Silent Letters for the New Moon VIII
Living Light is all around you
(Buy it and give it away)
Living Light is out today. It is no longer mine.
Of course, this is dependent on the machines doing as they have been told, which seldom happens. We'll get what we get, and we don't get upset.
It's the final full moon of the year, though. That's a certainty. Plus it's nearly Christmas. That's a certainty, too.
I don't know what Christmas means to you, but it's certainly a mixed bag for me. I like the Christmas story, though. Always have. I've got a lot of stories in my personal mythology; there are many story stars in the constellation of my mind, and the Christmas story shines brighter than most. It's a living thing.
I love those anxious young parents, seeking shelter. These days they'd be in a tent on the Domain or sleeping in their car. I've been young and poor and married. When our eldest daughter was born, we didn't yet have a baby capsule for our car. I carried her in my arms from the hospital, feeling proud, strong and calm.
I love how all of Bethlehem is busy with harried travellers and family gatherings, same as Christmases today. Everyone is missing the story, all at once. It happens.
I love that the innkeeper finds a place for the bogan parents on his doorstep. I don't know why he does that. He could have ignored the knock at the door, called security, or told em to go back to where they came from. He's an interesting character. I am drawn to people like that.
I love that the young mum seems to have given birth with her partner present. I don't reckon that was the done thing. I love that she knows how to wrap her baby up, and that the baby is warm. I love the animals too. Have you ever lay on your back in a cow paddock long enough for the cattle to gather around you, to look down, to see if you're OK? You should.
I love how gritty and dusty this scene is, with shepherds and sheep clattering about. If you think about it, some lucky animal probably eats the afterbirth from the muddy floor.
And those "wise men"? I've heard they might be astrologers or even Persian priests. All I know is the word in the text is magi, as in magic. Magicians. Who follows a star? How do you even do that? And what are they hoping to find? Maybe it's enough that they're outside, gazing up at a "star of wonder", of "royal beauty bright". I'd do it. Have you ever seen the Aurora? It's enough. It doesn't have to mean anything. It's just there, a loving, living light.
Be the innkeeper. Be the shepherd. Be the magi. Be the friend who gifts Living Light to someone special for Christmas. (Seriously. Please be that friend.)
Happy Christmas, friends. May you be the baby, carried and held.
Love,
Daniel
4 December 2025
This was first published as a newsletter. Sign up if you want to receive this stuff before the rest of the world.
Of course, this is dependent on the machines doing as they have been told, which seldom happens. We'll get what we get, and we don't get upset.
It's the final full moon of the year, though. That's a certainty. Plus it's nearly Christmas. That's a certainty, too.
I don't know what Christmas means to you, but it's certainly a mixed bag for me. I like the Christmas story, though. Always have. I've got a lot of stories in my personal mythology; there are many story stars in the constellation of my mind, and the Christmas story shines brighter than most. It's a living thing.
I love those anxious young parents, seeking shelter. These days they'd be in a tent on the Domain or sleeping in their car. I've been young and poor and married. When our eldest daughter was born, we didn't yet have a baby capsule for our car. I carried her in my arms from the hospital, feeling proud, strong and calm.
I love how all of Bethlehem is busy with harried travellers and family gatherings, same as Christmases today. Everyone is missing the story, all at once. It happens.
I love that the innkeeper finds a place for the bogan parents on his doorstep. I don't know why he does that. He could have ignored the knock at the door, called security, or told em to go back to where they came from. He's an interesting character. I am drawn to people like that.
I love that the young mum seems to have given birth with her partner present. I don't reckon that was the done thing. I love that she knows how to wrap her baby up, and that the baby is warm. I love the animals too. Have you ever lay on your back in a cow paddock long enough for the cattle to gather around you, to look down, to see if you're OK? You should.
I love how gritty and dusty this scene is, with shepherds and sheep clattering about. If you think about it, some lucky animal probably eats the afterbirth from the muddy floor.
And those "wise men"? I've heard they might be astrologers or even Persian priests. All I know is the word in the text is magi, as in magic. Magicians. Who follows a star? How do you even do that? And what are they hoping to find? Maybe it's enough that they're outside, gazing up at a "star of wonder", of "royal beauty bright". I'd do it. Have you ever seen the Aurora? It's enough. It doesn't have to mean anything. It's just there, a loving, living light.
Be the innkeeper. Be the shepherd. Be the magi. Be the friend who gifts Living Light to someone special for Christmas. (Seriously. Please be that friend.)
Happy Christmas, friends. May you be the baby, carried and held.
Love,
Daniel
4 December 2025
This was first published as a newsletter. Sign up if you want to receive this stuff before the rest of the world.
Silent Letters for the New Moon VII
New and Full
Happy new moon.
I've enjoyed moving to the lunar rhythm these past six months (moonths?). I've found myself looking up more often, paying attention to that sky stone's slow reveal, the slow cloaking. Oh, to be so measured, so reliable, so oceanically unaffected by the dry day-to-day of the whole world.
