Alexander square.

Logo Design by Dean Michael Rochford @DigiLuxEU – Art by Deano

I spent a little over a decade writing and rewriting the “book” of my musical ALEXANDER, first from the POV of the soldier/conqueror/King of Macedonia and then from the POV of a tortured visionary whose lust for both power and enlightenment finally drove him to the excesses characteristic of dictators of every stripe and creed.

ALEXANDER‘S physical quest is well-known. In 334 BC, following in the footsteps and mindset of his warrior father, King Philip II of Macedonia, Alexander embarked on a series of battles which ultimately broke the power of Persia. A decade later, when Alexander overthrew the sybaritic Persian King Darius III he had conquered the Achaemenid Empire in its entirety. At that point, Alexander’s empire stretched from the Adriatic Sea to the Beas River, one of the largest empires in the ancient world but, this did not satisfy Alexander. Addicted to conquest, he endeavoured to reach the “ends of the world and the Great Outer Sea” and in 326 BC he invaded India, winning an important but incomplete victory over the sub-continent.

Alexander and his mother, Queen Olympias circa 326 BC.

alex and Olympias


Alexander the Great was born in Pella in 356 BC and succeeded his father Philip II to the throne of Macedonia at the age of 20. He spent most of his ruling years on a military campaign through western Asia and northeast Africa, and by the age of thirty, he had created an empire stretching from Greece to north-western India. Undefeated in battle he came to believe in his mother, Olympias’, claim, that he was fathered by the God, Zeus, rather than the merely mortal, Philip. The world came to believe this fantasy, too, as Alexander, the master manipulator, gave credence to it by building oversized campsites enroute throughout his quest, leaving enormous chairs and tables made from boulders as if an army of giants had camped there. Discovering such things on a morning’s sheepherding must have been very disconcerting for the locals. Playing mind games with the soon-to-be-conquered became an established part of Alexander’s military repertoire. In a midnight climb he instructed his men to plant dozens of Macedonian flags outside the city gates of the unreachable mountaintop eerie called the Sogdian Rock. When the township woke to the sight of dozens of Macedonian flags outside their city gates the next morning they surrendered to the man who was either winged or had demons in his service.

In his determination to succeed, Alexander used every arrow in his quiver. A brilliant military strategist who thought outside the square, he also won the love and trust of his comrades by sleeping in the same rough soldier’s tents as his men and fronting every battle. He also knew the names of all his soldiers and in some cases, their wives and parents, too. It was a masterstroke in winning and maintaining loyalty.

That his success was due to his talent, personability and the discipline of his army is beyond dispute. It was also timely. Slaves the world over were tired of their lot in life and the extravagance of Darius III, the flagrant despot who built Persepolis, the largest and most extravagantly appointed Palace on earth, the antecedent of Versailles which sparked the revolution of 1789, drove many Persian subjects to the point of rebellion. In fact Darius III was murdered by two of his own generals, helping facilitate Alexander’s triumph over Persia.


Ruins of the Palace of Persepolis.

So, by the time Alexander arrived, ready to liberate slaves and implement democracy, the rule of the people, it was a perfect storm of social unrest coupled with a brilliantly prepared and highly disciplined army bannering equality, albeit under Macedonian rule.

During his youth, Alexander the gifted student, was tutored by Aristotle and it was his political manifesto of Democracy that Alexander the genius conqueror, implemented throughout his empire. An open-minded man, he encouraged religious and cultural diversity and syncretism of existing beliefs. Always fascinated by spirituality, Alexander even embraced many of the religious practises he encountered on his quest. 

bagoas and Darius

King Darius III with his concubine eunuch, Bagoas.

The quest part of Alexander’s story has been well documented. What is less well-known is the man behind the soldier, a man who did as much harm as good. A man who came to believe himself a god. A man who had no idea what to do with himself in peacetime. A man who came to expect conquest because he had never known defeat. A man who conjured a legend that grew around him like a glamour. But ultimately, a man whose time ran out.

After returning to Babylon, recrossing the Himalayas in winter and leaving India half-conquered, Alexander’s loyal army was homesick and longing to be reunited with their families after a little over a decade of campaigning. Completing Alexander’s waning sandglass was the loss of his great love, Hephastion, who died in 324 BC. It was all too much for the world-weary conqueror, who died six months after Hephastion, perhaps from grief, perhaps from poison or perhaps because his battered body and soul gave up. This close departure from the world is always a mark of soulmates I believe.

       Hephastion 356 BC – 324 BC


After the loss of Hephastion, success must have felt hollow indeed. From boyhood on Alexander and Hephastion had shared everything including Aristotle’s tutelage, the almost dual command of the army and for many years, a bed. Every dream and plan of Alexander’s had been co-conspired with Hephastion whose own talent for soldiering was considerable. Certainly of all the loves of Alexander’s life, Hephastion was the only one who shared the ‘trenches’ with him, often fighting side-by-side like guardian angels for each other.

Had Alexander lived he would have stumbled on alone, establishing Babylon as his capital and executing a series of campaigns that would have begun with an invasion of Arabia. In the years following his death in 323 BC, a series of civil wars tore his empire apart, resulting in the establishment of several states ruled by the Diadochi, Alexander’s surviving generals and heirs.

In my research I read The Persian Boy by Mary Renault, a book about Bagoas, the exquisite eunuch Alexander inherited from the court of King Darius III after the conquest of Persia. Brilliantly written, Renault shows Alexander through the eyes of the people closest to him. Unlike the ugly jostling for power in a harem, Alexander gives each of his loves their own place and the dignity befitting their role, avoiding the deadly competition writhing in the courts and harems of contemporaneous Kings and Sultans.

the persian boyMary Renault looks at Alexander through the eyes of Bagoas, a one-time prince of Persia who was ‘cut’ to preserve his beauty and interned in the harem of King Darius III as a sexual slave. Alexander, enthralled by the young man’s beauty and intelligence, makes him his houseboy and sometime lover.

bagoas 1

Bagoas Prince of Persia who became a eunuch prized for his beauty.

I became fascinated by the other satellite characters in Alexander’s world – his mother Olympias, beautiful, ambitious and driven, Roxanne, the Sogdian princess he marries after conquering her province, Hephastion, his 2IC and arguably love of his life and, of course, his beautiful black stallion, Bucephalus, who remained with him throughout his decade long campaign and whose death in 326 BC caused Alexander enormous grief.

bucephalus 1

All of them exhibited an unusual degree of loyalty to Alexander and a passion bordering on worship.

The love and loyalty of those closest to Alexander are great indicators of the character of a man whom many regarded as a monster warped by boundless ambition. But they only knew him from a distance and in the wake of conquests which arguably left them better off. But conquest is conquest no matter how benevolent the dictator.



So, I adjusted my “book” to focus on the ancillary characters in Alexander’s life and through them map the inner terrain that inversely echoed his expanding empire. As Alexander’s empire expanded, his psyche shrunk under the weight of success and delusion and the legend he and his mother created to inspire worship and obedience became his cage. The fantasy of his progenation by Zeus ultimately enslaved his mind and loosened his grip on terra firma, toppling him, Empire, ego, life and all.

alexander king

But for a musical theatre writer what an extraordinary narrative of lust, loss and tragedy, perfectly arced and embodied in an exquisite young cast, each one alluring in their own right and powerfully placed to influence the most famous man of his time.

I set about reconfiguring the book away from a chronological paralleling of his campaign and into the tragic arc of an idealistic young visionary/conqueror who morphs into a self-destructive,  power-crazed addict, messily transformational and ultimately immortalised through the alchemy of success. Musical theatre gold-dust.

               Alexander and Bucephalus.

aleander and bucephalus

When I completed the revised book I began writing the lyrics and to help me with the music I invited talented composer and pianist, Ian Camilleri on board and together we wrote all the music for Alexander in a succession of Sundays over the course of a year. Ian and I then took the show into a studio and with the help of friends we recorded a demo of five songs. In a series of truly serendipitous interventions we managed to acquire direct contacts with Cameron Macintosh, Andrew Lloyd Webber and closer to home, producers Harry M. Miller and Michael Edgely – all of whom turned the show down flat.

