My friend and I have a theory that the whole world changes the day you turn twenty-two. You wake up, and everything looks different. It's as if you look up and suddenly the walls have faded to a dull colour, but you're really just noticing the colour they always were and the peeling paint and all the little cracks. It's like you were always looking, but never seeing. Though it can be a harsh revelation, it's actually kind of refreshing. It's sort of like the feeling of taking a blind-fold off, after stumbling around aimlessly for twenty-two years. We could call it the twenty-two effect. We never did though.
Although both of us agreed that this exact sensation came upon us the moment we turned twenty-two, it would be naive to think that this happens to everyone. I guess everyone reaches turning points, or points of significance as far as understanding and awareness, at varying stages. For me, turning twenty-two made me realise who I really was, and how the path I was on was leading me away from that. The year from twenty-two to twenty-three was spent de-railing the train I had accidentally boarded without realising, whilst building the tracks and the first few stations along the line that I needed to be on to get to where I really want to be, which I know now is the only direction that would result in happiness and satisfaction. It can be very easy to take wrong directions when we are young. We seem to think that everyone else knows us and what's good for us better than we know ourselves. I suppose some people reach this point earlier than twenty-two, whilst others may live out their entire lives and never reach it, because they aren't prepared to get off that train and build their new tracks, or perhaps they just aren't able comprehend it and carry on being unhappy, not knowing why, which is sad.
The biggest change is that you finally start to measure and value your time realistically. My perception suddenly changed from "I've got all the time in the world" to "Time slides by so fast, and I'm going to need as much of it as I can get if I'm going to do all the things I want to." I guess I've always been aware of this. I wrote a song called Taking Time, which I play quite often at live shows, in 2006 when I was sixteen. It was a sombre reflection on time spent (and possibly one could consider 'wasted') on people. Whether it be a friend (or 'friend') a lover, a partner, an employer or co-worker. It was about growing up and realising how much time that was yours to use freely, doing things that make you happy, you essentially gave up for the satisfaction of another, or for the wrong reasons. If you listen to my lyrics you would think I might have learnt from my own words and stopped doing just this after the age of sixteen. But I didn't.
About six years after this, I spent an entire year pouring my time into something that ultimately became distructive towards me and only beneficial to the community it was serving. There is nothing wrong with putting time into something that serves others, but this should never be to the detriment of your own well-being, which it was, or out of fear or pressure or anything negative, again, which it was. This also happened to be the year that I turned twenty-two. This time not only songs came out of it. I learnt a very valuable lesson; and once the burden of my commitment was off my shoulders, I have never commited to anything external to my own ambitions again (and I'm doing everything I can to get out of the one existing commitment I can't quite shake - a stupid phone contract from a certain phone provider you would know.) I wrote two songs out of this experience (not the phone contract - the other one) of which the titles happen to rhyme by accident. Clay and Stray. Clay was about a lot of things, mainly how I was feeling at the time. It was about going through an emotionally trying time, which I expressed with the analogy of walking through mud, but being able to eventually walk across it when it dries and turns to clay. Sometimes when we feel like we've fucked everything up, it doesn't feel okay to show our faces in certain crowds or certain places. So it was about walking on with your head high regardless of anything. When enough time passes, though, the whole thing becomes insignificant, and is forgotten anyway. Maybe this only affects sensitive people, though, of which I am one. If I wasn't, I don't think I'd be able to write this kind of music very effectively at all.
