UPDATE NOVEMBER

I've let things lie a bit too long. My head is so full of things I need to do, want to do and plan to do when I finally get to travel, that I find myself getting overwhelmed and end up doing nothing. Well, not exactly nothing - the songs are still getting written and this is the most important thing I have to do since the songs, and the album, are the basis of this whole project.
So, to catch up, this is an update on... everything. Just to clear my head and find some order. You'd think I wouldn't have any problems seeing as I've got all my time for myself, but having the freedom to do your own thing each and every day brings its own problems - self-motivation being the key word here. I can be so lazy sometimes, other times so inspired and creative - maybe I shouldn't worry, but just ride the wave of my creative energy... let it all happen in its own time...

SONGS
I've written 12 songs of the 18 I had planned. I can get the last 6 done over the next week or so. I've been playing them often - that's productive work too. But I'm eager to get into the real work in the studio. Spent an evening with my partner Geert last friday - we played through the songs using different instruments: flute, mandolin, two acoustic guitars in harmony, harmonica... it's given us some ideas for the production and mixing. With influences ranging from Nick Drake to Eddie Vedder via Steven Stills, I'm confident this is going to be as good an album as you can make in an attic studio. It's great for me to leave the technique in Geert's hands - I do not want to get into that side of things at this stage. And believe me, writing the songs requires a lot more input than you would expect. I'm not writing cheesy love songs or laments of heartbreak or "clap your hands and dance" ditties... this album is a somewhat historical document - I have to do a lot of research about the subject I'm writing about. And THEN I have to condense that information into rhyming sonnets. Having a catchy tune is only part of the process - this is literature man! This is poetry!

STORYTELLING
I finally got the courage up to get out in front of the crowd at the Mezrab. I'd done my Mezrab song and an introductory poem a few weeks ago - and I was nervous as hell. This time I made it a little easier for myself. Took Geert and his wife along for moral support, and a camera to record my performance. After a few regular storytellers had done their pieces I got up there on the "Orator's chair". I had a story worked out as an introduction, but I changed my mind about doing it at the last minute - instead I just improvised my intro to tell people about my project and the two songs I wanted to sing. It was a strange experience - one part of my brain is consciously communicating with the audience, and another part is consciously observing myself in this situation, and talking to me like a miniature angel on my shoulder - "He Mike, this is going okay - you're connecting - they're laughing and cheering - this is not so hard or scary after all..."
It worked - I looked at the video later and I can say I didn't do too bad. But the most important thing is that I've finally broken through my main obstacle - I enjoyed it and I know I can do this now, and I never have to fear it again... and it was a kick!
The video is rubbish though - the light was low and my camera didn't record it well so I'm NOT going to post it here. When I've got the technique sorted, and I think I've got it sorted now, then I'll start filming all my "performance" experiences. There are some evenings I want to get to in December... and I'm fired up now and can't wait for my next chance to sing and tell a "real" story.

PROJECT
I've been re-defining what my goal is with this project - apart from the obvious one of being free to write songs and travel. And it's about sharing the experience of storytelling and helping others to see what telling stories can do for them, for their self-confidence, their understanding, their relationships with the people around them. I want to get people as enthusiastic about this as I feel... get them writing, and opening up, and telling, and writing poems and songs, and singing and celebrating the wonder of being human and living life...
And I hope to inspire people through MY story, THIS story: me, quitting my job to follow my dream travelling and meeting people everywhere. When I told people about this at the Mezrab I was greeted with loud cheers and whistles and applause... obviously it makes an impression on people - maybe it lies at the root of everyone's dreams.
So, with this clearly defined "purpose" I can stop thinking that I have to do this to sell lots of albums so I can make enough money to carry on doing this - which is the conditioned mindset that smothers me from time to time - but instead look forward in anticipation to a journey of discovery that is sure to bring a lot of surprises.