Such is my manic perseverance I then decided to hire an arranger to orchestrate the show and lift it to another level. The result was a fuller sound closer to what may be expected in a West End or Broadway production. Over the course of five years the show was staged in concert version by Southbank Institute and later introduced to London audiences in selected songs in a showcase my own work, Wendy Waters Rites Words at The Pheasantry 3rd September 2019 with talented cast Frank Loman, Lauren Lovejoy, Louise Burke accompanied by pianist Ricardo Nunes Fernandes.

Wendy Waters Rites Words

Louise Burke, Lauren Lovejoy and Frank Loman – Cast of Wendy Waters Rites Words.

ricardo and louise Ricardo

Ricardo Nunes Fernandes rehearsing with Louise Burke for Wendy Waters Rites Words, The Pheasantry 3rd September 2019.

2020 brings its special challenges with COVID-19 and lockdown and bringing new work to the public is difficult but fortunately there is a visionary in Canada, Jean-Paul Yovanoff, who plays musical theatre songs all year around and especially encourages new works.

Here is a Podcast of my #musical ALEXANDER played on Canadian radio.!AtFMpokjm_

sampler platter MTR with Alxander

Thank you Jean-Paul Yovanoff @MTR_Tweets 


FRED – A Musical

Due to renewed interest in my #musicals #FRED and @ALEXANDER I am reposting this.

Catch The Moon, Mary

FRED is my Book Musical. It’s the story of three lonely women living in adjoining apartments in a crowded city. They never open their doors or their hearts to one another until the power in the building fails and an electrician called FRED arrives to fix it.

As Fred fixes the fuses he chats to the women and comes up with a plan that will unite them in friendship and purpose. #heartwarming #redemptive #familyfriendly

Fred Poster FRED Poster

The musical Premiered on the Gold Coast in July 2018.

Here’s to a long and happy life FRED.

Size Ten is the first song in the show. It is Alison’s I Want song. Alison is a lonely twenty-two year old girl who wishes she could lose weight and get down to a Size 10. If she could only get to that magical size all her problems would be solved, she thinks.

In this…

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Salem rises again in modern America

witch with broom

Over the past few months I have been called some truly vile names on Twitter. The people who debase themselves to such an extent are people who support Donald Trump. I have asked them repeatedly to explain why they are so angry but they have been unable to clarify the cause of their rage. Rather than answer they have sunk even lower into the turgid mire they inhabit and called me even uglier names. My friends who have bravely tackled them with the same question have been similarly targeted with incendiaries of name-calling and bullying. Because  my friends and I stand united and at a safe distance from this aberrated witch-hunting we dismiss them as fools.

But we do not laugh.

Why? Because whilst we are safe from their wrath, others are not. People are dying in a fomentation of hatred spurred on by a movement in America that has gained momentum and sanction under the titular head of POTUS 45. Whilst Trump did not perhaps knowingly start an ugly conspiracy movement which is getting more dangerous by the minute, he does nothing to disavow people who are using his leadership as incentive to snowball hatred fuelled by feelings of inadequacy.

Anger is fine if it is founded on fact. It can be a great motivator for change – personally and globally. But indiscriminate anger arrows into rage and becomes a lethal weapon.

Be clear in your anger. Be specific. Attacking strangers on social media in a storm of disproportionate abuse only serves to ostracise and court discrimination.

Americans do have cause for complaint but I’ll get to that.

Ever since Trump took office I have been feeling nervous about his followers. They seem unduly aggressive. I am aware of a massive fiscal imbalance in America. It is beyond disgraceful and every hard-working, underpaid person has the right to feel both duped and angry about a system of government that favours the indecently rich. It is corrupt and it is fraught with potential injustice but above all else it is keeping an unworkable system of government firmly in place.

Now I could understand if this was the spearhead complaint of Trump’s followers but it isn’t. They have bought into a conspiracy theory called QAnon, a far-right conspiracy theory detailing a supposed secret plot by an alleged “deep state” against U.S. President Donald Trump and his supporters. Only a dedicated and manipulative victim could sanction such insanity.

Crazy? Obviously to those of us who are not fuelled by lurid and vague accusations of victimization.

Trump’s followers are evangelistic in tone when they decide you are a witch, as many of them did yesterday on Twitter when I dared suggest that Trump is far from the flawless embodiment of righteous ire, far from the avenging angel sent by God to smite the sinners. Far from Trump being the victim here he is a dangerous bully who cries witch when he doesn’t get what he wants.

The only clever thing about Trump is his ability to tune into the neuroses that flows like a sewer through the minds of followers warped by Puritan Christianity.

Which leads me full circle to Salem and the notorious witch trials, which echo the governance of POTUS 45 and his circle of entitled friends like Kavanagh and O’Connell and of course his family who might very well fit this 1692 profile like a glove: “As a group, the judges represented the proverbial 1 percent – the merchant elite who were wealthy, intermarried, and exercised power in social, political, and military circles. In short, they were the superrich of Massachusetts. Simply calling them ‘merchants’ short-changes them…Most had considerable political experience, having served as deputies and assistants in the General Court.”

Quote from

“The infamous Salem witch trials began during the spring of 1692, after a group of young girls in Salem Village, Massachusetts, claimed to be possessed by the devil and accused several local women of witchcraft. As a wave of hysteria spread throughout colonial Massachusetts, a special court convened in Salem to hear the cases; the first convicted witch, Bridget Bishop, was hanged that June. Eighteen others followed Bishop to Salem’s Gallows Hill, while some 150 more men, women and children were accused over the next several months. By September 1692, the hysteria had begun to abate and public opinion turned against the trials. Though the Massachusetts General Court later annulled guilty verdicts against accused witches and granted indemnities to their families, bitterness lingered in the community, and the painful legacy of the Salem witch trials would endure for centuries.”

And here is a list of the men who facilitated the process of murdering nineteen innocent people.

Quote from

“The Salem Witch Trials judges were several men who served as judges during the Salem Witch Trials in 1692.

On May 27, 1692, Sir William Phips appointed nine of the colony’s magistrates to serve as judges on the newly created Court of Oyer and Terminer. The court was created specifically to handle the growing number of cases in the Salem Witch Trials.

According to a letter that Sir William Phips sent to the Earl of Nottingham in October of 1692, he chose these specific men for the job because they “were persons of the best prudence and figure that could then be pitched upon.”

These judges had a lot in common. They were wealthy merchants and high ranking militia officers. All nine had been judges for years and were all members of the Governor’s Council. Six of them were also related by marriage and five of them had attended Harvard, a training ground for young ministers, yet none of them became ministers.

According to Emerson W. Baker in his book, A Storm of Witchcraft, these nine judges were considered the elite of the Massachusetts Bay Colony:

“As a group, the judges represented the proverbial 1 percent – the merchant elite who were wealthy, intermarried, and exercised power in social, political, and military circles. In short, they were the superrich of Massachusetts. Simply calling them ‘merchants’ short-changes them…Most had considerable political experience, having served as deputies and assistants in the General Court.”

Baker points out that they were also all middle aged, with Sewall the youngest at 40, while Richards, 67, and Stoughton, 60, were the oldest and the rest were between forty-five and fifty-three.