I wonder what life would be like if we all committed to looking out for that lovable white satellite.
I love that the moon is either New or Full, not New or Old, not Full or Empty. That's some positive self-talk, right there. For the moon to be blanketed in shade, to be indistinguishable from the empty night sky, is for her to be New. For the moon to be bathed in sunlight, to be reflectively radiant, is for her to be Full. We could use that kind of thinking, you know. What wonderful words.
Me, I've been bedridden these past two days, having been colonised by a cold. I have become indistinguishable from my symptoms, buried in blanketshade. Maybe I'm new. I'm definitely feeling the absence of shine.
I had intended to play a couple of shows to launch Living Light and to celebrate five years of Midland Highway: The Musical. I'd paid a designer to make posters, stuck them up around town, and noticed they'd been pasted over within days. Soon enough, a sudden confluence of factors meant I was rapidly overwhelmed by Things I Cannot Change, not the least of which was just how much it was going to require of me to make these shows happen without burnout or bankruptcy.
I'd tried to make these shows happen on my own, and it quickly became apparent they were too much for me to manage by myself.
I used to be able to do this stuff. I used to do everything myself - writing, recording, promoting, booking, playing, selling... I can't live like that anymore, nor do I wish to. I have a sense that my creative process will be more communal as I age. It will have to be. I ache in the places where I used to play, and I'm gonna need some help unscrewing the lids of the jam jars and such.
Living Light is a collaborative work, a live recording of very different people doing very different things at the same time in the same room for the same reason. Such is the magic of music, right? It's always best when we make it together.
It's hard to make art, and it's hard to share it. Always has been, always will be. The trick is to find a way to do it sustainably. This means we each need to find our place and find our people so we can sing long and strong together. I've got people. You know who you are.
The sixth and final single from Living Light will be released by the light of the next full moon. It's called 'Too Young to Fall,' and it's an ode to growing older as an artist. Life gets narrower the further you go, you know, and you've gotta find a way to move slow and make things for many, many moons.
May the shade make you New. May the light make you Full.
Daniel
PS Christmas is coming. Buy my merch! Send a little light to someone you love.
19 November 2025
This was first published as a newsletter. Sign up if you want to receive this stuff before the rest of the world.
I've enjoyed moving to the lunar rhythm these past six months (moonths?). I've found myself looking up more often, paying attention to that sky stone's slow reveal, the slow cloaking. Oh, to be so measured, so reliable, so oceanically unaffected by the dry day-to-day of the whole world.
I wonder what life would be like if we all committed to looking out for that lovable white satellite.
I love that the moon is either New or Full, not New or Old, not Full or Empty. That's some positive self-talk, right there. For the moon to be blanketed in shade, to be indistinguishable from the empty night sky, is for her to be New. For the moon to be bathed in sunlight, to be reflectively radiant, is for her to be Full. We could use that kind of thinking, you know. What wonderful words.
Me, I've been bedridden these past two days, having been colonised by a cold. I have become indistinguishable from my symptoms, buried in blanketshade. Maybe I'm new. I'm definitely feeling the absence of shine.
I had intended to play a couple of shows to launch Living Light and to celebrate five years of Midland Highway: The Musical. I'd paid a designer to make posters, stuck them up around town, and noticed they'd been pasted over within days. Soon enough, a sudden confluence of factors meant I was rapidly overwhelmed by Things I Cannot Change, not the least of which was just how much it was going to require of me to make these shows happen without burnout or bankruptcy.
I'd tried to make these shows happen on my own, and it quickly became apparent they were too much for me to manage by myself.
I used to be able to do this stuff. I used to do everything myself - writing, recording, promoting, booking, playing, selling... I can't live like that anymore, nor do I wish to. I have a sense that my creative process will be more communal as I age. It will have to be. I ache in the places where I used to play, and I'm gonna need some help unscrewing the lids of the jam jars and such.
Living Light is a collaborative work, a live recording of very different people doing very different things at the same time in the same room for the same reason. Such is the magic of music, right? It's always best when we make it together.
It's hard to make art, and it's hard to share it. Always has been, always will be. The trick is to find a way to do it sustainably. This means we each need to find our place and find our people so we can sing long and strong together. I've got people. You know who you are.
The sixth and final single from Living Light will be released by the light of the next full moon. It's called 'Too Young to Fall,' and it's an ode to growing older as an artist. Life gets narrower the further you go, you know, and you've gotta find a way to move slow and make things for many, many moons.
May the shade make you New. May the light make you Full.
Daniel
PS Christmas is coming. Buy my merch! Send a little light to someone you love.
19 November 2025
This was first published as a newsletter. Sign up if you want to receive this stuff before the rest of the world.