WRITING
I bought myself a new laptop - a notebook. It took so long for the old laptop to function that I never wanted to start the thing up. But this is a good laptop so I can get online quickly, onto my blog and get stuck into writing. But I don't write every day, which surprises me because I always thought that I would. I still write every day in my personal journal - with a pen on paper, and when I'm typing at the computer I enjoy the process...but sometimes I think my days are not eventful enough yet to share. When I'm travelling I expect to have lots to tell - but here, now, in Amsterdam where I spend most of my days at home... well that's not so exciting is it? But yesterday I wrote a short piece for Hubpages (an online writing community that I was active on a few years ago)... and that fired me up again. So I hope I can get back into regular posting, and step up this project into the next gear. The songs are nearly finished, we'll be starting the recording soon, my preparations for the journey are moving along, I'm getting a buzz back, personal obstacles have been conquered... and Christmas is on the doorstep. I'm surfing the crest of a high wave at this moment, and I don't want to lose this momentum.

OTHER THINGS
I'm getting my first smartphone soon - a friend has an old Samsung he can sell me cheaply. This should give me more options for video and photo documenting on my travels. An ex-colleague from the school is still wanting to sell his camper - I think it would be a good solution for me, but I need to get it sorted soon. I've been tentatively researching the "storytelling" scene in Europe... might be a good idea to base my travel route around these venue locations... at least to start off with. And I've actually started to get my house in order - in preparation for leaving it all behind!

And that's it for this post. I think it's time I tried my hand now at videoblogging... hmmmmm!

A MINSTREL'S TALE

Once upon a time, not so very long ago, a minstrel left his home and embarked on a journey to distant shores in search of adventure and new stories for his songs.

His first port of call was the city of Amsterdam in the lands of  Nether, and he never got farther than that, for it was there that he met his love - a dark-haired damsel of exotic beauty, cultured, artistic, experienced… and a little older than he. She was charmed by his youth and poetic way with words and shared his creative interests – they settled down together, making dreams of possible futures.

It wasn’t long before a child was conceived, which brought their dreams crashing to reality. “Oh yeay!”, thought the minstrel, “I’m going to be a dad! I’ll have to be responsible; I’ll have to put bread on the table… I’ll have to get a job!”

He was a good and decent man and took his responsibilities seriously, so he learned the language and ways of this land, and searched for work. It took a while to adapt to his new role in life, but when his son was born he felt such love as never before and regretted nothing. “If this be my destiny” he thought, “then I accept it wholly” – whereupon he made a vow to forget his wandering-days and be the best father he could be. He would do whatever he could to ensure the welfare of his son until such time that the boy was fully grown and could lead his own life… which should take about 18 years… maybe 20.

THE CONCIERGE

The minstrel found work eventually in the school his son attended. His new title of “Concierge” pleased him and brought him new friends and status, but what most pleased him was the chance to be always close to his son. He fulfilled his duties with enthusiasm but found too that he could continue his creative interests, sharing his music and song with the children and colleagues. It was a happy time.

Still, after three years he was forced to move on. His son was growing, along with the costs of living, and a concierge’s wages were too low to support a family, so he took a similar post at another school that paid better.

As the boy grew, so did the concierge’s love and admiration for him. Alas, his romance with the mother of his child faded and the two parted. It was an amicable agreement, and they continued as friends to be doting parents for their little one. The man found new lodgings by two trusted and loyal friends - who supported him in many a difficult time – and he was able to have his son to stay on a regular basis.

But this was no permanent solution, for the boy continued to grow, healthy, strong, vibrant and tall. “A prince in the making!” thought the father, and this filled him with pride for he himself was far from noble descent… a commoner through and through.

And the time dawned when it became obvious that a new abode was needed, for the boy grew taller than his father and could not, nor indeed wished to, share the same bed any longer.