Stray came out of this whole fiasco as well. Stray was sort of about cutting ties with 'scenes' and groups that were no longer serving me; or more, the direction I wanted to go in. They would always be there, and would be nothing more than another distraction along the way, stopping me from reaching my destination. Every now and then is okay, but to become too absorbed in any scene, other than the one you really want to be a part of, the one your biggest hopes, desires and aspirations fall within, is like getting off at every stop on your train line to wander about and look in shop windows. It's nice and all, and relatively enjoyable, but it certainly isn't getting you to where you want to go in a timely fashion. The song was also a lot about getting over the fear of being an individual when everyone seems to be a 'group' or a 'pair' or some other form of collective other than the single entity. Except I know I haven't really gotten over that. The song is about it, though, and the feeling of not being afraid to 'stray.' To trust in your intuition to lead yourself off in some unknown direction, without any of the people who happen to be in your life regularly to back you up or lead you in any certain way. Occassionally, I find myself with the courage t to do his. Make spontanous decisions to fly somewhere. Stay out all night, because everyone else wanted to go home, and make new friends. This one time, I was out in the city and the trains had stopped, and though one might normally get a taxi at this point, I somehow befriended these people, no idea how, and we had a very early breakfast, then went back to a hotel room to drink tea. The latter is usually alcohol induced. Sometimes it's not the smartest idea either. (One could argue that going to a random hotel room with strangers is dumb - but my argument is you can learn when to and when not to trust relatively quickly.)
Most of the time we can have the most fun on our own, because it forces us into new experiences, and this is almost always scary at first, but ultimately rewarding. I'm trying to push myself to stray a bit more. Perhaps turning twenty-three will come with a newfound power to overcome the fear of flying solo? (And I mean, when stone-cold sober.) I guess I'll find out in one week. After all, does anyone out there really care that you're alone? Do they care about what anyone within a ten-mile radius is doing? Not really. Everyone else is just as focussed on themselves as we are, so when will we stop fearing what other people aren't even thinking? (Still trying to work this one out.)
Turning twenty-two not only made me value time more and learn to stray more, but more than anything made me realise who I really am. The interesting thing is, and I'm not sure if this is true of just me or of everyone, if I think back to how I spent my time as a child and what made me happy then, and compare it with now I realise, all I have ever wanted to do in life was everything I did then. My childhood activities included: setting up and performing in backyard concerts, drawing on walls and furniture, painting pictures, and making things - lots and lots of things, of all different kinds. That was all I did then, (well, and play with toys and own pets like guines-pigs and crazy crabs and all those kid games and stuff too, obviously) and I was happy. If that was all I did now, I would be happy. I think we probably know ourselves the best when we are children, before our minds are clouded with ideologies about what we 'should' do, all the social norms and the pressure to fit in and play our role in the theatre of life. It is strange to think I went through over a decade of trying to fit a square peg in a round hole - trying to 'be' all these other things rather than doing the things that make me happy - just to revert back to my childhood self. If I could have a conversation with that childhood me, I know she would have asked me "Why would you do that, silly?" Once a creator, always a creator. A creator isn't happy unless able to create, and anyone creative needs a creative space.
Within the last few days I have rented out a studio space in an arts warehouse in Fitzroy. As I sat in that space for the first time, after moving all my supplies in, I felt a strange nostalgic sense of famililarity - almost like my childhood self again. I stared down at the carpet which was the same colour as the one I'd sprawled out on to paint my final piece, a self portrait, for year twelve art at the age of seventeen, and felt this vivid experience-like memory of sitting on that floor painting. It's a really interesting feeling to remember something as though you are experiencing it again. I'd come across these kinds of spaces before, but never really thought about going to check one out. The original plan was to move into a big house with a shed, but you know, life happened, and there we were, my friend and I (the same one who also experienced the twenty-two effect) on the verge of homelessness, crawling from real estate to real estate hungover on a Wednesday afternoon pleading for a place by the Friday, and ending up hungover on the floor of the only place we could find that fit those paremetres - a small two bedroom unit in a residential block we now affectionately (but not all that affectionately) term 'The Ghetto' saying "fuck it, who cares, it'll do." At least it's on the north-side. It's a fair bit bigger than my last apartment, but small enough to get incredibly crowded and messy the minute you start trying to make shit. However I am finally no longer allowing myself to let my current circumstances, and in particular, my living arrangements, get in the way of my desire to be creative.