The following is a list of names of the Salem Witch Trials judges

Judges at the Examinations:

Jonathan Corwin

John Hathorne

Bartholomew Gedney

Thomas Danforth

Court of Oyer and Terminer Judges

William Stoughton, Chief Magistrate

Jonathan Corwin

Bartholomew Gedney

John Hathorne

John Richards

Samuel Sewall

Nathaniel Saltonstall

Peter Sergeant

Waitstill Winthrop

Superior Court of Judicature Judges

William Stoughton, Chief Magistrate

Thomas Danforth

John Richards

Samuel Sewall

Waitstill Winthrop”

Quoted from

witch with moonA person would have to be blind or wilfully ignorant not to recognise the correlation of privilege and the miscarriage of justice occurring right now under the banner of “draining the swamp” in America. It’s easy to see the rise of the #MeToo movement in response to misogyny and historical injustice, more difficult to trace the current fomentation of reckless name-calling and accusation as trembling fingers point at every man who dares question Trump with the fire branding screech of “I saw him at Epstein’s”.

“Billionaire Jeffrey Epstein was arrested on July 6, 2019 on charges of sex trafficking, the media have been scrambling to make sense of what happened on Little St. James, his 70-acre private island in the Caribbean. But on nearby St. Thomas, locals say Epstein continued to bring underage girls to the island as recently as this year—a decade after he was forced to register as a convicted sex offender—and that authorities did nothing to stop him. Two employees who worked at the local airstrip on St. Thomas tell Vanity Fair that they witnessed Epstein boarding his private plane on multiple occasions in the company of girls who appeared to be under the age of consent. According to the employees, the girls arrived with Epstein aboard one of his two Gulfstream jets. Between January 2018 and June 2019, previously published flight records show, the jets were airborne at least one out of every three days. They stopped all over the world, sometimes for only a few hours at a time: Paris, London, Slovakia, Mexico, Morocco. When they left St. Thomas, the employees say, they returned to airports near Epstein’s homes in Palm Beach and New York City.”

Child abuse, sexual assault and terrorism are hot-button topics worldwide today. Any man can be brought down with an accusation of paedophilia or sexual abuse, many deservedly so, some malevolently so. But even as a woman who believed and supported Christine Blasey Ford and Pell’s accusers, I would caution temperance before levelling an historical accusation of  sexual abuse or child pornography at a man you don’t like. Or a woman for that matter. It can so easily become a malevolent cry of “witch” that ends at the gallows or in regret.

And as for terrorism, Julian Assange is the latest “witch” to face the figurative gallows in the American system of mob justice.

“Julian Paul Assange (/əˈsɑːnʒ/;[4]  Hawkins; born 3 July 1971) is an Australian editor, publisher, and activist who founded WikiLeaks in 2006. WikiLeaks came to international attention in 2010 when it published a series of leaks provided by U.S. Army intelligence analyst Chelsea Manning. These leaks included the Baghdad airstrike Collateral Murder video (April 2010),[5][6] the Afghanistan war logs (July 2010), the Iraq war logs (October 2010), and Cablegate (November 2010). After the 2010 leaks, the United States government launched a criminal investigation into WikiLeaks.”

It’s easy to whip a mob into frenzy with a whisper of terrorist or paedophile. It’s easy to hang the wrong people. The burning question is, ‘Who has the right to mete out punishment?’ The mob led by an insufferable Puritan with an axe to grind? Or God? I say no-one on earth has the right to take a life under any circumstances. Life and its demise is the provenance of minds far more elevated than any human I know. If you are concerning yourself with punishment then leave a person characterised by indifference, cruelty and lust alone long enough with a rope and they will hang themselves.

A man’s punishment is between him and his conscience.

A woman’s sins are a matter of speculative subjective assessment clarified by self-awareness.

Humans are not fit to judge humans.

All we are entitled to, as a matter of course and jurisprudentially serving the evolution of our own souls, is an opinion. And God knows aren’t we all over-brimming with them! Myself included.

America, the land that banners “freedom of speech” has a dreadful problem with people who don’t echo its prejudices. Terrorism and Satan are invisible forces malleable enough to be massaged into weapons of mass destruction in the turgid minds of angry mobs who lack the clarity to responsibly amplify their complaints.

Does America have cause for complaint? Yes. Is the system broken? Yes. Is a Salem-esque judge and jury going to fix it? No.

There have been voices raised in calm dissent offering viable solutions to America’s most urgent issues but they do not chime with the hysteria of the mob hungering for bodies swinging from gallows. Salem has lived with the shame of its witch-hunts for two centuries. Reason found no traction in minds inflamed with hatred. And there were people who tried to instil reason in 1692 but they were shouted down as being in league with the devil. American shame will cast a very long shadow if Trump followers have their way and it’s hardly fair to liberal-minded Americans.

Anyone who dares raise a voice against Trump is accused of being in league with the devil, sanctioning men like Epstein and being unpatriotic, that worst of all offences. Heads up, I’m Australian but it doesn’t stop me asking hard questions of those who share my home planet with me. I will ask you for clarity around  your prejudiced accusations no matter how uncomfortable you may feel.

Be angry by all means but be clear about your complaints and make sure you are seeking resolution rather than torture framed as righteous vengeance.

How convenient the devil has been for those who lust for temporal power. How marvellously useful he has been for scapegoating those who stand between desire and satisfaction.

I was told repeatedly yesterday by irate, wasp-maddened Trump followers to “look in the mirror” where I would doubtless see a deluded woman condoning the evil of faceless nameless others whose appetite for juvenile flesh and the extrapolation of state secrets was writ large on my brow. Disappointing as it may be for my accusers I saw a woman I have become inordinately proud of over the past few decades. A woman who speaks up despite the rips and fickle tides of public opinion. A woman who has persevered with her Art against the odds. A woman who will try to look at every side of a question before arriving at a conclusion beyond all doubt, and lastly, a woman who knows herself to be disarmed in the presence of bullies. I am proudest of that. I do not carry a weapon any more permanently lethal than my opinion which you are free to take or leave.

But do consider it.

Some people think I hate men and I hate the rich. This is untrue. I hate people whose wealth exceeds their capacity to spend in a lifetime. That they happen mostly to be men is coincidence. This is my opinion and my prejudice and I own it.

If I had a mountain of food and everyone around me was starving and I preferred to let that food rot rather than share it what would you think of me? Well that’s what I think of the people on this list of shame.

Modern shame list:

Rank Name Net Worth Age Country

Jeff Bezos

$112 Billion 56 United states

Bill Gates

$109 Billion 64 United states

Bernard Arnault

$98.1 Billion 70 France

Warren Buffett

$85.1 Billion 89 United states

The Mars Family

$80 Billion N/A United states

Mark Zuckerberg

$74.2 Billion 35 United states

Vladimir Putin

$70 Billion 67 Russia

Amancio Ortega

$68.9 Billion 83 Spain

Larry Page

$61.7 Billion 46 United states

Larry Ellison

$61.1 Billion 75 United states

Charles Koch

$60.7 Billion 84 United states

Sergey Brin

$59.9 Billion 46 United states

I make no apology for publicly shaming these hoarders of gold. They are the personification of greedy selfishness in my opinion. Yes America and humanity you DO have cause for complaint but these are the people who should be brought to justice. And by justice I do not mean, hung, drawn and quartered for the putrid amusement of the mob. I do NOT condone Kristallnacht or the Guillotine nor do I suggest leaving them destitute. They may keep their mansions and their private jets. But they are not entitled to the mountain of gold they can never spend in a dozen lifetimes.

So what do I suggest for them?

I suggest TAX and a redistribution of their wealth to progenate a sustainable and fulfilling quality of life for all the tenants of earth. The responsible and compassionate dissemination of the excess wealth of the people on this list and many I left off would build housing and food gardens and theatres and schools and provide medical care and opportunities for multitudes. And isn’t that fair? Isn’t that equitable?

And is that what Trump is proposing? No.

Apologies to my few wonderful and loyal readers – this is the angriest post I have ever written. There are points I have wanted to make for some time and feelings I wished to express but I would never leave you without the hope of light.

So, here is the crack that lets the light in: even if these hoarders never find their way back to their souls don’t let it stop us all from building a sustainable, earth-honouring way of life. We can join together and buy houses and land upon which we can build communities where we look after each other. We can plant vegetable gardens and share the produce. We can be kind to the homeless and spread love wherever we go. We can listen to each other’s dreams and be the wind beneath each other’s wings. Those who hoard and seek power through greed may never wake up but we who are already looking up at the stars do not need to wake them or bother with them.