THE ARTIST

The concierge was fortunate and found a suitable abode, but that fortune came also with a cost, for the rent was high and put further strain on his wages. The boy was eating as a grown man, his clothes cost more, his education became more expensive, and he required pocket-money… the concierge sought ways to supplement his income and put his drawing talents to use illustrating books in his free time. 

With this new part-time career, the concierge took the new title of artist, enjoyed a renewed passion, and the status quo returned. But content as he was with his present situation, he realized that his heart was ailing. He hadn’t written or played his music for a long time. Yes, he played for the children, he drew for the children, and he played some music with friends, but this just reminded him of where his heart truly lay. He didn’t have the time to indulge himself fully in his personal passions, and the need to earn a living was smothering his creative spirit and draining him of his life’s energy. What kept him going was his vow to be there for his son, and his reward was to see the progress his boy was making, but he became a recluse, working by day and night, with no energy or desire to see anyone else once he got home. He lived for his son and had no life of his own. He felt himself becoming old and disgruntled with his work. But he had his duty as a father – he would not betray his vow.

The years passed and the boy became a young man – tall, handsome and bearded. He was also richly blessed with creative talent, having inherited the best of both his parents. As his studies came to an end and his social interests grew, he was rarely at home. The artist realized that the time was coming for a change and a choice. He could continue so, with his job and life as it was, becoming ever more disgruntled, bitter, old and lonely – sitting alone in the evenings waiting to see if his son would return… or he could choose now to begin again on the path he’d left twenty years earlier.

He was afraid - his youthful vigour and innocent, naive trust in the world had suffered under the weight of social and societal conformations and commitments. But it was time to make another pact with himself – he would follow his heart and re-awaken the minstrel slumbering within.

THE RETURN OF THE MINSTREL

At an age when most men were entering the autumn of their lives, the artist refused to let the summer fade; and at a time when all the kingdom was falling on hard times of economic crisis, he let himself be inspired by his son, whose life was filled with youthful abandon, music, dance, writing and theatre. The artist took a daring step onto a new path towards his own youthful dreams… and quit his day job.

He exercised his wasting body and became strong and vibrant again; and he sought to bring his talents together in ways that could provide him with an independent income. He took to writing his own children’s stories, illustrating them himself and turning them into products he could sell in the new “digital” marketplace. However, this would prove to be only a steppingstone to the true passion… and that he found in a small café were people gathered to hear true tales from the “Storytellers”.

The man had found his pot of gold – but this was not gold to fill your pockets with, these were riches of life, of communication, of bonding with other people, other races and cultures. Riches of understanding and sharing. The man realized more than ever that it was stories that brought people together, forging respect and comradeship in a time when lust for personal gain and power were the order of the day.

The man had found his path, now he needed to walk it. He’d found a new quest too. Along with his children’s books he would write stories for grown-ups, true stories from his own life and experiences. And he’d tell them wherever people gathered to hear them. And he’d help others to tell their stories, freeing them from their fears for public embarrassment and judgement. And he’d write songs again, telling his stories in the universal language of music.

He wrote his first song in ten years, he was eager to sing. He had so many stories to tell, so many songs to share. But how could he do this? He was still shackled to his financial commitments. His books would take time to sell, his funds were low, and he’d given up his security and any hope of a decent pension. He was balancing on the edge of financial hardship.

The minstrel had returned, but he stood at a fork in the road. One path led to a story he did not wish to tell: one of fear and distrust, discarded dreams and broken courage. One of a return to a boring job to pay his bills and his rent.

The second path led to the adventure of making his first album. A path of unknown dangers and risks – but also one of excitement and rewards greater than any pot of gold.

The minstrel stood a while, hoping fate would walk by and help him to make the choice for his heart. And then he took a step towards his future…

PAYBACK - SWEET REVENGE

I was 14, independent and responsible... and naive enough to be adventurous. We lived in a safe street in a safe-ish town in a time when the innocence of childhood could still be relevant. We played in the streets, we camped in the fields, we role-played our dreams and ambitions - and summers were always long and, generally, always hot.