So, I have moved all my making-stuff to a dedicated space. This will be where I base my music business, produce my music merch, as well as where I run my hand-made business Lifelike Designs which I will soon start taking out to markets, and where I finally - after years of hiatus - begin painting again. The year I left Bridgetown (2008) I painted two paintings for the Praticos who run Chooks Fresh and Tasty where I spent my first four years in the workforce. One of a Brahman bull, a commission, and one a gift of two chickens to hang in the shop. For some reason I took to painting animals well, but I never got around to painting any more once the slog at uni began, besides a few leisure painting sessions with friends and beers, the result of one of which I was quite fond of that featured a few guitars I'd like to have which I copied out of a catalogue and some weird looking walking music notes. I think it is floating around Perth somewhere - I must have left it when I did the big-up-and-leave thing and I think my ex had it, and I could have sworn I saw it in a photo on facebook from some party had by people from high school. Anyway, if anyone knows where it is, I wouldn't mind it back. Somehow I doubt this will happen.
So I've learned the importance of having a space to work from; and having moved in there and thereby taking the 'work' stuff out of my home, I'm getting closer and closer to achieving balance. Balance is something I've been working towards for quite some time. I admire those around me who live a balanced life, and I believe it is the key to both happiness and success. It's something I've struggled with, but I'm getting better. The first thing is understanding time and what is realistic. The whole twenty-two thing has helped there. I used to take on everything. I thought I was some kind of superwoman (and I still get like this after my third coffee) but at least now I pick and choose very carefully, and I have a definitive focus; but also other creative projects to turn to so that I never feel stuck; and so that I have variation. I thrive on change, so being able to change what I'm working on at any time is a blessing. I have a tendency to be impatient, and want to do everything right away, but I am learning now that it pays to take the time to work on something for a bit longer to get a better result, rather than sharing with the world before something is really ready. I'm lucky to have some wise people around me to be able to stop me before the urge takes over. I recently filmed a crowdfunding campaign video, and I didn't want to take the criticism at first. After about five minutes of denial and persuasion that the existing footage was good enough, I became grateful for the honest feedback, and we started over. I have my sister to thank for that (and a lot of things.) Having said that, it's not always a bad idea to dive in head-first without thinking. (Well, literally, yes it is as you could end up paralysed, but figuratively, not always.) I was on a creative roll when I produced Be The Change and I sort of rode that wave all the way to iTunes that same night. Then again, I didn't exactly put any planning into it, nor any effort at marketing and promotion, so it's no surprise it's not exactly selling like hot-cakes, and any label executive would probably say "what a dumb thing to do." But that's okay. I think it's okay to make your own rules at life. Especially these days. With the rise of the internet, pretty much anything goes, and anyone can be a businessman. I guess it's all about not taking so long that you never get it done, but not jumping ahead without thinking - setting realistic time frames and sticking to them. I'm taking the EP project slowly and steadily, putting the time in to get everything right, and not necessarily banking on, but planning for success. I think that is the only way to be. If you want to be a creator, you have to believe 100% that your creations will be successful.
My housemate and I met an interesting character about Fitzroy the other night. We were having pizza and a beer in a cluster of four arm chairs and two were empty, and this guy asks if anyone was sitting in them. Obliged to say no, on account of no-one was sitting there and we're pretty open and inviting sorts, not the 'fuck off we're having dinner and a private conversation' kind, and we're not liars either, he then asked if he could sit there, and of course we said that was fine. Anyway, to cut a long story short, we ended up with an unlikely companion for the remainder of the evening, and just before leaving I gave what was probably some of the best advice I've given. We were having a conversation about music and the music we make respectively; his being raps, mine being songs; and he told me his music buddy doesn't want to make money out of it, but ge does. His mates view was that it was for enjoyment and not to make money. I guess quite a few creative people take this stance, but I certainly don't. I told him to tell his friend that as a creative person, you owe it to your creations to develop them into a business. The world we live in happens to be a business one, and if you don't at the very least try and turn your creative practices into a viable, self-sustaining business, then you are doing a disservice to the creative potential you have. The sooner you begin to turn your creativity into some kind of viable business, the closer you will get to that blissful moment all creators should aspire to; the moment when you can spend all your time creating, rather than showing up to work somewhere as a 'cog' in the ever-turning machine of our current day consumer society.
Someone wise, can't remember who right now, said "If you love what you do you will never think of it as work."
So love what you do. Do what you love. And find a way to sustain yourself around this: not the other way around.
~
--------------------------------------------------