We can do this alone.



FRED 6 There is a contagion on this earth called loneliness, a fatal disease that reduces every part of existence. But loneliness is an illusion, a device to induce and support the intense focus required for self-development. But it is neither natural nor beneficial to a healthy soul or mind when it is sustained beyond the time it’s needed. The loneliness necessary for learning becomes habitual in some, infantilising the adult who should know better.

I have touched on this before but in this time of isolation it’s time to elaborate.

There are two distinct forces that orchestrate our lives at this level of our development – LIFE and DIVINITY. These two forces create the boundaries needed for spiritual development in containment. Angels have told me they experience no boundaries whatsoever and that includes a 360 degree view, but not on a flat plane, in every direction. It’s a remarkable amount of visual information to process at once and it needs an open energised mind to accept and organise so much fresh observation without prejudice or referencing past vistas. Add to that sensory inundation an awareness of sound and scent and you will have an idea of their world.

It is constant thrilling bombardment of new life which qualifies their BEING.

360 degree view


This is the force of growth that has no agenda other than expansion, rampant vigorous expansion until maximum saturation of the physical vehicle has been achieved. The LIFE-force is vital to sentient experience. But it is the force most often confused with evil aka Satan or Lucifer or whatever you want to call it. LIFE is indiscriminate and will overwhelm and absorb other weaker expressions of life in the service of LIFE. In short life will kill to survive and has no conscience about it.

Sentience is an altogether different force. It has consciousness and seeks expression. This force serves DIVINITY.


This is the whole, the interconnected, interdependent, interactive collective that works in total harmony to enrich the overall experience of BEING.

We came from DIVINITY. How much we contribute is relative to our awareness. To raise our awareness we consciously elect to separate from DIVINITY and enter a single focus life with a narrow laser view. We become I AM and it is a consciously lonely experience, undertaken to bring a new view and a fresh way of BEING to DIVINITY whom we serve and who in turn, serves us.

Right now I am waiting to greet a friend who has travelled with me for centuries. My friend is being born soon and is already winding down memories of collective consciousness in order to enter the world of flesh as a dependent and helpless baby. My friend will only just remember me and the parents he has chosen. Up until recently I had been talking to my friend in spirit but now he has entered an amnesia and is forgetting who he was, the perimeters of his view shrinking to the tunnel-visioned mono-directional focus he will soon be limited to in order to facilitate growth. LIFE will pour through his fragile little body and it will be all he will think about for many uncomfortable months as he learns to manoeuvre his containment in tiny steps and multiple falls. To communicate with people who cannot read his thoughts he will learn strange new words that don’t quite express the enormity of his feelings and almost-remembered knowledge of a view that was fearless and complete. He will experience loneliness and it will tear at the fabric of his ancient soul and turn his sights inward which is where DIVINITY wants them. He will learn to trust himself and develop talents for creation that will help him express himself better. He will learn to describe the universe in ways that enrich the denizens of the energetic world whose hunger for newness is an addiction. So rich are they in experience they crave newness. He will grow and become a man and he will revel in his physicality and talents and intellect and then some man or woman will tell him he’s God and he will believe it until he relearns the truth – that God or DIVINITY is everything and everyone and whilst he can express God he is not the sole expression of God. He is a droplet of water in an ocean made up of droplets of water and all of them are God. Collectively they express the greater view. Individually they are all equal. But until or unless they learn to dissolve their boundaries no droplet of water will ever see the distant shores or the curious depths or feel the Arctic freeze or the tropical reefs. Once the boundaries are released the interconnectedness enriches the WHOLE with unique experiences and views that inform each droplet of the ocean if they can accept another view. When we truly express DIVINITY, the collective interdependence adjuncts each view into a jigsaw of the whole.

DIVINITY asks us to show them LIFE through our eyes. Give them the laser focused view and sate their curiosity and hunger for newness of BEING. Everyone and everything is needed and everyone and everything benefits.


And so we are born and so we grow in loneliness, our sights tuned to a narrow field, our cravings turned inward for comfort and a measure of comprehension.

Who knows us best? We do.

This separation serves our souls until it no longer does.

Featured Image -- 356When we were in the Kingdom of Nature we were herd creatures, tuned to the collective, instinctive, intuitive and commonly-bound to survival. When we outgrew that experience we looked to DIVINITY for meaning and further expression and in their mercy they found a way to facilitate our growth into greater awareness. But it was by way of the wilderness, separation, individuation. Loneliness. This process continues to this day. We are seemingly born alone, suffer alone and die alone, having lived with interludes of joy and connection.

So, at what point do we attempt reconnection whilst in physical form and under what stimulus?

hand reaching down to save

Anyone who has evolved beyond self-serving and self-aggrandising will have developed empathy. This is the first step to reconnection here on earth and I believe that this pandemic is serving the wider community by offering us the opportunity to empathise with those who are struggling financially and emotionally. Whilst governments largely fail us we now feel the pain of others around us who are battling alone. Without being asked, we can reach out and help, without passing the burden over to the body politic. We are being given the opportunity to behave like angels whose interdependence guarantees both survival and support. If the angels did not help each other creation would stagnate and crumble. Creation, physical and energetic, requires belief to contain LIFE. Physical and energetic form are imagined and supported by collective belief. The angels know that everything depends on harmonic agreement and cooperation. Humanity has yet to learn this and perhaps we have reached a level where this most important lesson must be learned. All growth is painful as old containment and beliefs are shed to make way for the new and frighteningly unfamiliar.

But it is time for this momentous change. Many of us are ready. For some it is long overdue and whilst we are all sad it took a pandemic to wake us up at least LIFE working in harmony with NATURE has found a way to stop humanity destroying the planet and each other and for those who accept the ARK and trust NATURE a new world will emerge.

FRED 3 I am watching certain souls make quantum leaps in awareness through this crisis and for many of them they will never go back to who they were pre-pandemic. The new empathy and awareness is too enriching and too rewarding to let go of. Why? Because when we behave like angels we draw angels to us. They gather to support a new way of BEING just as they do in their own world, which is of course our world but largely invisible to us. But when we behave like angels, i.e. support each other, we feel good and whilst we may not be consciously aware of company, we do not feel quite so alone.

In fact, when we help and support others the feeling of loneliness goes away. Test it.

I see people on Twitter and Facebook saying they want the world to go back to normal. In short they lack the decency to question the morality of billionaires in a world where the vast majority of people are struggling to feed themselves and find shelter. Jesus said, “The poor will always be with us.” And he’s right, the poor in spirit,  the empathically-challenged, the morally bankrupt, the spiritually-impoverished. They will always be with us, bullying us into compromise and denying both LIFE and DIVINITY.

But for those of us who long for an end to loneliness our time has come to reach out and connect.


I know it’s difficult and at times demeaning but where possible show mercy. Obviously, bashing your head against an immovable wall is pointless, but be the first to express empathy even in the face of stubborn intractability because the slow learners among us can only learn by example. But do walk away before you exhaust yourself if people refuse to accept your love and support. There are others who will and they are worth sharing the Ark with as we seek new landfall with a fresh platform for BEING.


This is what we are all growing towards. The angels describe it as: We are. We be. Meaning they have total individualised autonomy within the over-arching whole. They function individually and consensually as ONE.

But remember, it doesn’t STOP there. It doesn’t STOP ever.

You lead the way.

I lead the way.

We ALL lead the way.

Vincent 7

Glass Jars, Moonlight, and Intention

The shining ones are revealing themselves daily. So excited to hear similar voices, read similar thoughts and know the sky is FULL of similar empathic stars.

