Day 9 - Jan 9th
The last line of this poem is stolen. What I’m learning first-hand is that every artist is a thief in the temple. Whether you end up locked in jail or escape like a cat burglar depends on what you take, how long you linger, and how deftly you avoid setting off the tripwires.
True originality is a myth. There’s nothing new under the sun—and that’s perfectly fine. Art isn’t about inventing the unprecedented; it’s about how you uniquely express what flows through you. The 12-bar blues isn’t getting a 13th bar anytime soon, but it will keep inspiring generations of musicians, each putting their own spin on an enduring tradition. Creativity isn’t about creating something from nothing—it’s about reimagining the timeless in a way only you can.
Even this week, as I set myself the challenge of riffing on a few poems in under ten minutes, I’ve plagiarised myself. Earlier in the week, I stole a very important line from myself: the kingdom of silence. It’s a central theme I’ll keep returning to. Essentially, I accidentally plagiarised myself, and that’s okay. The last line of this poem, though? That one’s stolen, and not from me.
All we are going to do
for eternity
is sit around the fire.
I first heard this in a short talk by Ram Dass—formerly Richard Alpert. The talk, set to music by East Forest, was played during a mushroom circle I attended. The timing was perfect. Earlier, the facilitator had been playing live instruments, but as the group became more grounded—though still open—she put on this recording. Everyone’s hearts opened.
I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. The line brings me immense solace when I feel society is running away with itself, or when I worry I’m not doing enough. The essence is simple: All we are meant to do, for eternity, is sit around the fire. There will be hearths on Mars and beyond, or some variation of them.
If you have a creative streak, I urge you to try this out. Go camping with good friends. Once the fussing is done, you’ve got a drink in your hand, and you’re gazing into the fire, try imagining your life as more stressful than it feels in that moment. It’s almost impossible. Your problems will still exist, and you might feel melancholic, but something shifts. Any time people come together in a circle—calm, honest, and gazing upon something eternal like a fire (or even a baby)—something profound happens.
Science knows so little about this. What we don’t know is an ocean compared to the drop we do.
When I moved back to Perth, I was struck by how little emphasis the therapeutic community places on sitting in circles together. Without sounding pretentious, having worked internationally, I was disappointed. The coaching community here is better at it, but really, it’s not rocket science.
Choose a focal point, turn off your phones, take off your masks, and just be with each other. Say less than you think you need to and see what happens. Every part of you will calm down. Creativity will flow. Clarity will emerge. Humour will bubble up. It’s like a wild dog cautiously approaching a fire, drawn in by the warmth and energy of humans who mean no harm. This might even be where we got dogs—wolves, circling fires, inching closer for scraps.
This energy invites you in.
Hestia, goddess of the hearth and home, belongs in every psyche and every home. This isn’t a gendered notion. The capacity to nurture and care for others is a collective responsibility. But someone must tend the fire, whether it’s at a campsite or within your soul. Otherwise, it goes out.
This poem reflects that sentiment—the sense of being taken care of. Artists love other artists. If you have creatives in your life, nurture them. Watch the gratitude flow back to you in ways you can’t imagine.
Another theme here is the lesson every artist must learn: how to move between ordinary and non-ordinary worlds. The truly great artists do this seamlessly, thousands of times a day, without getting “spiritual bends.”
Ian McEwan speaks of a fallow strip beneath the Berlin Wall in his novel The Innocent—a no-man’s-land where, amidst decay and division, rabbits thrived. I love this image: even in the midst of human conflict, some part remains untouched and alive. You will likely have to set up a few checkpoint charlies for your family and friends to enforce the new boundaries of your creative life, but let your spirit jump back and forth like rabbits through holes in the walls of your mind. Rabbits don’t care whether the grass they are eating lies on communist or capitalist land. Grass is grass.
If you’re struggling, here’s what to remember:
You are not broken. Sit in a circle with others. It doesn’t matter where—a therapy group, an AA meeting, dinner with friends, or a quiet drink in a dimly lit pub. Light a fire, sit around it, and reflect. Then get some sleep, and see what happens. The dawn is wiser than the night.
Integration is possible. Even amidst trauma, messages get through. The grey area of human connection fans the embers of your soul. Like rabbits in the fallow grass, parts of you are still alive, even if hidden from view.
You’re going to be okay. Holding boundaries with those who once held power over you is painful and messy, but you’ll learn. Just breathe on the embers of your past. It’s not all ash.
The Kingdom of Silence
“Good Fucking Riddance”
is exhaled upon the Easterly
making a zephyr of it.
Willed inertia upon the stoop
Long enough to see the car stumble beyond the crescent,
A lone toot evicts a raven
from the stand of bare ashes in the circus
and they are gone.
The restless chieftan is restored
to the kingdom of silence.
Experience - nothing less - has taught him to stay
still now,
and accept the equipoise of a rabbit in the fallow strip,
nibbling grass at the foot of the watchtower.
he scrapes clean shoes against
the little victorian crossbar.
Black. Ornate. Restored by him,
for this sole purpose.
The rasp cuts through the crisp gloaming.
Ele é pé rapado
Hestia awaits in the kitchen
Mohair and Vanilla
“so early they left!”
“hmmmmmm.”
their cheeks swap stories
while they gently twirl.
“Heaven - I’m in heaven,
and the cares that hung around me through the week,
seem to vanish like a gambler’s lucky streak…”
hummed upon her mastoid process - taken everywhere
The kettle clicks its crescendo and She kisses him.
dead on the lips.
Like their beautiful children do.
He ascends the stairs
transubstantiated,
and stoops to the hearth
embers breathed upon reignite.
a gentle exhumation.
trace elements, removed in minutes
a tray is produced by her
Roobois and food
that can now be tasted.
Collapsing into each other,
Green velvet.
What deliverance! What peace!
to know - that all we are going to do,
for eternity
is sit around the fire
Niall Campbell