Silent Letters for the New Moon VI
One year of silence, One night of song
It sure is a big, empty sky on the night of the new moon. Makes me notice all the other little lights.
This time of year always makes me think of Midland Highway: The Musical, which I released five years ago this month. Five years! I’d originally intended to pen a follow-up for other Tassie highways. I even took a spontaneous trip up the Bass Highway, which runs up the northwest coast towards Marrawah.
Around that time, my Darwin songwriting buddy David Garnham started working on his ambitious and excellent Stuart Highway Parts 1 and 2. I realised I wasn’t as into highways as I’d thought, and that was the end of that.
I got three songs out of that Marawah trip, though. They all ended up on Living Light because they are full of sky, and that’s the kind of stuff I want to be singing these days. I’m into happiness and harmony. Always have been, which may come as a surprise.
I have a reputation for being a writer of some dark songs, but I’m actually in love with light. Obsessed by it. On the other hand, a lot of people speak fondly of Midland Highway as a light-hearted, sunlit thing, even though it’s full of roving parties and roadkill.
I’m both-and. I have to be.
In other news, it has been a year since I last played a show. After twenty years of hithering and thithering, guitar in tow, it was time to do nothing. Turns out nothing is one of my favourite things to do, and I have been doing it very well.
It’s weird to think of that festival gig as my Last Show, though…
It’s funny how First Things are often so obvious – first steps, first days, first gigs, first albums - but Last Things often take a while to make their presence known.
I often think about the Thylacine. When the last captive Tassie Tiger died in Hobart’s Beaumaris Zoo, the zookeepers dropped the body off to the local museum and put an ad in the paper for another living specimen. They were so busy looking for the Next Thing, they completely missed the Last Thing, the Only Thing.
I remember my Last Rehearsal with the punk band of my teens. Two out of three of us had not attended the previous rehearsal; one because he’d gone fishing (a First Time) and the other because he’d gone to watch a cow race (also a First Time). Two out of three of us (me and the fisherman) said we didn’t want to play together anymore, so we sang our song ‘Poor Bastard’ and got on with growing up.
Last Shows are interesting, too. When artists try to put on Last Shows, it is as if they become destined to reunite or return. Come to think of it, I wonder if anyone has ever actually knowingly played an actual Last Show?
I remember my Last Show with a folk band I was in. The venue’s PA was only half-working, there was a burlesque show going on in the next room, and some punter was inches from the ear of our bassist, screaming about what a bad person he was. We left and that, as it turns out, was the end of that.
I’ve always made music for me, and I hadn’t been missing playing shows because I hadn’t felt the need to play them. So my Last Show just disappeared into my past. There is a time to be silent, after all.
It was only when my friend Nick told me he’d realised that one of the reasons he plays is because people like it when he plays. One year ago, that would not have been a good enough reason for me, but the idea lit up something in me. And I love light, so I’m following that shiny thing. (Thanks, Nick.)
It’s been a long year. I reckon I’m ready to sing. Wanna join me?
I'm going to celebrate the launch of Living Light and five years of Midland Highway: The Musical by getting some friends together for a big ol' sing thing. Saturday November 22, Moonah Arts Centre in Hobart, Tasmania. Come along and sing along. One night only.
Love,
Daniel
20 October 2025
This was first published as a newsletter. Sign up if you want to receive this stuff before the rest of the world.
This time of year always makes me think of Midland Highway: The Musical, which I released five years ago this month. Five years! I’d originally intended to pen a follow-up for other Tassie highways. I even took a spontaneous trip up the Bass Highway, which runs up the northwest coast towards Marrawah.
Around that time, my Darwin songwriting buddy David Garnham started working on his ambitious and excellent Stuart Highway Parts 1 and 2. I realised I wasn’t as into highways as I’d thought, and that was the end of that.
I got three songs out of that Marawah trip, though. They all ended up on Living Light because they are full of sky, and that’s the kind of stuff I want to be singing these days. I’m into happiness and harmony. Always have been, which may come as a surprise.
I have a reputation for being a writer of some dark songs, but I’m actually in love with light. Obsessed by it. On the other hand, a lot of people speak fondly of Midland Highway as a light-hearted, sunlit thing, even though it’s full of roving parties and roadkill.
I’m both-and. I have to be.
In other news, it has been a year since I last played a show. After twenty years of hithering and thithering, guitar in tow, it was time to do nothing. Turns out nothing is one of my favourite things to do, and I have been doing it very well.
It’s weird to think of that festival gig as my Last Show, though…
It’s funny how First Things are often so obvious – first steps, first days, first gigs, first albums - but Last Things often take a while to make their presence known.
I often think about the Thylacine. When the last captive Tassie Tiger died in Hobart’s Beaumaris Zoo, the zookeepers dropped the body off to the local museum and put an ad in the paper for another living specimen. They were so busy looking for the Next Thing, they completely missed the Last Thing, the Only Thing.
