All I Have is a Photograph.

I lived in Japan in the 90s for more than a few years.

A wonderful experience, and a wonderful memory. And yet quite surreal in many ways.

Sometimes I feel as though I slipped sideways into a version of the country that barely exists anymore. Not the neon one in travel blogs, not the tourist one with noh masks, nor the pop culture one with cosplay, rock and roll dancers in Yoyogi kōen, and bosozoku revving through late night intersections.

I experienced all that, of course, but when I think of Japan, I think of the quieter one, the hidden one. The Japan behind the façades and the polite masks, where old timber creaked in the night and even the dust seemed to belong.

I lived as part of a Japanese family in a traditional wooden house. Dark beams, paper sliding doors, tatami floors that whispered gently when you walked across them. It wasn’t musty, exactly, but it had that old Japan smell; a kind of gentle stillness baked into the timber. My father‑in‑law was a woodcarver who sat cross‑legged downstairs and created objects, decorations, and statues for temples. Real temples and shrines. It felt like living inside history, and I felt honoured, as though I was trusted with something sacred.

Next door was a tiny karaoke bar. The sort of place where the mama‑san fussed over the patrons while pouring brandies, where last trains were missed and salarymen sang enka with more emotion than melody. Younger people sang pop songs, trying to sound like their idols. Occasionally someone would take a run at an English song. The bar only had five in total; I know this because I sang only four of them. There was no way I was going to stand on a stage and sing the fifth, Happy Birthday to You.

The whole neighbourhood was like that. A little worn, a little out of time, and full of stories that didn’t need telling because everyone already knew them. It was home. I knew my neighbours and they knew me. I walked those streets and, for a few years, felt like I belonged.

I looked it up on the internet recently. I felt saddened to see that much of it has gone. The house, the bar, most of the block. New high‑rise apartments stand where those memories resided. Memories that now live on only through those of us who belonged.

But beyond the memories, there’s something else that survived because I took it with me.

One night in the karaoke bar, I went to the men’s room. High up on the old-fashioned cistern, far higher than anyone would naturally put anything, I noticed the tiniest corner of something white. I reached up, stretched, and managed to get hold of it.

A small, laminated photograph. Black and white. About four centimetres square.

No writing on the back. No date. Nothing.

The image itself was strange. A night street, all dark, with a burst of light slightly off‑centre, as if someone had taken the photo just as another flash went off. No figures. No cars. No clues. Just a frozen moment with the context missing.

I remember standing there for a long moment, wondering what it was. Why it was there. Who had put it up so high. Whether it had been hidden or forgotten. Whether it was meant to be found. Whether I should leave it where it was.

For reasons I still don’t understand, I kept it.

A few weird things happened around me in the weeks that followed, and I briefly wondered if I’d pocketed something I shouldn’t have; a charm, a curse, a joke, a ritual object misplaced by accident or design. Or was it something else. Maybe the owner came back for it and wondered where it had gone. Or, in some weird kind of way, was it left there, intended for me.

I’ll never know.

Life moved on, the curse faded, I left Japan, and thirty‑five years passed. I haven’t thought about the photo for a long time. Four or five years, at least. But this morning, out of nowhere, it surfaced in my mind, clear as it ever was. Quietly. As if it had returned to that karaoke bar waiting for me to once more notice its corner, patient and unchanged, just biding its time in the shadows.

I still have it, that small, laminated square. One of the last surviving fragments from a life that now feels dreamlike, slightly unreal, as though I lived it in someone else’s memory, or passed through a room I was never meant to enter.

I do wonder if the photo remembers more than I do. If that captured burst of light held something I was too far outside the culture to understand at the time. If the event it froze now exists only inside that tiny frame, sealed away. If even the players and the photographer have long forgotten the moment it came from, vanishing into the years and leaving the photograph, and me, as the final interpreter of an undeciphered moment no longer anchored to anything or anywhere.

It’s strange, the things that choose not to stay with us. And stranger still, the things that do.

Phenomena (Do doo be-do-do)

Every now and then my life seems to wander back into the mildly weird lane. Not the “Scully, you’d better see this” kind of weird. Just strangeness. High strangeness at times. Eyebrow raised, but not calling a priest.

Over the past couple of years, that kind of weird has started happening again.