I had a friend in the street called Grahame, also 14. Lived with his mother and sister, no father. He was adventurous like me; he had a shed that he used as his private hide-away; he had a secret cave in the drainage pit in the garden; he had a stash of men's magazines... his mother knew, but she gave him a lot of freedom.


This was small-town. So small it wasn't a town, I suppose a village, but really a new-estate build on some fields that had yet to become a village. Anyone asks me I say near Liverpool, but it's just as near Manchester and it's not either of them. It was a good place to grow up - lots of open fields, for us the wilderness. There were few cars around, only some people had telephones. Holidays, if you got them, were camping trips to Wales. Wales was considered a different country.


Grahame was from Wales. He suggested that summer, when we were 14, that we go there on a camping trip, without our parents - now that would be an adventure. His mother allowed it, my parents agreed too. Dad gave me ten pounds for the week and we set off with our two tents and camping-gear, caught a bus into town, then a bus into a bigger town, and then a bus to Wales. I bought a floppy army-type hat for the occassion.


This was our big adventure, we'd really live it up, freedom, beach... maybe girls... we were young, naive, enthusiastic, positive - and not a little careless.


We headed for Rhyl. Rhyl is the Ibiza of Northwest Britain. Now with only 10 pounds each for the week, we didn't want to waste our money on camping sites, so we found some wasteground behind the beach and asked the hippies there if it was safe to camp - they'd know. This was a time when common-ground was still for commoners and squatting was still legal, so no-one was going to drive a couple of kids away. We pitched our tents, one for us and one for the gear - we were organized - and we headed for the town to see what Rhyl had to offer two excited 14 year-olds. Nothing! 


We were too old for the fairground rides and too young for the bars. Prowling the beach was out because this was the summer I remember when it wasn't hot all the time. There were girls, but those around our age were with their parents. So we walked... and walked. Then we took a bus-tour - one of those double-dekker tourist busses with an open roof. We sat upstairs and the wind blew my hat away. That was annoying. By the end of the day I'd lost my 10 pounds too - now that was a bummer!




We were resourceful though and we didn't want to ring our parents on the first day. Graham's money wouldn't last us both for the week so we tried our hand at shoplifting. Just once though - being chased down the street by the shop-owner for a packet of Eccles cakes wasn't really worth the risk.


Day two we met an older bloke somehow, and he was really friendly. Bought us some ices and something to drink. Maybe he felt sorry for us when we told him about losing my money, because he offered to take us on the fairground and pay for some rides - maybe we weren't too old for them after all. Later in the day he but us lunch, then our evening meal, and much later he was saying that he'd probably had a little too much to drink to drive back to his camping, so could he spend the night in our tent.


What can you say when he's been so generous? So we're in the tent, all three of us, I'm falling asleep when I hear Grahame muttering aloud - something about not wanting him here and why doesn't he just buzz off. I kept my mouth shut and my eyes closed. Then I heard the guy leave. I quizzed Grahame about what he'd said to the man, but he said he didn't remember saying anything and could have been talking in his sleep. I didn't believe him.


On the third day the skinheads turned up. Three loud 16 year-olds from Liverpool. They were surprisingly courteous and friendly - not at all what I expected and totally out of character for "Scouse-football-hooligan-bovverboys". They told us they'd been kicked off all the other campsites (okay, back in character), and needed an alternative - would it  okay to pitch tent here next to us. Well it's a free world, and since they asked so nicely, sure!, and yes you can put your baggage in our spare tent.


After they'd set up, they headed off to another bar to get drunk and loud again, and Grahame and I did some walking and talking... money was a problem, weather was a problem, could we go home after three days without losing face?

Evening came around and the skinheads came knocking. They were back and drunk, and one of them had a girl and could he use our tent for a half-hour. We didn't want to seem unfriendly, or uncool, so we said yes - but we wanted it back in a half-hour! No problem, he said.