Singing Over My Bones

It was the night of a final full moon-the decade had been so long,

She’d had enough, done calling all bluffs, time to sing her old new song

So she stepped outside

And lit fire

To all the pages

All the phases

All the stages

All the faces

That didn’t serve her, and didn’t deserve her

Dropping them into to a jar made of glass

She watched as the waterturned from clarity to ash


Something within her broke.

Held up her arms in the darkness and the smoke—

Yelled, “Moon-do your Work!

Can’t take another minute of sitting with this hurt.”

Closed her eyes, closed the door, closed the blinds

Turned on reality, turned off the lies

Sometimes the words come, without having to try

Then there she was, 15 year old me

Little blonde head, fairy wings, and big dreams

She said, “Stacy, you’re still me, and now…

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Love Letter to my Grandmother

Cover FoG by Dean Michaels largerMy second book, Fields of Grace is a love letter to my grandmother, Dagmar Scammell nee Thompson based on her relationship with me and her teacher, the Master violinist, Eugene Ysayë.

In writing the story of this part of her life I decided to change her profession to acting rather than music to incorporate my love of, and knowledge of, theatre. But like my debut novel, Catch the Moon, Mary, music flows through the narrative.  I also gave her the advantage of being born in England rather than Australia, which was then and remains, a cultural desert. I also forward-dated her rise to success ten years after it actually happened to factor in the impact the burgeoning WW2 had on my protagonist’s career.  Unlike Grace Fielders, the protagonist in Fields of Grace, my grandmother’s marriage to my grandfather was a happy one and the child who blessed that union, my step-father, was a much-loved, rather spoilt only child.

Be that as it may, Fields of Grace still captures the elements of my grandmother’s life as told to me by her when I lived with her after my grandfather passed away. We shared a love of music and theatre and I listened fascinated to her stories of London in the 20s and 30s when she was feted as a musician of exceptional talent and beauty, “tall and divinely fair” was the florid description of her by the journalists sequestered to the Sydney Morning Herald. I can certainly attest to her arrestingly beautiful turquoise eyes and generosity of spirit. I adored her and she adored me so please forgive a little bias.

lala 20 (2)

Dagmar Thompson before she left Australia in 1924.

My grandmother whom I called Lala, hat-tip to her Norwegian ancestry, was raised in Sydney’s Clifton Gardens by her widowed mother who struggled to feed and educate her three gifted children, Fred, Dorothy and Dagmar. Ultimately it fell to young Fred, a talented solicitor, to support the household, his wage supplemented by his mother and sister Dorothy’s income teaching piano at home. Rather than competing for use of the single piano in the house my grandmother, Lala, decided to learn the violin. Within a few years it became apparent that her gift was exceptional but in a country that favoured men in all areas of life it was clear she had no musical future in Australia.

In 1921 the Master violinist Eugene Ysayë decided to mentor three violinists of exceptional ability. To find the candidates he auditioned accomplished young violinists worldwide. He had already discovered an American girl in New York and offered her a position and closer to home, a French girl. Australia was the last stop on his worldwide search and had fate played out any other way my grandmother would have ended up teaching from home like her mother and sister. But Ysayë had not found a third student and so he came to the bottom of the earth in search of one.

Lined up in the corridor at the Sydney Conservatorium were hundreds of young violinists including Dagmar Thompson. A beautiful, nervous young woman whose violin had been purchased on credit by her mother, sister and brother several years earlier she had practised hard, and seemingly all her life, for this one opportunity to break free of Australia and compete on the world stages. She was determined to give it her best shot. For her audition she chose Mozart’s Allegro Moderato and Bach’s Partita in E Major.

I can only imagine what Ysayë must have thought when this statuesque, she was 5’9″, elegant young woman entered the room. He must have prayed her talent matched her looks. It did. My father told me he had never heard anyone reproduce the tone my grandmother achieved and I daresay it was this exquisite musical sensitivity captured so eloquently that persuaded the Master to send all the other candidates home and offer my grandmother the final place.


The move to Belgium was achieved by the family passing the hat around and that charity extended to the affluent family next door, the Scammells, who owned and ran a successful pharmaceutical company called Fauldings. The youngest Scammell, Rupert, was a boy of fifteen who made no pretence about being wildly infatuated with the twenty-three year old violinist who lived next door, an infatuation that lasted his entire life. Never did my grandfather even look at another woman. I must add here that my grandparents grew up in mansions next door to each other in Bradley’s Head Rd Clifton Gardens but whilst the Scammells were wealthy, the Thompsons had inherited the house and struggled financially. I imagine life inside the Scammell mansion was ordered and charming whilst life inside the Thompson mansion was chaotic, lacking any semblance of routine and saturated with conflicting melodies. It was to my grandparents’  credit that they were able to harmonise these contrasting lifestyles.

In Belgium my grandmother’s story gets interesting. Freed of the constraints of home and aware that she is a prodigious talent who owes it to her struggling family to become a success she applies herself diligently to her studies whilst simultaneously frequenting the many cabarets on offer, led on by her wild and wealthy French co-student with whom she shared a flat. My grandmother told me they were both on an allowance from home which covered their rent and sundry items like stockings, hats and food, the latter often forfeited in favour of the former. Many days my grandmother subsisted on a cheese sandwich while her reckless French friend got by on gin.

Two years of intense daily studying later, Ysayë discharged his students with certificates and introductions to patrons in London, a mixed blessing for my grandmother who was loathe to leave the comfort and allure of seeing her handsome teacher daily and having to finally honour her family’s faith in her.

My grandmother had fallen in love with Ysayë or at least become infatuated and is it any wonder? He was a charismatic romantic genius, albeit married, but at that age when men start to worry about death and can have their heads turned by the adulation of a beautiful young student.

lala 27lala 1 (2)

Ysayë, the charming and handsome and very married teacher.

Did they have an affair? I don’t know for sure but I do know they stayed in touch and wrote to each other for the rest of his life.


My grandmother moved to London and was quickly absorbed into the highest artistic echelon courtesy of letters of introduction from Ysayë. She played in salons and met artists of every stripe and before the year was out she was well on track to becoming a major star in the field of classical music.

lala's certificate from ysyaie

Letter of recommendation from Ysayë

The boy back home kept up-to-date on her triumphs,  his youthful love maturing into passionate adult consideration for the woman he hoped would one day marry him against all odds. Meanwhile he was becoming accomplished in his own right, a clever bio chemist he created a product for Fauldings that became its signature, Fauldings Lanoline and he pursued his passion for photography, recording the changes in Sydney’s skyline with his trusty Brownie Box camera. He sent these updates to his glamorous neighbour in London who no doubt saw the boy as little more than a back-up plan.

My grandfather’s pictures of Sydney.

By 1933 it became clear that Hitler was a madman hellbent on world domination. Lala’s mother told her daughter she must come home but promised she could return when things settled down in Europe. Reluctantly my grandmother boarded a ship and sailed home. I can only imagine her pain as she saw her dreams receding in concert with those white cliffs, and more ominously, the coast of France beyond which her beloved Ysayë remained domiciled in his fairy-tale existence in Belgium, surrounded by beauty and music and a doting family and undoubtedly three more privileged young artists. I know the pain of leaving England and Paris myself whenever I’ve had to board a plane and grind my way back to the bottom of the earth so far from the lustre of genius that permeates the London and Parisian air.

lala 25 Program from concert at Aeolian Hall London 1924

I can only imagine her pain when the war set in like a long dark winter and so much of her beloved Europe and London was shattered under cover of dark when those arrhythmic discordant bombers ground overhead and dropped their lethal cargo of whining incendiaries. The atonal squeals followed by the nightmarish thuds, the screams of those trapped under rubble slowly chilling to silence.

My grandmother followed the passage of the war with every headline and newscast dreading the loss of her friends and most of all, Ysayë.

