The Heroes Journey!

  Ah the glorious in-between. I’m waiting for a video file to upload so that I can proceed with my new edit. And I find myself in the in-between. I instinctively went to my browser and loaded Facebook, and then Instagram. My compulsive urge to return to these sites has become a lot worse recently, ever since I decided to share myself and my work again, in February. I guess I’ll write about that. I take us back to 2018, the year I dub ‘the most epic fail year of my life’, and it absolutely was. I was so naive back then, and I adamantly refused to get a job because I thought I could ‘make it’ as a musician. In my efforts, I ended up on the welfare benefit, scrounging for my next dollar and picking up the pieces of a shattered life purpose. My hopes and dreams seemed to obtainable, so possible to achieve, but how foolish was I, thinking that Life was so QUICK. It’s not. I was  beginning  to explore themes such as Life Purpose and Mastery, and I had even called my Memoir a...

The window at the back of the Pit squeaked as I opened it, and a cold breeze meandered through. The garden on the other side was swathed in shadow, and touched by only a few licks of light from the street. Despite being right in the centre of Dunedin city, it was a remarkably peaceful little place.  A secret little garden would be, though. I hopped onto the window sill and perched there, straining my ear for a certain pocket of sounds. The sounds were there as I expected, quietly though, like a wasp sneaking through the garden. However faint, it still sent a wave of anxiety through my body. No… nerves. They were nerves, tinged with excitement, disguised as anxiety. I slipped down into the garden, the shrubbery crunching beneath my sleek kung fu shoes, and stalked down the zig-zag pathway like a cat in the shadows. I made a brief glance up to the giant manor, hidden the  middle  of Dunedin city, the residence of some mysterious 'philosopher' that I'd never once seen. I wo...

I have a serious condition. I’m a writer…   I don’t know how this came to be, or why. But it’s just a fact of my life. I can’t help but write, and write, and write, and write some more. So many words spill out of me that I wonder if the trees and the clouds and the earth and the soil and the sea of my imagination are all composed of words. I bleed my words. Into my journals, through my fingers and into my computer. It is one way I can make sense of life, this puzzle.  I write about absolutely everything. My journal reveals all, and I am very protective of it nowadays, because it is the only thing that will listen to me, truly listen to me as I rant about my frustrations, as I try to navigate the storm of emotions that rages on within me, as emotions are prone to do, and as I express gratitude when I tame that storm and guide it back home, or channel it into art. My journal has compassion for me, as it watches on while I fall into the same traps that I have fallen into time and...

It was just a normal Thursday, except for the traces of magic in the air. The magic came to greet me during my piano practice around noon, nudging me like some fairy. Go outside, it said. So I did. I unplugged myself from my practice session - something I rarely did - and went outside. There was something in the air, some kind of feeling that made me want to go to the beach, or to explore a new place. There is a word for that in New Zealand. We call it ‘Summer’. But… It was the middle of winter! Within the hour, I was turning the key of the Emerald Wagon and loading the trunk with my keyboard gear and camera. It had been at least a month since I had made my last piano music video - a month of stroppy skies and bleak horizons. But today’s conditions were auspicious. If I followed the magic keenly enough, traced it to its source, I was bound to capture a perfect video. I had the entire Otago region on my doorstep - heck, the whole South Island, even, depending on how ambitious I was ...

  I miss writing. It’s been so long since I just wrote. Wait, that’s not entirely true. I write a lot, when I really think about it. I write stupid little snippets beneath my Youtube videos, in an extra bid to win the Subscriber. I write silly snags of prose for the Instagrams posts, in an extra bid to entertain, I suppose. I still write in my journal. Words spill out of me, generally, and I don’t think about them.  But I miss writing writing, you know? The kind of writing where I just sit and have fun with words. I mean, I guess I do that in the aforementioned occasions. What constitutes ‘writing’ anyway? I write music. But not really, because it’s chords and clicks and strange noises that emerge from the flex of my fingers, and there’s no pen to be seen. Now I’ve gone on a tangent about writing… What I’m trying to say here is that I miss sitting at my desk for a good ol’ juicy writing session. That’s pretty much how I spent last year. My main project was The 10th Rule, my...