Only after that half-hour he wasn't ready and he'd come out when he felt like it. Grahame was pretty persistent in his complaining - it wasn't fair, he'd said a half-hour, time is up we want our tent back... and it worked, he came out, but he wasn't happy. Anyway, we settled down to go to sleep - but then the commotion started. The skinheads were getting abusive, aggressive, calling us names, swearing at us, rattling the tent, pissing on it - one of them kicked the tent and I got it full in the face. Now it may be fine to complain about getting our tent back, but that's where the confrontation ends - even Grahame realized that - start complaining now, or go outside and ask them to please stop... we'd get our heads kicked in for sure. So we sat it out and waited for them to get bored kicking a tent.


It stopped eventually, they probably went off to be obnoxious in another bar. We decided we'd be leaving the following morning.


Morning came early, around 5 o'clock. The plan was to pack up quickly and quietly and head for the bus station. There we could wait until Grahame's uncle, who lived nearby, was awake, then we'd go there and call his mother, who had a phone, to get my dad, who had a car, to pick us up.


It was pouring with rain, which helped disguise any noise we made taking the tent down. We didn't speak any louder than a whisper, we were efficient and effective. When all our bags were packed we took the reserve tent down. The skinhead's baggage we'd have to leave in the rain, no point in waking them, they'd be sleeping until midday anyway. Time to go...


But wait... just one more thing...


Before we left, we opened all the baggage and scattered the contents around, just to get the full effect of the rain. NOTHING would be dry when the guys woke up. All their spare clothes and belongings would be drenched through - puddles of sandy water were already engulfing their gear, their bags were filling up with rainwater. They'd pissed on our tent - nature was pissing on theirs.


We ran, silently, and spent three hours shivering in the bus station. We called Grahame's uncle, then went to his house to dry out. We called home and my father came to pick us up. I told him about losing the money. He said if I'd called earlier he would have brought some more. It didn't matter. The holiday was over. We were glad to be going home. 


This is the shortest holiday I've ever had, but strangely one of the most memorable. It wasn't successful as holidays go, but it was an experience, an awakening, a test of our independence and resourcefulness. We'd had an adventure and survived, we wouldn't forget it.


And we'd had payback, revenge... and it was sweet.

PLEASE DISREGARD THIS EMAIL.

A "COULD HAVE BEEN" STORY

I almost had my bags packed for Berlin. I opened my email a couple of hours ago and read a mail from a Mr Erkins. Mr. Erkins doesn't know me and I don't know him, but he was referred to me by a Mr. Hofer. I don't recall knowing Mr. Hofer either, but I don't know if he knows me, or of me - I have diverse articles and illustrations up on the web, maybe he's come across my work.


Anyway, Mr. Erkins is the production manager on a new project for Hahn filmstudios, based in Berlin. They make grand animation films and series for television, games, feature films and advertising companies. Mr. Hofer is the head of the set-design team, and suggested to Mr. Erkins that I might be suitable to join the team. In the email, Mr. Erkins asked if I would be interested, was I available for the coming four months, and would I send a small portfolio of my work so Mr. Hahn himself could get familiar with my qualities.


I had to stop what I was doing when I read all this, make myself another cup of coffee, go outside and smoke another cigarette, then re-read the mail a few more times. This is funny. They are making a film called 1001 Nights... I just mentioned that title in my Mezrab-song. And I've been musing over the role of illustration in my life and if it's what I really want to do, and how far do I want to develop this activity in the future. Could this be a sign? Could this be one of those "big breaks" that you always waited for, what you always hear about, that alter and determine the path and success of your life?


My first thought was: shit! I mean, what do I know about set-design? Could I do it? I've got no experience in that field, I'm not a schooled illustrator... just someone with a bit of talent in sketching sweet characters for children's books. And who is this Mr. Hofer, and where did he get to know of me? And what do I do with my present book and my business if I've got to head for Berlin. And would I dare to take the job if they found my work suitable? And which pictures should I send them? By chance I illustrated a book a few years ago that was set in the period and locations of "1001 Nights"... I suppose that would do for starters.