Back in Sydney my grandfather reintroduced himself and my grandmother must have been thrilled to see the spindly boy had matured into a handsome charming and highly accomplished young man who had already built her a home in anticipation of her accepting his offer of marriage. The home he built for her was around the corner from their childhood mansions in Clifton Gardens and modelled along European lines, his best effort to recreate the Europe she would almost certainly miss. As the war dragged on it became clear to Lala that she would never be able to pick up where she left off and so she accepted the offer of marriage and made the best of it.

Unlike the character in Fields of Grace who drags Grace to Australia and away from her fame, her family, her friends and memories of her beloved, my grandfather was a sensitive thoughtful man who empathised with my grandmother’s loss. He knew she was incomplete without her music and all Australia offered this genius musician was second fiddle in the Sydney Symphony Orchestra. The insult inflamed my grandfather as much as it infuriated my grandmother and after a couple of half-hearted attempts to establish her career as a soloist in Australia she gave up entirely and threw herself into charity work.

Fast-forward five decades. My grandfather passes away and a teenage actress on fire to conquer the world moves in with her grandmother to keep her company in her loneliness and the years of grief that followed the loss of that good and great man, Rupert Scammell.

Me when I lived with my grandmother.

My grandmother decided I had a great unambiguous talent for music and we spent hours planning my future which included a stint at the Conservatorium learning to sing. Despite my having a fairly unremarkable voice Lala insisted I had the music in me just as she did. Her unshakable faith in my musical ability was the rock upon which I built my faith. But it didn’t materialise until the 90s when I wrote my first musical, Scheherazade.

Then one day she decided to share her treasured past with me. Just as I wrote in Fields of Grace, she opened her trunk and together we poured through the memorabilia of an almost world-beating life on the stages of London. Her best friend, Janine, the French student married a French Count and retired to the south of France. They have stayed in touch and my grandmother decided to speak to my parents about sending my younger brother Marcus to France to live with their son and his wife for a year in exchange for their grandson Eduard who would live with my parents in Sydney for a year. The idea was willingly embraced so there was much shuffling of grandchildren and homes at that time, orchestrated by my grandmother.

lala's friend's chateaux

Janine de Balthazar’s home in Olivet, Chateau Bellevue

My grandmother was the outstanding student, an artiste as Ysayë had said and that evening over wine and with programs spread out all over the dining room table my grandmother and I shed a few tears over what might have been. What should have been had Hitler not ruined the world and so many lives.

After reinterring the programs and photos and promise of an incomplete life my grandmother looked at me and said, “He’ll come back for me you know. We never finished our dance.” I assumed she was talking about my grandfather and I squeezed her hand and said, “Of course he will.’

After her death I had cause to wonder if it was my grandfather she was talking about.

She left me her trunk and it was full of photos, letters and memorabilia of Ysayë and her performances. There was only one picture of my grandfather.


My grandfather’s passport photo 1940.

Years later I sit at my desk and can finally find the courage and expertise to turn my beloved grandmother’s tragedy into a story of charm and redemption. I did it for her and for me and all the genius lost in that insidious episode fomented by a mediocre little man who made nothing worthwhile of his life and sought in his frustration that single province available to the undeveloped – CONTROL.

The tug of entropy.


Today I have had an infestation of people warning me that I will never succeed as a writer, lyricist or musical theatre book writer. With soft-edged sympathetic emails I have been told on no less than three platforms – Stage32, private email and FB – that succeeding in the Arts is virtually impossible for someone like me. To support their claims they have cited their own struggles. They have all dismissed my talent as garden-variety, average and lacking wow-factor.

Having grown up in a cultural desert, Australia, whose industry is run by a closed circle of government-funded mediocrities whose work would never make it OS, I have been poisoned since birth with the idea that I am not “good enough”. It’s been a tough, soul-destroying battle to preserve both my sanity and my belief in my own worth over the decades. I have worked largely alone and occasionally with talented others whose ethic reflected mine. But Australia never supported me.

I am not alone. There are others like me who have heavily invested in their Art with relentless graft and attention to detail for no other reason than the desire to do something well. I am writing this Blog for them as well as me.  These are the artists who have endeavoured to put soul-on-page or canvas or stave or stage and they have suffered the isolation this discipline demands. To get in touch with your own soul and transmogrify your craft into Art you will spend much time in the desert. Longer than 40 days. Much longer. Sometimes a lifetime.

It is beyond ignorant for people who have managed to get their work “out there” to assume that those of us who haven’t are missing some vital element, like excellence.

People only recognise genius when it is explained to them OR they have the “sight”. But taking the elements of recognised genius a pattern emerges: the artist works in isolation, the artist suffers ridicule from many and support from a few, the artist retreats to a place where he/she feels safe enough to pursue their Art without the burden of comparisons.

So here I am today, the recipient of no less than three emails dripping with sympathy, calling me that most noxious of words, “brave” and telling me that it’s almost impossible to get a musical staged or a book made into a film, that “everyone” has this struggle and my work is so lacking in individuality that I must accept that it sits in a congealing homogenous pile of similar works indistinguishable from one another. My books are the ten thousandth and the ten thousandth and one birds on a wire. My musicals are lacklustre and boring. My lyrics pedestrian and my melodies forgettable. And this I have been told with great authority from people who think they know.

I wish I could tell you this is a one-off bad day for me but this is my life. For decades I have heard this about my work, first it was my singing and acting, now it’s my writing and music.

I am simply not very good at anything I do apparently.

Well, neither was Van Gogh and he persevered.

What I know that these “experts” don’t is that I have worked hard to give the world my best work. I do not trot out formulaic books and formulaic musicals, nor do I have formulaic opinions about life. I analyse everything and think long and hard about every aspect of life before I put pen to paper. I make sure that I put soul-on-page and then I spend years polishing my words until I am happy that they sparkle with a life of their own and deliver meaning in translucent phrases that chime with readers’ souls. But none of this registers with the bargain-basement practitioners of Art who are looking to make a buck. These plebs, some of them incredibly blessed with talent, have no concept of excellence and no faith in its longevity and wall-crumbling power.

When Catch the Moon, Mary was first published I had a meeting in London with my publisher, a marketer and a writer friend. The marketer said, “We’ve got twelve days to sell this book to the public. After that they will get bored and be looking for the next distraction.” My writer friend said, “Have you read this book?” The marketer laughed and said, “I don’t need to. My job is to sell it.” My writer friend then said, “Then you are unaware that this book will endure beyond twelve days. It’s a classic in the making. Your generation may not get it but the next one will and like Wuthering Heights everyone will be reading it.” The marketer took the book home, read it and rang me the next day, apologising and saying it was one the best books she’d ever read.

Her words chime with me today, four years later, as I struggle to maintain faith against a barrage of negativity framed as well-meant advice that I would need either a miracle or a very lucky break to succeed. What they all agree on is that my work needs an expert to rewrite it, someone who knows what the public wants. Interestingly enough I have just read a swathe of reviews on Amazon for books that were published by Harper-Collins, and without naming titles you’d be familiar with, the reviews were mainly one, two and three stars and all saying the books were boring and predictable, the endings obvious from Chapter One. So, the experts were able to clone several lacklustre imitations of classics and dumb them down to quick forgettable reads.

In contrast, I have been reading a self-published book called Nightjar by Paul Jameson, whose work is so intoxicatingly original it makes for a mentally and spiritually and totally satisfying read. I’m glad the “experts” didn’t get to it!!nightjar cover

I have spoken to Paul and he said he spent ten years refining this brilliant novel. No, Harper-Collins didn’t pick it up but they wouldn’t recognise genius if they tripped over it. Paul has put his work out there and it will endure.

And as for today’s detractors they will mouse wheel their lives away and even though I may well “go to my grave unsung” to twist the words of Henry David Thoreau, I bloody well won’t “go to my grave with my song unsung“.

