Paul Mason

Composer, dancer, scientist, ethnographer—Paul Mason is a polymath of the senses and a cartographer of culture. He earned his PhD in Anthropology at Macquarie University in Sydney, but his creative orbit extends far beyond academia. His writing has found voice in Noise and The Age, and his experiments in creative science have leapt off the pages of Brolga: An Australian Journal About Dance. Brolga-an Australian journal about dance.

Drawn to the rhythms of real life, Paul explores music, movement, and ritual as both art and inquiry. When asked why he writes ethnography, he once mused: “Asking me why I document lived experience with words is like asking a painter why they didn't just take a photo.”

In 2006, his vivid lens on the world earned him the Noise VoteForArt prize, a testament to his ability to blend the seen and the felt into something utterly new.

So Perfectly Normal

Written in 2025 by Paul H. Mason

How many rebellions have starved to death
in the quiet of your clenched throat?
How many sparks of laughter have you dimmed
to a polite, palatable flicker?

How many loves have you left unspoken?
How many words have you swallowed back
like bitter pills, too jagged to spit out?

How many versions of yourself have you buried
just to be normal?

How many times have you shrunk yourself,
a blade against your own edges,
paring down the parts that refused to fit?

In slicing away these parts of yourself,
you become an artist of invisibility,
a sculptor of your own vanishing act,
diminishing yourself with each unspoken desire,
each apology for simply existing.

Cleaving away the strange, the too-much, the unruly,
severing piece by piece,
each fragment an offering
to a god who demands obedience.

You know the rules.

Lead, but never outshine.
Follow, but never falter.

Do not be too loud.
Do not be too quiet.
Do not stray too far ahead.
Do not fall too far behind.

Be a leader who follows.

Be pleasing to the eye,
Be soft to the touch,
Be gentle on the ears.
Be calm and steadfast,
Be vulnerable and surrendering.

Bend, but do not break.
Want, but do not need.
Ache, but do not bleed.

No laughing too loud.
No crying too hard.
No disruptions to the hum of the ordinary.

The whispers tighten around you like silk.
You smooth your voice like river stone,
press your desires into folded napkins,
walk the tightrope between invisibility and acceptability.

And still, you are too much.
And still, you are not enough.
And still—
he grows hungrier.

Beneath all the things you never said,
all the things you never did,
all the lies you whispered to yourself,
your creativity lies buried,
a body without a grave.

Built from your self-erasure, here he takes root.
Each resected fragment inhaled by a void
drawing sustenance from your growing emptiness,
cradled by the depth of your absence.

Called into being with your every self-sacrifice,
Thriving on the excised cinders of your unspoken dreams,
With each debridement, he tightens his grip,
swelling his lungs with all that you forsake.

Not an entity of flesh, but of absence,
He is a god sculpted from the spaces where you might have been.
A dense mass of severed remains mislaid,
an ever-accumulating forceful gravity,
collapsing more nothingness into the starving—
a black hole where swallowed joy
disappears without trace,
where little escapes,
not even the echo of the life you might have lived.

And still, we do not speak his name.
Because he hides in the words left unsaid,
His accretion masked by external conformity.
he guzzles the actions you have suppressed,
he nestles into the wounds you carved
just to appear gentle, calm—
normal.

Like all gods, he is never sated.
His stomach is lined with the echoes of silenced songs,
his ribs latticed with the bones of untold stories,
his breath thick with the scent of smothered joy.

He feasts on the time you wasted,
obsessing over the mirror,
painting your face to be more palatable,
rearranging your clothes to be more noticeable,
sculpting your body to capture the right kind of attention.

He drinks down the energy spent biting back your rage,
picking at the edges of your words
until they are small enough to be swallowed.

He devours your swallowed tears,
your stifled dreams,
your rehearsed, compliant nods.

Each severed ember feeds his hunger,
tightens the noose,
expands his gravitational pull,
until the world itself bends to his weight—
until all that is bright and boundless
is pulled into his relentless hunger.

With a cheshire grin,
he offers you the mask,
presses a script into your palm,
teaches you the lines,
the practiced smiles,
the acceptable poise.

He promises something seamless,
polished to perfection,
unquestioned, unchallenged—
something that fits in.

Despite every ablution,
Every hygienic whim,
you find yourself nowhere,
not even within.

A guest in your own skin,
a stranger in your crowd
a foreigner among your people
people who will never know
how much you carved away
just to fit in.

And you?
You are hollowing,
Your faded presence a dull echo,
Your edges blurred like ink in water,
Your voice dissolved into dutiful pleasantries.

A vessel of politeness,
the shell of a crumbling statue
carved in his afterimage.

A fraction of your whole,
a vestigial shadow—
worn thin by expectation,
muted by your self-censorship.

Still standing, but already gone,
so perfectly normal,
that no one ever asks,
what was lost.

Almost Like Me

Written 2025 by Paul H. Mason

I see faces in clouds, in the knots of a tree,
In pavements that crack into grins just for me.
A smudge on the window, a stain on the floor—
A flicker of someone I swear I’ve seen before.

I look at my spaghetti, see a face in the bowl,
Then glance at the mirror—am I still whole?
The lines on my forehead, the curve of my chin,
Like graphs and proportions—do I even fit in?

I'm normal, I'm normal, but what does that mean?
A number? A bell curve? A median between?
I weigh, and I measure, like a math-induced curse,
If I’m one point above, am I any the worse?

I see faces in numbers, in charts and in scales,
A flicker of meaning the moment it fails.
They taunt and they tease, they scorn and they chide,
Yet still, I keep searching for the patterns to guide.