Now, before going any further, I thought it best to gather my best work together so I could make a reply. Could be that they've made a mistake anyway - best to check that and get back in touch with Mr. Erkins. While I was going through my portfolio maps on the computer I got a telephone call from a friend, and we got talking about identity cards and passports here in Holland, and how you only need one or the other as a EU citizen. Then it occurred to me that I've got neither - I've just sent my passport away for renewal and my identity card is also out of date. Shit! again... I'd have to get that arranged pronto if I was to go to Berlin.


And Berlin? Well yes, that would be an adventure, so I wouldn't pass this chance up. It would improve my financial situation, give me a terrific "once-in-a-lifetime" experience, and provide me with some special stories to tell. Okay, I've convinced myself - if this is real, I'm going for it. So I was arranging some examples of my work to add to the reply email to Mr. Erkins, asking him to first double-check that he's got the right man, to be aware that I'm a children's book illustrator with no experience of set-design, and if my "qualities" are still suitable then YES! I am interested in the offer and I AM free to start immediately (don't tell him about the passport).


All this happened in the space of a half-hour. Then I got the second email from Mr. Erkins:


Dear Michael,
It is looking like by case I contacted the wrong Michael!? I just tried to find some further informations and samples of works in the internet and I have found out that you aren't the spanish Michael.
I'm sorry for bothering you with my email. Please just disregard it.



Ah wel!!! No hurry with the passport then.

THE MINSTREL

When I was 18, I met a girl who changed my life. She introduced me to folk music, and even though the romance was over after a few months I remained smitten and I listened almost exclusively to folk music for the following 3 years.

I grew a beard, started wearing clogs and woolly sweaters. I bought a rocking chair. I didn't smoke then otherwise I would have bought a pipe.I embraced my very distant Irish roots and lamented the fact that of the 4 countries that make up Great Britain, England alone had no real living musical culture.

I didn't play an instrument back then. I didn't write songs, but I lived in the music and the stories. It was easy to imagine myself as a travelling minstrel and that would have been my choice of occupation had I lived in the middle-ages. I remember saying if I get old without having made any money, I could always grow my beard long and be a folksinger. That was my reserve plan - I knew I'd never have a pension worth talking about.

So while I was immersing myself in folky custom and song, I missed out on the youth-music movements of the time... I was an 18 year old middle-aged man who frequented the folk clubs on sunday evenings.

That all changed when I joined a rock-band.

At 22 I'd taken up the guitar - practicing loudly at home with the windows open. A friend of a friend, who was a bass-player, heard my noise and told his other friend, who was a lead-guitarist - and they invited me to a rehearsal. They were looking for a singer, so I sang. They were so impressed that I had the balls to just get up and sing that they asked me to join their blues-rock band That was the start of my wild days of sex, drugs, rock 'n roll and an unusually late bout of pubescent rebellion. I stopped listening to folk music, it didn't fit my new image. I can always go back to it when I'm over 50, I thought.

I wasn't a great rock-singer. I wasn't a good  front-man. And I admit that blues wasn't really my music -  if anything I preferred jazz, which motivated me to introduce sax into the band. I could only play in one key, but that didn't matter because you could impress people just by posing with it. I lived the band lifestyle for a couple of years - lots of parties - I learned to smoke. I heard a lot of music artists I'd missed out on: Rolling Stones, The Kinks, Talking Heads; but also Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Lou Reed, Crosby, Stills and Nash... songwriters that would inspire me to this day.