I remember my Last Rehearsal with the punk band of my teens. Two out of three of us had not attended the previous rehearsal; one because he’d gone fishing (a First Time) and the other because he’d gone to watch a cow race (also a First Time). Two out of three of us (me and the fisherman) said we didn’t want to play together anymore, so we sang our song ‘Poor Bastard’ and got on with growing up.
Last Shows are interesting, too. When artists try to put on Last Shows, it is as if they become destined to reunite or return. Come to think of it, I wonder if anyone has ever actually knowingly played an actual Last Show?
I remember my Last Show with a folk band I was in. The venue’s PA was only half-working, there was a burlesque show going on in the next room, and some punter was inches from the ear of our bassist, screaming about what a bad person he was. We left and that, as it turns out, was the end of that.
I’ve always made music for me, and I hadn’t been missing playing shows because I hadn’t felt the need to play them. So my Last Show just disappeared into my past. There is a time to be silent, after all.
It was only when my friend Nick told me he’d realised that one of the reasons he plays is because people like it when he plays. One year ago, that would not have been a good enough reason for me, but the idea lit up something in me. And I love light, so I’m following that shiny thing. (Thanks, Nick.)
It’s been a long year. I reckon I’m ready to sing. Wanna join me?
I'm going to celebrate the launch of Living Light and five years of Midland Highway: The Musical by getting some friends together for a big ol' sing thing. Saturday November 22, Moonah Arts Centre in Hobart, Tasmania. Come along and sing along. One night only.
Love,
Daniel
20 October 2025
This was first published as a newsletter. Sign up if you want to receive this stuff before the rest of the world.
Silent Letters for the New Moon V
When they speak to me of streaming, I know not what to say
This weekend, I made Living Light available for a limited time as a download from Bandcamp. Three days only.
Some people have quizzed me on the download thing. They don’t love it. It requires a few clicks and swipes. Complicated stuff.
The record’s been available in the real for a while, on vinyl and CD. Even still, vinyl’s not for everyone. Some people tell me they don’t own a record player, then they stop speaking and smile at me as if there's nothing more to say. Maybe there isn't.
CDs aren’t for everyone, either, but they used to be. I've noticed many people mock CDs in much the same way the middle class mocks the unemployed “working” classes. (Sure, we used to proudly make our own stuff, but no-one wants to actually make useful things with their hands anymore. Why won’t you evolve?!)
I have always paid to make things. Before that, I paid to enjoy the creativity of others.
When I was growing up, it was still mainstream for music fans to be as obsessed with music as most musicians I know today. Even my dirt-poor parents had invested in a breathtakingly expensive and powerful hi-fi system which was perpetually vulnerable to dust and static and the secret-combination-stuff of buttons and dials which only initiates could understand. I remember they had to kneel before that thing to get everything set up so they could listen to music. There was always a silent moment before the first sound. It looked like they were praying.
My own love of music has often brought me to my knees, financially. When I was a teenager, I spent three weekends and one week’s wages seeking and purchasing a rare bootleg of my favourite band. I couldn’t afford to go to gigs for ages afterwards. Of the six songs on the recording, I’d heard all but one. I’d heard about it, but never heard it. Yep. I spent one week’s wages for one song. It really cost me to be able to listen to the songs I wanted to hear.
Right now, if you wanted to, you could command your smartphone to play you that very song and, after a second or two, you’d hear it for what most people would describe as “free.” But it’s not free. Someone always pays.
Some people have quizzed me on the download thing. They don’t love it. It requires a few clicks and swipes. Complicated stuff.
The record’s been available in the real for a while, on vinyl and CD. Even still, vinyl’s not for everyone. Some people tell me they don’t own a record player, then they stop speaking and smile at me as if there's nothing more to say. Maybe there isn't.
CDs aren’t for everyone, either, but they used to be. I've noticed many people mock CDs in much the same way the middle class mocks the unemployed “working” classes. (Sure, we used to proudly make our own stuff, but no-one wants to actually make useful things with their hands anymore. Why won’t you evolve?!)
I have always paid to make things. Before that, I paid to enjoy the creativity of others.
When I was growing up, it was still mainstream for music fans to be as obsessed with music as most musicians I know today. Even my dirt-poor parents had invested in a breathtakingly expensive and powerful hi-fi system which was perpetually vulnerable to dust and static and the secret-combination-stuff of buttons and dials which only initiates could understand. I remember they had to kneel before that thing to get everything set up so they could listen to music. There was always a silent moment before the first sound. It looked like they were praying.
My own love of music has often brought me to my knees, financially. When I was a teenager, I spent three weekends and one week’s wages seeking and purchasing a rare bootleg of my favourite band. I couldn’t afford to go to gigs for ages afterwards. Of the six songs on the recording, I’d heard all but one. I’d heard about it, but never heard it. Yep. I spent one week’s wages for one song. It really cost me to be able to listen to the songs I wanted to hear.