For starters, I’ve seen a few more UFOs. No close encounters of the third kind. Not even close encounters of the second. Odd‑shaped craft without wings, jets or rotors. A few lights in the sky doing things that lights in the sky aren’t supposed to do. Sudden stops. Hovering far too long. The sort of thing that makes you go, Hmmm.

Then there are the dreams.

Every so often I’ll have a dream about something completely mundane, and a few days later it happens in real life. Nothing world‑changing. Just little moments,  but so strangely specific they simply cannot be coincidental. Odd enough to make me wish they came with lottery numbers.

Objects have been joining in the fun, too.

A book shifted when no one was near it. It moved in a way that felt pointed, like it was trying to get my attention, or like something was sending a message.

I flicked through it and found a friend’s old business card tucked inside. I spent a while trying to find meaning in that. Nothing. Then I explored the title of the book, hunting for clues. I suppose can just about build a case, if I really try.

And then there are the synchronicities. Convergences.

A name that pops up in four completely unrelated situations. An image I’m thinking about suddenly appearing in real life. Not dramatic enough to build a conspiracy theory around, yet, but persistent enough that I’ve started paying attention.

One or two is coincidence. Three is interesting. Five or more feels like the universe is telling me to wake up and pay attention.

None of this forms a pattern I can point to. Nothing adds up. And I'm not try to force a solution. I’m definitely not in the garage with photographs, files, and red string, but I am sitting here and listening.

Sometimes the world just gets a little frayed around the edges. A bit more alive. A bit more playful. It starts to unravel, and we catch glimpses of its other layers.

As I said, this has happened before. It reminds me of other times in my life when odd things clustered together; Japan, certain periods in Melbourne, a few moments in Lincoln. Someone seems to crank up the strange from time to time, and I can’t help but notice it.

I’m not worried. I’m not looking for explanations. I’m certainly not looking for Cancer Man. I’m just paying attention and listening, because sometimes that’s all you can do. Wait. Watch. See what happens.

And something is happening. Something is building. Something odd. Something curious.

And, I hope, something wonderful. 

Honestly? I’m kind of enjoying it.

The Ducks Are Not What They Seem.

I started thinking about a Gary Larson cartoon this morning. One of the many Far Side cartoons that I know and love. You probably know this one. Its the drawing of a businessman sitting at a desk, looking startled or worried. Behind him is a large glass window, and across the street is a high rise building In one of the windows there is a bird.  The caption reads, "Anatidaephobia: The fear that somewhere, somehow, a duck is watching you.

This isn't just some random thought, a memory fragment that flicked into my mind for no apparent reason. No, there is a cause and reason for it.

Like many, I work from home several days a week. I sit at my desk, in front of a large window, and can see the world pass by as I create PowerPoints and prepare documents.  It is a lovely view - old walls, a church, a house or two. All built hundreds of years ago, made with the stone for which the village is known.

This week, on three separate occasions, I have noticed a duck sitting on the rooftop directly opposite me. 

In my experience, ducks do not generally sit on peaked rooflines. Having webbed feet and all makes it seem like and unnatural and uncomfortable position to perch.  And yet on three separate occasions, on three different days, the duck has been there. And, I swear, it seemed like it was looking directly at me.

In many cultures, a duck on a roof is a good omen, bringing good fortune. And yet I'm not feeling the luck. I just think back to the Larson cartoon.

Why is the duck there regularly?  Why is it watching me?  Should I be worried?

Ah, paranoia. Philip K. Dick would be proud.

Dad.

My Dad, Don Cameron, passed away on New Year’s Eve at the age of 88.

It seems to me there’s a huge dose of symbolism there. A day that is traditionally seen as ringing out the past and welcoming the future. A day for remembrance, but also for hope.

Growing up, I thought Dad could do anything. And even in the last few years, as he struggled with breathing issues, arthritis, mobility and dementia, I found it difficult to reconcile the reality with that image.

He taught me many things; values, resilience, admitting failures. But mostly he taught me about being honest, about doing what’s right, even when no one is watching.

Dad was generous, gentle and compassionate, and I think he became more so as he aged. Scots have a reputation, undeserved, for being tight with money. The truth is that Scots in the north were generally poor and had to be thrifty in order to survive. But even now I am hearing stories of Dad’s generosity which I never knew. That’s who he was: quietly giving, never seeking recognition.