At 24 I became a songwriter myself. The band dispersed when the bass-player headed off to university. I headed off to the Greek Islands. I'd spent a few months learning Fleetwood Mac songs so I'd have something to play, but I really wanted to write songs. Living as a hippy on an exotic beach would inspire me I thought. And it did. I was popular because I had a guitar, but when I started writing songs for people I'd met, I became a star. My first songs were simple, but they were personal and my new friends sang along. Everyone wanted their own song. I wrote every day. Those songs became became the element that defined that whole 3 month island experience, for me and everyone who were part of our intimate group. But they also defined me. I was tanned, my hair bleached white by the sun and spiked with salt and sand. My jeans were torn. I wore a scarf around my head. I carried my guitar slung loosely over my shoulder. I was a traveler, a minstrel, a hippy, a punk - lazing on the beach by day, singing around camp-fires by night. I drank lots and ate little - I was thinned to the bone. I lived my music and my role.

On the journey back home, hitching the 3 thousand miles with a half-English half-German girl 10 years younger than me, we stopped off in a German town where she had friends. they were school-kids still, and I was a fascinating aging hippy. I visited their school, they learned my songs, I got groupies.

On a side note: I went back to the island a year later - but then I took my sax. But that's another story - another me.

Back in England I lived the glory a little longer, squatting in London with a few island friends. But once I headed back to my own home town, it was over. The inspiration, the people, the lifestyle all changed. The songs I wrote had no place here. I tried writing new ones - songs I hoped would lead me to a career as a recording artist. But it was not to be. There was no soul in what I wrote. I stopped trying, focused on my sax-playing. I was a musician, but not a songwriter.

Fast-forward to 1990. I moved to Amsterdam. I was in love again. I started writing love-songs and I was getting good at it. I discovered structure and sequence. I crafted lyrics as a poet.

Later I started working at a school, joined the "teacher's band", played sax and harmonica - sang sometimes. A colleague turned 40, had a party, bring a guitar we're making music. I used the opportunity to sing  a couple of my latest songs and made an impact - a new period was began. The band dumped most of the covers,  and we started playing my numbers. I donned the guitar again - I became the singer - they became my band.

It was a prolific period. I wrote deep, meaningful, multi-interpretable  lyrics and catchy, memorable tunes based around jazz-chord progressions. We played some gigs. I wasn't rich and famous, but I'd reached a maturity in my songwriting. And I wouldn't become rich and famous because we were all too old to aim for stardom, and we all had kids and steady jobs. And if truth be known, I was too self-conscious to really enjoy performing.

This period eventually came to an end. I changed jobs - different school, different people. I joined the schoolband there too but as sax player. They never knew me as a songwriter, and I didn't feel like singing the songs they wanted to play. I pretty much stopped writing too - felt I was repeating myself.

I started learning piano and didn't touch the guitar for years. The piano was for playing, not writing. My old songs lived on though, thanks to the enthusiasm of Geert, bass-playing teacher from the first school. He adopted them and cared for them, and put them to good use in a variety of musical projects involving other novice musicians.

Now and again I'd visit and put in a guest appearance - the master playing his own songs... but Geert would have to remind me how to play them, which chords I'd used. Telling me how to play my own songs because I'd forgotten. 

The years have flown. I've passed 50. The idea of being an old bearded folk-singer is not too unrealistic any more, though my beard is grey so I'm not quite ready for that. My son is grown, his beard is dark. He plays piano much better than I, and his guitar playing is getting that way too. Through him I'm rediscovering all the great songwriters of former years, and not without a little regret I wonder were I'd be now if I'd let the minstrel I was at 24 continue. Other paths - other lives.

I've not written a song in nearly 10 years. I do my writing now on blogs and in my diary. Lately I've taken to writing children's picture-book stories as an independent publisher. Now and again I see something that inspires me to sing... but it passes before I do anything about it.

And now, just when I was thinking that the minstrel had laid down his lute for good, I stumble upon the phenomenon of storytelling. An enthusiastic group of international aficionados of this forgotten craft, come together in cultural cafe The Mezrab and tell stories to each other. An event I haven't been aware of in my 20 years in Amsterdam. Ancient tradition comes alive in modern city - storytelling is the new rage. I felt like I was back on my Greek island - campfires and mixed cultures. I feel inspired as never before - not since Greece. Inspired to get involved, to tell stories, to write stories... and it occurs to me that here is an audience that my songs were written for. My songs are stories after all - I should sing them.