Right now, if you wanted to, you could command your smartphone to play you that very song and, after a second or two, you’d hear it for what most people would describe as “free.” But it’s not free. Someone always pays.
In every way, I have always paid for my music. It cost (there’s that money language again) me to learn to play. I spent (and again) many thousands of hours learning to play those songs on guitar, then learning to make up my own songs, then learning to play in front of people. I invested (mmhmm) in my art. I bought (yup) into the dream. All artists do, and we must.
It's a peculiar investment. My music has never brought in anything close to an actual wage. But I’ve lived a life you can sing along to for next to nothing. Some people say my art has changed them, helped them, inspired them. I invested in that, and I’d pay again. I am paying, right now.
I got a grant to help fund Living Light, my first ever. I spent weeks writing that application and paid in overwhelm, executive dysfunction and the sting of internalised shame about why I, a man in his 40s, should find paperwork so fucking hard. (It’s a brain thing, and it doesn’t go away.) But I did it! The grant matched my spending dollar for dollar. Thanks to the Australian Government Regional Arts Fund, I was able to record in a world-class studio, pay seven musicians, a producer, a mixer and a graphic designer. I pressed the music to vinyl and CD and made it available for download in time for the new moon of the Spring Equinox.
So, when they speak to me of streaming, I know not what to say.
The conversation often leaves me contemplating the words of Dr Martin Shaw: “What do you love? What does it cost? How much are you willing to pay?”
I sometimes think I know the answers to all three questions. Do you?
Download 'Living Light' (for a limited time)
Buy 'Living Light' on vinyl
Buy 'Living Light' on CD
23 September 2025
This was first published as a newsletter. Sign up if you want to receive this stuff before the rest of the world.
It's a peculiar investment. My music has never brought in anything close to an actual wage. But I’ve lived a life you can sing along to for next to nothing. Some people say my art has changed them, helped them, inspired them. I invested in that, and I’d pay again. I am paying, right now.
I got a grant to help fund Living Light, my first ever. I spent weeks writing that application and paid in overwhelm, executive dysfunction and the sting of internalised shame about why I, a man in his 40s, should find paperwork so fucking hard. (It’s a brain thing, and it doesn’t go away.) But I did it! The grant matched my spending dollar for dollar. Thanks to the Australian Government Regional Arts Fund, I was able to record in a world-class studio, pay seven musicians, a producer, a mixer and a graphic designer. I pressed the music to vinyl and CD and made it available for download in time for the new moon of the Spring Equinox.
So, when they speak to me of streaming, I know not what to say.
The conversation often leaves me contemplating the words of Dr Martin Shaw: “What do you love? What does it cost? How much are you willing to pay?”
I sometimes think I know the answers to all three questions. Do you?
Download 'Living Light' (for a limited time)
Buy 'Living Light' on vinyl
Buy 'Living Light' on CD
23 September 2025
This was first published as a newsletter. Sign up if you want to receive this stuff before the rest of the world.
Silent Letters for the New Moon IV
Hype and buzz when life is a byway
I missed the New Moon completely. Sleepwalked through the day after a wildly weathered week, some kind of vodka supernova in a neighbouring galaxy. Whatever the reason, I stopped looking up and missed the moment. These things happen.
If life is a highway, I walk quietly beside. Some days are road trains, leave me gasping in the wake. Most days are calm, though. My life is a byway. Quite lovely, really.
Highways have a wild way of winding their way into your mind and finding you wanting. Biggerbetter fastermore. I avoid 'em when I can, but sometimes I need to admit that the high road is the best suited for some journeys. For example, I exited the Information Superhighway in May last year, turned my wheels towards the woods, and wondered what might happen. Five things happened:
1. I remained uniquely, happily me.
2. I received a grant from the Australian Regional Arts Fund to make an album.
3. I recorded that album live with an 8-piece band in Frying Pan Studios.
4. I released that album on vinyl and CD.
5. Nobody really noticed.
Of course they didn't. Silly me. Hype and buzz are highway sounds (apart from the buzz of byway bees.)
Seriously, though. There must be a German word for "the feeling you get when you can't find anywhere to store your own boxes of unsold merch and, standing heavily-laden in the hallway, you wonder why you do what you do." It's probably etymologically linked to the humility of having left the market square, then realising the value of a public place for selling one's wares.
I really love this record. Here's why: Living Light is a record for now, for the sing-song season of southern Spring. It doesn't belong on the highway, it belongs in your heart and the best way to give a song a hearty home is to buy it on vinyl or CD! Fact! (Streaming is boring, don't you think?)
Living Light is available now from my own little bootsale on the side of the highway. I'll wait out here for as long as I can, but those passing road trains really do make a mess of things.
Love, love, love.
Daniel
Buy 'Living Light' on vinyl
Buy 'Living Light' on CD
24 August 2025
This was first published as a newsletter. Sign up if you want to receive this stuff before the rest of the world.
