance at the Sydney Opera House in 2017. You can look it up online. It only goes for two minutes.
So, I'm avoiding something. I've had this idea. It's only seven words, actually. Seven words which won't go away or come any closer. It doesn't feel like a song. It's not a poem. It's not an album. Maybe it's a spoken word show or a combination of songs and poetry.
I don't know what it is and it's been stealing my sleep, making me moody, filling my mind with squeaky wheeling hamsters and heaps of rodent poop.
It is the cave I fear to enter, and I've been standing here since before I started sending these faxes. But I would still rather approach the cave than turn back.
I've had this creative satellite orbiting my mind for months and that pesky thing's just not coming down. My satellites always fall, always have. I almost never have to go get them.
With a couple of exceptions:
I once spent three full days writing and rewriting my song SS St Louis 1939. I was sick in bed with a fever, pages and pens all over the quilt, and at one point my wife said "I've never seen you work this hard." The idea for that song had been spinning around my planet for a year.
The other exception was when I spent three months and two journals working on one poem, A Thylacine in Kakadu. I completed it the morning of my performance at the Sydney Opera House in 2017. You can look it up online. It only goes for two minutes.
So, I'm avoiding something. I've had this idea. It's only seven words, actually. Seven words which won't go away or come any closer. It doesn't feel like a song. It's not a poem. It's not an album. Maybe it's a spoken word show or a combination of songs and poetry.
I don't know what it is and it's been stealing my sleep, making me moody, filling my mind with squeaky wheeling hamsters and heaps of rodent poop.
It is the cave I fear to enter, and I've been standing here since before I started sending these faxes. But I would still rather approach the cave than turn back.
I bet the Germans have a word to describe the feelings of exhaustion, happiness and fulfilment which come after a successful tour. It would probably translate to posttourexhaustedhappyfulfilled. Something like that.
I bet they have a word for that feeling you get when you're waiting for your guitar at the airport carousel, your head a mix of happy memories and fear about what condition your instrument will be in. Happypastandgoddamnbaggagehandlers, maybe.
And that feeling of skidding out of music and into Monday where everyone and everything looks exactly the same as when you left. Mondaysmakemusiciansplanprojects. Something like that.
I bet they have a word for that feeling you get when you're waiting for your guitar at the airport carousel, your head a mix of happy memories and fear about what condition your instrument will be in. Happypastandgoddamnbaggagehandlers, maybe.
And that feeling of skidding out of music and into Monday where everyone and everything looks exactly the same as when you left. Mondaysmakemusiciansplanprojects. Something like that.
I've had this idea - seven words - rattling around my head for the better part of a year, and I'm sick of it.
So here's what I'm doing about it.
I've been thinking on a theme for months, so I've committed to only writing on that theme. Every idea gets written down. Every themed thought is swept up in a butterfly net and pinned to the wall.
I am surrounded by poems, lyrics and stranded single sentences, handwritten and Blu-Tacked where I have to look at them. Everyone else can see them too. I've never worked like this before. I've always finished my work before I hang it up. Not this time. Screw it. I've waited long enough.
Each idea is a seed, cast to the dirt. It's out of my hands and onto the land. If a seed dies it can become an orchard, you know.
So here's what I'm doing about it.
I've been thinking on a theme for months, so I've committed to only writing on that theme. Every idea gets written down. Every themed thought is swept up in a butterfly net and pinned to the wall.
I am surrounded by poems, lyrics and stranded single sentences, handwritten and Blu-Tacked where I have to look at them. Everyone else can see them too. I've never worked like this before. I've always finished my work before I hang it up. Not this time. Screw it. I've waited long enough.
Each idea is a seed, cast to the dirt. It's out of my hands and onto the land. If a seed dies it can become an orchard, you know.
A prophet is never accepted in his hometown. Neither are arrogant jerks. Or thieves. Or off-key buskers. Or sex offenders.
If nobody digs you, it doesn't necessarily mean you're a hero.
You'll know you're a hero if you've stepped away from Normal, if you've descended into the cave, faced your own insanity and emerged a better person. Maybe you emerged with a song. Or an album. Or whatever this bloody project is that I'm working on at the moment.
Maybe you spend two years and thousands of dollars producing the first album in the world to be released as a podcast. Maybe it's the best thing you've ever done. Just hypothetically, you know... Maybe you launch it in your hometown to a near-empty room, to a few drunken footy fans and to a sound guy who graciously halves his fee.
My hometown keeps me humble. But, having taken the journey required to produce that album, I know that this project is an elixir of healing. It healed me. Maybe it has healed someone else too.
If nobody digs you, it doesn't necessarily mean you're a hero.
You'll know you're a hero if you've stepped away from Normal, if you've descended into the cave, faced your own insanity and emerged a better person. Maybe you emerged with a song. Or an album. Or whatever this bloody project is that I'm working on at the moment.
Maybe you spend two years and thousands of dollars producing the first album in the world to be released as a podcast. Maybe it's the best thing you've ever done. Just hypothetically, you know... Maybe you launch it in your hometown to a near-empty room, to a few drunken footy fans and to a sound guy who graciously halves his fee.
My hometown keeps me humble. But, having taken the journey required to produce that album, I know that this project is an elixir of healing. It healed me. Maybe it has healed someone else too.
I've had a couple of creative requests turned down a this month. Projects I thought had legs but didn't.
I'm disappointed but I'm not done. In my twenties I would have held onto these rejections for months, mourned their passing like a childless father. Fair enough, too. It could have been a living thing, but now it's a silent idea that only I will hear.
These days, I have a name for these moments of creative rejection. I call them Noments. "No" Moments. And I'm content to tell myself these moments are just directing me forward, like a hi-vis man beside a hole in the road, holding a Slow sign with one tattooed hand and directing me forwards with the other. One step closer to a "Yes".
I have to keep walking, though.
And, yes, I would call the Slow sign moment a Sloment.
I'm disappointed but I'm not done. In my twenties I would have held onto these rejections for months, mourned their passing like a childless father. Fair enough, too. It could have been a living thing, but now it's a silent idea that only I will hear.
These days, I have a name for these moments of creative rejection. I call them Noments. "No" Moments. And I'm content to tell myself these moments are just directing me forward, like a hi-vis man beside a hole in the road, holding a Slow sign with one tattooed hand and directing me forwards with the other. One step closer to a "Yes".
I have to keep walking, though.
And, yes, I would call the Slow sign moment a Sloment.
Say nothing, unless your words are sweeter than your silence.