THE RIVER

“Life is a river”.

I never fail to be amazed by the ideas that spring up in my head. Ideas about what I could do to create a suitable life for myself.

I'm not content with the scenario of a steady job for 40 hours a week, with a reasonable income that allows me to get a mortgage, a new car, holidays in the sun, the latest gadgets, new clothes, a haircut, a new settee, Friday nights with the lads, Sunday sport-sessions, a savings-account, full-coverage insurance and a pension.

For me this is like living in a fishbowl.

I want to swim in a river.

I use different metaphors to view life by. One metaphor is that “life is a game”- no rules, play your own way, have fun. Another is that “life is a journey”- a personal adventure, you take any path you want, there is no destination, the journey is the goal.

In a third metaphor “life is a river”. Life is on the move, constantly, it has currents and tempo and it heads in one ultimate direction... onwards.

How you ride that river is up to you. Stay in it and it carries you along on its own journey. You can't change its course, but even the river itself doesn't choose its own course – it is subject to the influences of the surrounding landscape, just as life is influenced by the landscapes of civilization, the environment, technology, the stockmarket, public opinion, politics and economics...

The river is unpredictable in its course, and this makes it understandably interesting – “go with the flow”. But there are other rivers, many rivers, and we don't have to stay in only one. We're not fish!

I've followed different rivers. When I've felt that they're not taking me where I want to go, I step out and dive into another one. Every time I do this I think: “this is it – this is THE river...MY river”.

Many times I've found myself stepping into rivers that I've been in before. Then I feel like I've been going round in circles. But I've learned to realize that I am, at least, farther downstream – it's the same river, but it's not the same place. Like the river, I've been moving in one unchangeable direction too... onwards.

I have many interests and a number of creative talents, but I've never been able to stick with one interest, one talent and build it with passion long enough for it to become the defining activity of my life – or the source of a decent income.

An idea grabs me with its potential, shows me a route to my dreams, and I indulge myself in it with a full heart – until the next idea. And there's always a “next idea”. As with the river, I think: “this is it, this is THE idea”. I've learned finally to view this with healthy scepticism. I believe now that no ONE idea is THE idea, no ONE river is THE river. And I realize that where I'm heading is a location where all these rivers are converging.

A few years ago I was into blogging about existential stuff like “personal development” and “conscious living”. At the time that was THE river. For a little while I tasted the waters of “cartooning”. Six months ago it was a river called “physical development and body-transformation”- a totally new experience and direction, fresh waters indeed.

Recently I became an entrepreneur and set up my own digital-publishing site. Now I write and illustrate my own children's picturebooks as videofilms.

THE river? No, just another idea, but I'm getting close.

Now, I've discovered the MEZRAB in Amsterdam... and “storytelling”.

THIS river sparkles and dances, bubbles and sings. Its water is chrystal, cool, fresh and invigorating. It's travelled across ages and nations, streamed through traditions and cultures. It's as bright as the day it sprung from its source and is rich with colour and life in the diversity of the creatures that swim in it.

I am mesmerized. Here, truly, is my river...THE river. Here flow the waters of my writing river, my drawing river, my songwriting river, my performance river, my travel river, my physical river, my social river, my philosophy river, my adventure river, my dreams river. All the rivers of my past, present and future stream here together.

Dazzled, I start this blog. I pick up my guitar and shake the dust off. I write a new song. I breathe life into all my old ones. These are stories that I finally feel ready to tell and share.

Today I am a writer, a poet and a minstrel. Today I dive into this cool, blue wandering river. Today I am in my element.

Today I cast aside my clothes of scepticism. Life is a river – and I want to swim in this one.