If life is a highway, I walk quietly beside. Some days are road trains, leave me gasping in the wake. Most days are calm, though. My life is a byway. Quite lovely, really.
Highways have a wild way of winding their way into your mind and finding you wanting. Biggerbetter fastermore. I avoid 'em when I can, but sometimes I need to admit that the high road is the best suited for some journeys. For example, I exited the Information Superhighway in May last year, turned my wheels towards the woods, and wondered what might happen. Five things happened:
1. I remained uniquely, happily me.
2. I received a grant from the Australian Regional Arts Fund to make an album.
3. I recorded that album live with an 8-piece band in Frying Pan Studios.
4. I released that album on vinyl and CD.
5. Nobody really noticed.
Of course they didn't. Silly me. Hype and buzz are highway sounds (apart from the buzz of byway bees.)
Seriously, though. There must be a German word for "the feeling you get when you can't find anywhere to store your own boxes of unsold merch and, standing heavily-laden in the hallway, you wonder why you do what you do." It's probably etymologically linked to the humility of having left the market square, then realising the value of a public place for selling one's wares.
I really love this record. Here's why: Living Light is a record for now, for the sing-song season of southern Spring. It doesn't belong on the highway, it belongs in your heart and the best way to give a song a hearty home is to buy it on vinyl or CD! Fact! (Streaming is boring, don't you think?)
Living Light is available now from my own little bootsale on the side of the highway. I'll wait out here for as long as I can, but those passing road trains really do make a mess of things.
Love, love, love.
Daniel
Buy 'Living Light' on vinyl
Buy 'Living Light' on CD
24 August 2025
This was first published as a newsletter. Sign up if you want to receive this stuff before the rest of the world.
Silent Letters for the New Moon III
Living light. Loving, living light
I read this week that the new moon is occulting the Pleiades. Occulting, it means to conceal or cut off from view. It’s the last time the moon will be occulting the Pleiades this year. Have you noticed?
I sometimes wonder what would happen if, for every minute we gave to a screen, we gave a minute to the sky, to the real. Something would happen, for sure.
There’s a temper to these times which inspires us (when being photographed) to look up in wide-eyed wonder when walking in the wild. It’s a pose. You know the one: momentarily pixie pure for popularity purposes. We pretend to be present for the benefit of the brand before we bow our head again and disappear from that sunset seaside scene.
Imagine if we really lived like we pretend to live. Sometimes I wonder if we need to, if the charade is a clue for what’s true. Maybe silly social posts are just signposts for the way we know we need to go, eyes raised in wonder under loving, living light.
Maybe. Humans are complicated. We are makers and breakers, both-and. We break less when we really let a place speak, though, when we really listen to rivers and trees and animals. We can learn.
This week in the real, I have been seen by a platypus, two echidnas, and a miracle of a bird called the nankeen kestrel.
The latter was by the algal-bloomed sadwater of the Adelaide coastline. She was hovering so perfectly, ten feet above the dirt and me, I thought she was a drone. Silent surveillance. In the tearing wind with outstretched wings and tail feather twitching left-right-left, she did not move her head at all. Face to the gale. Still in the storm. Chin raised, I watched in wide-eyed wonder and took nothing from her. In time, she turned her eyes to me as if to say: Do you see? Everything is moving. This is another way to be.
The platypus called me from the highway to a small town, then to the edge of the North Esk. I stood on a stone and watched a piece of driftwood turn into a little living thing. We locked eyes long enough: Will you watch me dive? Will you stay? You know I did. I was still as a nankeen kestrel, the only guy in the audience.
The echidnas saw me on my way back home, two clufts of drygrass shuffling by the highway in amongst the everlasting plastic sugar things. I’m told they feel ants moving underneath the ground. There goes a log truck. There's an SUV, the electric green solution. Echidnas don’t like to be seen, they won't do water tricks or send you wisdom from on high. They lower their eyes and hope for you to go. I waited in the weeds til they changed their minds, uncurled, and moved together. New quills for the old ceremony, a puggle begins amongst the things we throw away.
Keep your chin up and your eyes open. The whole living thing is longing to be loved.
Oh, and I release new music on the full moon. It's called Hey! Aurora! and it's a sky song for singing. If you dig it, I'd love it if you could send it to a friend. I'm not doing any promo. I do other things.
Love,
Daniel
24 July 2025
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I sometimes wonder what would happen if, for every minute we gave to a screen, we gave a minute to the sky, to the real. Something would happen, for sure.
There’s a temper to these times which inspires us (when being photographed) to look up in wide-eyed wonder when walking in the wild. It’s a pose. You know the one: momentarily pixie pure for popularity purposes. We pretend to be present for the benefit of the brand before we bow our head again and disappear from that sunset seaside scene.