I wish Dad’s last words were “Franco Cozzo”, (google him, if you don’t know Franco) which would have made for a great tale and wonderful epitaph for years to come. And although it was only a few days ago he did blurt that suddenly and for no apparent reason, he went on to say other things before he passed. But that moment, like so many others, reminds me of his humour.

I last saw Dad in June. I had planned to visit later in 2025, but as he was declining I gathered my remaining leave dates and went earlier. I was fortunate to sit with him for several hours daily, to tell him how I felt, and to listen to his stories. There were even days he had moments of knowing who I was.

Sleep well, Dad. I love you always.

All the way to Nort-a Melbourne, Brunsa-wick and Foot-a-scray

Kicking It Old School.

I write a lot. Almost daily. And almost all of it is by hand.

This feels almost sacrilegious in this computer age, particularly when my job role specialises in digital tools, but I already spend too much time staring at screens.

It’s slower, yes, but that’s part of the appeal. Slowness forces you to think, to feel the words as they form. There’s something deeply satisfying about the physical act of writing by hand. It’s tangible.

Handwriting changes the rhythm of my thoughts, and allow me time to change and adapt as I go. I pause more. I choose words with care. It’s in the “now”. Alert and mindful.

And then I have the satisfaction of seeing volumes of journals and notebooks lined up, filled with my words, my scratchings.  And that’s a joy you don’t get from a hard drive in a machine.

It's not for everyone. When I first started out, or re-started, my hand ached.  I was using muscles I hadn’t used since High School.  But as I wrote more often and for longer periods, my stamina increased, my writing became more legible, and my hand ached less and less.

I love it. And once you go back, there’s no going forward again.

The Quiet Power of Ritual

Our daily lives often hold rituals, small repeated acts that shape our minds, our moods, our wellbeing, our days.

For me, it’s the morning coffee and my word puzzles. I wake early, make my brew, and dim the lights. I sit in my armchair and, after checking my emails and Facebook feed from overnight, I do my word puzzles. There are several I do, and there is a particular order in which I like to undertake them.

The dogs are still sleeping, and I sit in the quiet. A moment of stillness, a pause before the day roars at me.

I think we underestimate the value of rituals. They may seem ordinary, even trivial, but they anchor us. They remind us that life is about presence. I feel settled and well once my morning rituals are done. I feel ready to get prepared for the day and for work.

But there are other rituals I have. Walking the dogs, a book before bed, selecting the soundtrack for my drive into the office. These aren’t just habits, they are structure in a chaotic world. In a world that feels like it’s out of control, there is something revolutionary about repetition, about gaining some control and saying, “this time is mine, this action is mine.”

So today I’m raising my mug to the small rituals.

What are yours?

The Path Continues.

My uncle John also shaped much of my taste in music - or at least he guided it.

When I was around 11 or twelve years old, he gave me a cassette tape. He had recorded two of his records for me - one on each side. The Essential Beatles, a quirky Australian compilation, and The Monkees Greatest Hits.
 
I already liked the Beatles, having watched the cartoon series. While the cartoon show focussed on the earlier years, although it did include Strawberry Fields and Penny Lane (and, most disturbingly, Tomorrow Never Knows), the cassette included songs right through to Let It Be.  The Monkees Greatest was, and still is, just a really good selection of songs.

I'm not sure, but I think it was probably a year or so later, he gave me two purchased cassettes - The Most of the Animals, and The Beatles & The Rolling Stones. The Animals tape had, for me, intriguing track titles, although at the time I didn't play it as much as the other tapes. The Beatles and Rolling Stones cassette was, in hindsight, my first bootleg.  A pretty average sounding tape of a few tracks from the Beatles 1964 Hollywood Bowl show, and the rest from BBC recordings.  I remember falling in love with the energy of Twist and Shout, but I did play the tape to death.

Unfortunately those tapes were lost in a fire in the early 80s, and until about 6 months ago I couldn't remember which Animals and Monkees tapes he had given me. I spent a bit of time researching, and by looking at album artwork and tracklists, it had to be these two. I've had the Essential Beatles on vinyl since the 80s, but I've now found copies of the other three. 

I've had a lot of fun revisiting these four albums.  I only wish my uncle was still around.  We could share a beer, listen to the albums, and talk music.