FOG + CTMM with amazon

I want to thank the people who do support me in my efforts to be the best writer, lyricist and musical theatre book writer I can be. To name but a few, my mother Carmol Scammell, my aunts Joan and Rosalie, my sister-in-law Sabina, my daughter Genevra, my friends, BK, Peter Donnelly, Leonardo Macchioni, Jean-Paul Yovanoff, Dean Michael Rochford, Des Cannon, Frank Loman, Lauren Lovejoy, Aidan O’Callaghan, Louise Burke, Suzy Davenport, Amanda Redman, Paul Claridge, Carpet Martin, and lastly brilliant composer, Shanon Whitelock with whom I am writing The Last Tale. Thank you!

arabian sky (2)

Letting Go is the Best Way Forward

Featured Image -- 539When I was a child I went to Sunday School and learned that a man born two thousand years ago in a tiny Middle Eastern town called Bethlehem was the son of God. In fact, said our Sunday School teacher, a pretty little brunette who wore gingham and an Alice band, Jesus was God Himself.

arabian sky (2)The shocking story of his betrayal and crucifixion emerged piecemeal, various chapters of Jesus’ life revealed as the teachers felt we were old enough to cope with the fact that humanity had butchered God. The crucifixion was horrifying in its cruelty and God’s lingering death made me quietly furious with humanity whose ingratitude seemed inexcusable. The teachers explained that Jesus’ death was part of God’s plan to save humanity. His death was so that we might live eternally in Heaven. But, I reasoned, how could Jesus be both God and His son at once and what kind of parent allows the torture their child? This seemed like bullshit to me. But with no other information I suppressed my doubts and believed what everybody else was swallowing hook, line and sinker. For years I clung to the story that had set like concrete in the minds of my friends and rather than risk ostracism I forced myself to overlook the lapses of credibility and clung to the hope that Jesus’ resurrection did indeed guarantee forgiveness and ultimate union with this innocent victim of human abuse.

In tandem with this story I was listening to other stories.

My father, a Lieutenant-Colonel in the Australian Army explained carefully why it was necessary to drop two atomic bombs on Japan and murder millions of people. He said that murdering millions of the “enemy” whose lives apparently were worth less than ours, would ultimately save millions of Australian and American lives. Like the story of Jesus being a pawn in God’s plan to save humanity this story of butchery simply didn’t find traction in my understanding.

But with no other source of information I held onto these twin beliefs. For a while.

graves When I reached my teens I was hearing other stories. I was apparently a citizen of a privileged “lucky” country. I was Australian and that meant I was blessed and defined by a heritage of butchery of the original owners of the land who also defined themselves by a sense of unity with the dirt beneath their feet – dirt corralled by ocean on all sides. It all felt like bullshit to me.

I looked at the stars and felt a far deeper connection with those distant pulses of light that weren’t spinning stories of death and force and autonomy over designated terrain that blessed occupants with superiority over others.

D5SuUA7WAAAPdDi   By the time I reached my twenties I let go of all the stories and fell into a desolate place of isolation devoid of gravity and companionship. From this lonely place I was able to observe the dynamic of herd thinking and inculcated beliefs that forged unity among consensual groups. I realised that all of these silly stories were spun in response to gravity. Gravity glues us to this planet but gravity is the weakest force in the Universe. And yet psychologically it is the force that takes precedence over all others including momentum, the force of original projection and arguably the force that indicates our soul path.

I understand the impulses that keep people united in delusion. It’s fear of loneliness, a need to belong, a sense of gravity holding us firmly on the earth.

But to initiate a return to momentum one has to let go.

Let go.

hand reaching down to save

Let go.

Let go of all those beliefs in order to explore your own truth. Let go of nations, borders, racial separation and religious waffle.

By the age of twenty I had to let go or implode under the weight of falsehood. I stopped going to church and I told my father he and his kind were murderers. It broke us apart for a short time but love brought us back together because it is the strongest force in the Universe. Love and a willingness on his part to let go of his indoctrinated ideas about war. In the end he came to regret his part in a system of pugilistic aggression that murdered far more than it saved. He saw the world through a lens that was truer to his soul than the lens of nationalistic bias.

For my own part I let go of Christianity and all who sailed with her including Jesus. I became an atheist for years but eventually this seemed like another cop-out so I started exploring other religions. Not one of them had the answers I was looking for. I got involved in witchcraft, seances and Ouija Boards in my quest to see if there was anything sentient and willing to talk to me about the Afterlife.

witch I got tired of witches very quickly as they struck me as a bunch of lovesick femmes looking for spells to control reluctant lovers. But through the Ouija Board I met dead people and all manner of Otherworldly entities who had relevant and fascinating lives in energetic form. They were eager to chat and answer my questions. Through them I discovered a far more complex mesh of sentience in concert with LIFE as the primary force. Years of conversations on the Ouija Board opened my mind and ignited my own understanding of God and Life and ultimately Jesus who initiated a fresh, modern and individual relationship with me based on, but not limited to, my soul evolution. I was encouraged to ask questions but cautioned not to get ahead of myself in my understanding. Time and again over the subsequent years Jesus cautioned me to focus on my life purpose and give my talent the time and energy it deserved and let go of trying to understand the Afterlife – a place he assured me I would reach in due course!

So, here at last was the kind of religious instruction I longed for – intelligent, open-minded and relevant to my life. And because I was open-minded I was able to access spiritual advisers through the pagan, evil and dangerous Ouija Board which coincidentally connected me with Jesus, the so-called progenitor of the Christian Church. Although, as he explained, he never intended to become an icon. He had a human life and did his best to make a difference. The religion that sprung up in his name was neither his idea nor his intention. The fact that he intuited that Peter would build a Church did not sanction the project, it merely anticipated Peter’s use of his own free will and like all things in LIFE good and bad emerged in equal measure.

Wisdom is the ability to renovate old ideas when they grown stale.


I have gained so much by deviating from the path others have rutted over centuries of mindless obeisance.

There are many others who have struck off alone and found the traction of wings in defiance of gravity. I despair when I hear of crimes committed in the name of God because it chimes with the crucifixion and the callous integration of human butchery into a tapestry of transmogrification. Murdering Jesus was not God’s plan. It is as heinous an act of human butchery as the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the Holocaust, cutting down rainforests, poisoning the atmosphere with toxic fumes and filling the ocean with plastic waste.

We cannot keep reconfiguring Divine intention to chime with our immorality.

God kills so we do.


We kill so we create the comfortable delusion that God does, too.

Religion has anthropomorphised God, remade this numinous entity into a man with the narrow corseted mindset of a jealous, insecure psychopath. God is a loving, playful, curious, evolving empath ever willing to embrace the new and evolutionary. God is not spongy love.

God is LIFE in all its force and vigour and commitment to survival.

super novaAccepting an open-ended reality means letting go of constricted box-set beliefs and ideas.

Which brings me to today and some people’s determination to cling to the past paradigm embodied in the narcissistic rule of Donald Trump, a man who defends fiscal imbalance and services billionaires. He is so blatantly erroneous and to many of us it’s obvious but some still defend him out of pride and the stubborn refusal to let go.

So, the big lesson here is letting go and feeling confident enough to admit you were wrong. It’s hard admitting fault but it’s the most liberating thing you can do at a timely juncture in your life.

When I admitted to myself that I no longer believed in God or my country’s politics or humanity’s whitewashing of mass murder in war I felt empty, frightened, unsupported, in defiance of gravity and totally alone. It was an exaggerated feeling of vertigo. I did not trust myself to find traction or wings. I did not trust myself to think for myself. I did not believe I had the brains, the spirituality or the personal power to go against my religion, my father, my nation or my God.

But I defied them all and found myself.

I am very comfortable today knowing that I don’t know what to expect when I die. I trust myself and I trust the denizens of Otherworld – the angels, sprites and spirits who watch over us and co-create our lives with us whether we know it or not.

It’s OK to let go. It’s OK to admit you were wrong. It’s OK to defy the tribe.

The sky won’t fall.

The last word goes to Tom, an Irish writer I met on the Ouija Board. “Not one of your religions knows the truth. You think heaven is a shining place where only believers go. You think hell is the other place. I tell you, lass, it’s all made up. There’s no heaven, no hell, no punishment. It’s better than that – better than anything you can imagine.”