Imagine if we really lived like we pretend to live. Sometimes I wonder if we need to, if the charade is a clue for what’s true. Maybe silly social posts are just signposts for the way we know we need to go, eyes raised in wonder under loving, living light.
Maybe. Humans are complicated. We are makers and breakers, both-and. We break less when we really let a place speak, though, when we really listen to rivers and trees and animals. We can learn.
This week in the real, I have been seen by a platypus, two echidnas, and a miracle of a bird called the nankeen kestrel.
The latter was by the algal-bloomed sadwater of the Adelaide coastline. She was hovering so perfectly, ten feet above the dirt and me, I thought she was a drone. Silent surveillance. In the tearing wind with outstretched wings and tail feather twitching left-right-left, she did not move her head at all. Face to the gale. Still in the storm. Chin raised, I watched in wide-eyed wonder and took nothing from her. In time, she turned her eyes to me as if to say: Do you see? Everything is moving. This is another way to be.
The platypus called me from the highway to a small town, then to the edge of the North Esk. I stood on a stone and watched a piece of driftwood turn into a little living thing. We locked eyes long enough: Will you watch me dive? Will you stay? You know I did. I was still as a nankeen kestrel, the only guy in the audience.
The echidnas saw me on my way back home, two clufts of drygrass shuffling by the highway in amongst the everlasting plastic sugar things. I’m told they feel ants moving underneath the ground. There goes a log truck. There's an SUV, the electric green solution. Echidnas don’t like to be seen, they won't do water tricks or send you wisdom from on high. They lower their eyes and hope for you to go. I waited in the weeds til they changed their minds, uncurled, and moved together. New quills for the old ceremony, a puggle begins amongst the things we throw away.
Keep your chin up and your eyes open. The whole living thing is longing to be loved.
Oh, and I release new music on the full moon. It's called Hey! Aurora! and it's a sky song for singing. If you dig it, I'd love it if you could send it to a friend. I'm not doing any promo. I do other things.
Love,
Daniel
24 July 2025
This was first published as a newsletter. Sign up if you want to receive this stuff before the rest of the world.
Silent Letters for the New Moon II
When the moon is new, I will write.
When the moon is full, we will sing.
My new single is out on the next full moon.
I love that white stone satellite. She calls me. She asks me to dance. As a matter of fact, I've decided to let her lead. I am a body of water, after all.
Of course, I'm not the first to live according to her movements. Jewish, Hindu and Islamic calendars are based on lunar cycles, as are those of many countries in Asia. Every other human in my house moves in a monthly circle all of their own. Figured I should learn from the best. Besides, I really like the moon.
Here's my cycle: When the moon is new, I will write. When the moon is full, I will sing. We will sing.
Today is a new moon, so I'm sending you this silent letter. On the next full moon, I will release Circles in the Stone, the first single from my forthcoming EP. It's a song for singing, friends. You'll wanna join in.
You can pre-save it, if you like. Or you can just keep your chin up and let the night sky remind you.
It's a cracker of a song, a joyful song. (Remember joy?) Piano, double bass, violin, guitar and drums; six voices singing harmonies. It's everything I need: A song for singing and friends to sing it with.
We recorded it live in Mona's Frying Pan Studios on a Tuesday night, along with five other songs. After the subterranean grief mission that was The Eye Begins to See, I wanted only to make music of the sky, music that lifted me, sunlit stuff. I remember using the word "transcendent" a lot.
At the time, I felt like I was making the best music of my life. Who records live anymore? Who stands in a circle with friends and sings together? Who even writes songs? We have machines for that now.
Waiting for the mixes, I became wracked with doubt. What was I doing, singing with the sun when the whole world was in shadow? Modern life felt like a giant traffic jam on an information superhighway to a compulsory AI concert I didn't wish to attend. Then there was that screaming dudepro party down the road, rich-daddied boys stamping through garden beds and slingshotting the windows of strangers.
It hurts me. I know it hurts you too.
Why would I write? Why would I sing?
Well, because I need songs and friends to sing them with. So, here it is, friends. A bright stone satellite, all full up with light.
Circles in the Stone is a moment worth your time. I hope the full moon will slow you down long enough to listen, to learn the words. I hope you sing along, and I really hope there's someone in your life who will sing with you. If not, you're not alone. That's what songs are for.
Love,
Daniel
25 June 2025
This was first published as a newsletter. Sign up if you want to receive this stuff before the rest of the world.
I love that white stone satellite. She calls me. She asks me to dance. As a matter of fact, I've decided to let her lead. I am a body of water, after all.
Of course, I'm not the first to live according to her movements. Jewish, Hindu and Islamic calendars are based on lunar cycles, as are those of many countries in Asia. Every other human in my house moves in a monthly circle all of their own. Figured I should learn from the best. Besides, I really like the moon.
Here's my cycle: When the moon is new, I will write. When the moon is full, I will sing. We will sing.
Today is a new moon, so I'm sending you this silent letter. On the next full moon, I will release Circles in the Stone, the first single from my forthcoming EP. It's a song for singing, friends. You'll wanna join in.
You can pre-save it, if you like. Or you can just keep your chin up and let the night sky remind you.
It's a cracker of a song, a joyful song. (Remember joy?) Piano, double bass, violin, guitar and drums; six voices singing harmonies. It's everything I need: A song for singing and friends to sing it with.
We recorded it live in Mona's Frying Pan Studios on a Tuesday night, along with five other songs. After the subterranean grief mission that was The Eye Begins to See, I wanted only to make music of the sky, music that lifted me, sunlit stuff. I remember using the word "transcendent" a lot.
At the time, I felt like I was making the best music of my life. Who records live anymore? Who stands in a circle with friends and sings together? Who even writes songs? We have machines for that now.
Waiting for the mixes, I became wracked with doubt. What was I doing, singing with the sun when the whole world was in shadow? Modern life felt like a giant traffic jam on an information superhighway to a compulsory AI concert I didn't wish to attend. Then there was that screaming dudepro party down the road, rich-daddied boys stamping through garden beds and slingshotting the windows of strangers.
It hurts me. I know it hurts you too.
Why would I write? Why would I sing?
Well, because I need songs and friends to sing them with. So, here it is, friends. A bright stone satellite, all full up with light.
Circles in the Stone is a moment worth your time. I hope the full moon will slow you down long enough to listen, to learn the words. I hope you sing along, and I really hope there's someone in your life who will sing with you. If not, you're not alone. That's what songs are for.
Love,
Daniel
25 June 2025
This was first published as a newsletter. Sign up if you want to receive this stuff before the rest of the world.
Silent Letters for the New Moon I
Once we were records and radios...
Now we are stones in a stream
I played my first solo show in a loud, smoke-filled front bar in Launceston in April 2004.
Twenty years later, I marked the occasion with a once-off retrospective in the quiet and smokeless Kunanyi Folk Club in Nipaluna/Hobart. We recorded it, mixed and mastered it, and then I dubbed it onto cassette.
Twenty cassettes, actually. One for each year. You can buy one, if you want.
The album is called Nothing is Enough. Seemed fair enough.
Twenty years later, I marked the occasion with a once-off retrospective in the quiet and smokeless Kunanyi Folk Club in Nipaluna/Hobart. We recorded it, mixed and mastered it, and then I dubbed it onto cassette.
Twenty cassettes, actually. One for each year. You can buy one, if you want.
The album is called Nothing is Enough. Seemed fair enough.
I went offline about the same time as we recorded Nothing is Enough. I did the tour for The Eye Begins to See, then came home, went offline and pretty much stayed there. I popped onto socials for a minute there and felt like I'd entered a sugar-fueled stock exchange-themed kid's party.
So, I'm pretty much offline these days.
I'm old enough to have seen so many versions of The New Thing and The New Normal come and go that I've just learned to tune out the noise. People will forever tell artists that you've gotta do a whole bunch of things you don't want to do to be able to do the things you're called to do. That sounds to me like self-abuse. They'll say you've got to sell yourself. Do ya, though? Do we really need to sell ourselves?
I'm no salesman. I'm not even a promoter. I move slow and make things. If you like my things, you can buy em. If you really like em, tell your friends. If you really like em, go shout it from the mountains or something. Seems fair enough.
Life offline is actually pretty great. It's what your grandparents used to call "life".
Also, I recorded an EP with an 8-piece band live on a Tuesday in Mona's Frying Pan Studios. It's called Living Light, and it's being pressed to vinyl as we speak. I think I will release a new song every full moon, or maybe just release it on vinyl.
Gotta get back into the real.
Take care,
Daniel
29 May 2025
This was first published as a newsletter. Sign up if you want to receive this stuff before the rest of the world.
So, I'm pretty much offline these days.
I'm old enough to have seen so many versions of The New Thing and The New Normal come and go that I've just learned to tune out the noise. People will forever tell artists that you've gotta do a whole bunch of things you don't want to do to be able to do the things you're called to do. That sounds to me like self-abuse. They'll say you've got to sell yourself. Do ya, though? Do we really need to sell ourselves?
I'm no salesman. I'm not even a promoter. I move slow and make things. If you like my things, you can buy em. If you really like em, tell your friends. If you really like em, go shout it from the mountains or something. Seems fair enough.
Life offline is actually pretty great. It's what your grandparents used to call "life".
Also, I recorded an EP with an 8-piece band live on a Tuesday in Mona's Frying Pan Studios. It's called Living Light, and it's being pressed to vinyl as we speak. I think I will release a new song every full moon, or maybe just release it on vinyl.
Gotta get back into the real.
Take care,
Daniel
29 May 2025
This was first published as a newsletter. Sign up if you want to receive this stuff before the rest of the world.