Thank God for that!!


Post-Coronavirus World

pix1000-beautiful-night-1Imagine a world in which all your basic needs are met.

Imagine a world in which you can choose to work. Or NOT.

Your survival no longer depends on you finding a job, ANY job, and spending the greater part of your precious life doing something uninspiring, exhausting, soul-destroying or just plain boring.

Your needs are met.

So, how do you occupy your time?

You are free to do nothing if you wish. Or something you love.

Imagine that. Should everyone be free to live their best life? Or is it only the privilege of the rich, the transient or the misfit?

fairyArtists mostly live and work for love because we work willingly, without a time-clock, without bosses and without paychecks to carrot us into another week of slave labour making someone else rich. There is a song in Chorus Line called What I Did For Love and it explains the mindset of dancers who will only ever make the chorus and basic wages. They will retire at thirty and make way for a new crop of dancers who will also “do what they do for love”. It’s a Solomon choice to make when you’re a teenager and your best working years are the decade between 20 and 30 when those who start to climb the corporate ladder will be just reaching the third rung by the age you retire and start waiting tables or washing dishes.  Your contemporaries who cut the baby in half are looking at six figure paychecks and lifetimes of enslavement to bosses they may never meet. But they’re comfortable if vaguely dissatisfied.

The Buddha said, “Do not sell your days for gold.” Who listens? Few.

When you live in a world that ONLY values gold and denigrates those who work “for love” you struggle against a tsunami force of ridicule and a disproportionate burden of midlife debt even though you may have worked all your life, harder than most and with longer hours than a 9-5er could endure.

The question for those who believe in the current system is this: Is everyone entitled to joy?

That’s the real question that the rich, the major beneficiaries of the current system, must ask themselves. Can they temper their consciences with the ideal of business at any cost? Can they continue to spout the meme that jobs = dignity? I call bullshit on both. I call immorality on a person who employs others for basic wages while they hoard gold. I call bullshit on the serfdom that stigmatizes the unemployed and I call criminal on the judgement heaped on people who fall through the cracks for whatever reason.

Consider this: while you judge the homeless and poor as wastrels, drug-addicts and lazy you are ameliorating your conscience and fostering an inequity that gives you status.

Some people crave wealth in lieu of self-respect.

We ALL die.

Now I ask you to please suspend your atheism or religiosity for the the next few paragraphs. I do not want us to get stuck at the gate of proof. Whether or not there is an afterlife has no bearing on what I’m about to say. So please…leave your God, your rocks and your emptiness at the door and follow me into the temple of creation.

We ALL die.

sistine-chapel-ceiling-creation-of-adam-1510.jpg!LargeSo, whatever follows this life is the greater part of our existence. Whether it’s worms or nothingness or something so extraordinary it has transferable gifts. The life after this one lasts longer and is therefore our bedrock reality. It is what we come from and return to.

Assuming there is something. What is its currency? Money? No. Work? No. Where would we look to find the currency of eternity? What pre-existed us and what will continue after our demise? To what paradigm do we return if any?

We have only to look around us for evidence. The stars, the forests, the ocean, nature. These are the physical manifestations of eternity and what do we see there? Balance and harmony. Expansion? Perhaps but checked by an invisible force of dark matter that will one day inhale and return the physical world to play-dough. Or not. Either way, the physical universe hasn’t burnt out, exploded or self-consumed. Somehow the universe has found equity in life and a balance that stops it from imploding.

Unlike humanity which is expanding without tempering in EVERY area of life.

I have explained to religious people before that there are two forces powering life and they work in tandem. There is the force of growth which perpetuates life and is ignited by the force of imagination. Imagination is the unborn, unknown, unseen force that powers the next world.

All that is new lies unimagined within.


Within us is the unignited power of imagination which can and will switch LIFE on and facilitate new pathways of BEING. In the next world, the longer view is taken, everything new is nurtured in harmonious contracts between sentient beings who give their time willingly to bring new creations into being. The currency is CREATION and it is not at the expense of the slave class we have created on earth where one person enjoys the feast while worker-bees live off crumbs. All work together to enrich the whole. Look at a forest and see how life begets life and all work together to grow. There is a generalized reach for the sun supported by a network of telegraph roots that feed the forest community. You do see some scavenging in the form of vines that suffocate their host but this is unusual. Mostly there is symbiotic agreement and life is served by the health of all. I have been reading The Hidden Life of Trees by Peter Wollheben who has made it his life’s work to observe forests and share his extraordinary insights and understanding with humanity. Trees feed each other through their intricate network of roots that sustain even a stump for as long as possible.


This supporting of the forest rather than the individual tree is a worthwhile model to propagate a New World post Coronavirus.

But back to the Afterlife. Every new creation offers pathways of being for the entire sentient community. If we look at the manifest worlds in the physical night sky and observe the diversity of nature, myriad pathways of Being are observable. We are only limited by our lack of imagination and our fiscal enslavement to soulless work and an economy run on debt. But if we were free we could explore different ways of life.

But for exploration to happen we have to be liberated from expenses and debt.

Nature gives her gifts for free. We do not pay for the beauty of the stars or the moon or the sea or the mountains. We do not pay for the rain that brings water. We can grow vegetables for our sustenance. Why? Because these things are ours by right and if we plan a post-Coronavirus world intelligently we can all be more self-sufficient. If governments can serve the people rather than corporations we can all live simply and well. These economic constructs were born in our imagination and a new way of life can be born there too. But first we need to understand that we can give our services for free and enjoy an equitable exchange with like-minded others.

If we agree to lower prices on EVERYTHING we will still be able to enjoy all the benefits of a technologically advanced society. Technology is the gift humanity has given to itself just as Nature has given us a planet to live on and all the things we need to feed ourselves and build shelter.

We need to start thinking of our talents as GIFTS rather than economic investments.

Vincent 7So, what do humans owe society if we are to take a lesson from an afterlife employed in creative communion to explore manifold ways of BEING whilst leaving the life force to perpetuate the existing physical universe?

We owe the world our best efforts.

If we STOP working for money and start working for LOVE we won’t need a time-clock on us. We will enjoy developing our unique gifts and giving them to a world that is grateful for them. So…

Dance your best dance.

Write your best books.

Paint your best pictures.

Compose your best music.

Invent your best inventions.

Cook your best meal.

Be your best self.

Do it for love and serve humanity.

We are now seeing doctors, nurses and health workers who are serving humanity and saving lives. They don’t earn a fortune. They don’t do it for the money. They do it for LOVE. Love of humanity and love of themselves. They know they are making a difference. They know they are valued and they know they are needed.

What use investing on Wall Street and making an empty fortune that serves no-one but yourself and a few enslaved family members?

What use empires built on greed that entitle only one person or one family?

I ask again: Is everyone entitled to joy?

We ALL die and when we do our bodies are fodder for worms in a Kingdom supporting LIFE and I believe our souls ascend to companion the creators who work for love bringing infinite new and exciting creations to fruition.

What is your best life?

A life spent in service to humanity as preparation for the eternal life spent in harmonic creation of BEING.

We all serve in different ways. Some bring works of art to the world. Some explain the mechanics of creation in elegant theories that contract BEING into exquisite and playful equations like e=mc2 some invent technology that connects us and those wonderful few who give us unconditional love and support in tangible practical ways like smiling at us in the street, cooking for us, listening to us or simply supporting our dreams while they are waiting for theirs to be born and of course the CHORUS who dance for LOVE.

I urge you all now while we have time to think without the distraction of “busyness” to consider how best you could serve humanity with your own special talents and gifts that may have been lying dormant in your soul for decades.

Be the best version of yourself and leave the old world at the door when we emerge into the light of a New post-corona World, safely hand-in-hand.


The meditation pond at Le Jardin de Luxemburg Paris.