The doctors have charts, the lawyers define,
What’s normal, what’s right, what steps out of line.
But neat little boxes leave pieces behind,
And none of their rules fit the shape of my mind.

I sculpt and I polish, I tone and I paint,
I count every calorie, measure restraint.
A treadmill of trends, a goal I can't see,
Yet normal still whispers, "You're almost like me."

I bite back my questions, I swallow my doubt,
A pause, then a nod—I mustn't stand out,
The pull of the current, the weight of the rule,
To step out of line feels like playing the fool.

But the sages and skeptics all seem to agree,
That normal’s just made-up—it’s not even me!
My nose isn’t average, my feet aren’t quite right,
Yet somehow, I sleep pretty normal at night.

So here’s to the ghost of statistical dreams,
Who haunts all our charts and our self-esteem.
We chase it, compare it, but the truth, let’s be clear,
Normal’s just numbers, that are never quite here.

One Poem, One Life

Written 2003 by Paul H. Mason

One story,
One moment;
One moment,
One kiss;
Two moments more.

Photo courtesy of Kel Johanssen and Richard Rosalion © 2006

Only One Tomorrow

If there was only one tomorrow,
And only one today,
Would you fly away in sorrow,
And find a better way?

For all the subtle lessons,
And all your subtle ways,
And all the little blessings,
That will be with me always.

For in eternal happiness,
And in eternal joy,
There is eternal sadness,
All that we can\'t destroy.

So in another tomorrow,
Or in another today,
Would you want to follow,
Or would you lead the way?

This Echo Engulfing

completed in the evening of Monday, 6 July 2007

When the preceding action,
Is louder than the first,
Thoughts become fashion,
Repetitively rehearsed.

When days run into weeks and years,
And moments into sand,
The fading sighs of silent tears,
Will be all we understand.

When this final calling,
Becomes our final breath,
Then this echo engulfing,
Shall lead us to our death.

Shadows from our infant dreams,
Shall reflect unto our eyes,
A mirror for our hopes unseen,
An image once lost inside.

Ripples from our vanished past,
Collide with lives entwined,
Burdens of the unfinished task,
No better to be defined.

Can this wisdom waiting,
To flow out from our soul,
Ever go without ever stating,
That it longs to make us whole?

An urgency of experience,
Uncoiled from one big bang,
Emphasised in emptiness,
If, from thoughts we hang.
Regardless, go unto tomorrow,
And contemplate the day,
Let the time your soul to borrow,
And steal your breath away.

In contemplative retrospect,
Be the tear that fell from high,
That did not in pools collect,
But that wept away; that swept away; that fell and learnt to fly.

Ode to the Honeybee

completed in 2006

the feeling of you

written in the evening of 31 July 2007

There was a whisper inside a tear,
That faintly whimpered when you came near.
There was a heartbeat inside a sigh,
That yearned to quicken, that ached to cry.

Hidden in our shared caress,
There were spaces I confess,
That unashamedly begged your touch,
Waiting for you to fill them such.

Incredibly awakened by the feeling of you,
Like sweet imaginations resting like the dew,
Upon the wandering fingers of my wandering eyes,
You nourished my soul with the lingering echoes of your sighs.

Plunged so deeply

written on the morning of 31 July 2007

The boy with the pluralistic mind

written 30 July 2007

The boy with the pluralistic mind,
frightened by those of the normal kind,
wandered into the land of the wandering free,
and fell through the arms of serendipity.

Guided by coincidence into her smile,
he longed to stay, to stay awhile,
the pluralistic mind of the enraptured boy,
found the happiness of an eternal joy.

Touched by the skin that touched his soul,
touched by the parts that made him whole,
unexpected he fell through the gaze of a wandering host,
slipping through the haze of a memory he\'d miss most.

Constricted by the hormone that drove his pulse,
knowing what was and what wasn\'t false,
he drenched himself in a memory fading fast,
indulging the emotion so that it would last.

Holding on to a caress that never was,
he became lost in a moment for forever cos,
he dared not lose what he\'d already lost,
tried to defy it no matter what the cost.

Was this fiction or was this real?
what was this feeling he did feel?
He built a spirit but broke his heart,
Was he better off where he did start?

But still the corners of her smile still widen his soul,
the clumsiness of her touch still make him whole,
if only to live in a present that is always past,
he\'ll hold onto this moment and make it last.

If I were ever ever

If I were ever ever,
lessened by this world,
Softened into the terra,
And in its depth be held.

Then I would want to rise,
With birds cradled in my arms,
Reaching for their open skies,
And decorated in their charms.

Sending my roots deep and wide,
Taking the earth within my stride,
Breathing from my lungs outside,
Being a being that lived and died.

Standing tall in noble glory,
No man need hear my story,
Blessings felt in simple presence,
A love eternal that is my essence.

And, If I were ever ever,
Frightened by the day,
Eroded by the weather,
And faded in dismay.

Then extend my reach,
Beyond my length,
Experience will teach,
Me inner strength.

I cannot give,
What I have not learnt,
And I will not live,
If I have not earnt.

But, if I were ever ever,
To find a humbler path,
Let me search for my surrender,
In the spotlight of my mirth.

The Oystery of Wakafiva

written 28 July 2007

In a mysterious place called wakafiva,
there lived a giant buffalo-beaver,
he liked to dance and he liked to eat,
but his favourite thing was the people he\'d meet.

You see, in this mysterious place of mystery,
There was a mysterious oystery,
It attracted all the fishes and the fishermen,
And Mr Buffalo-Beaver adored to entertain them.

And Despite the smell they\'d laugh with glee,
for Mr Buffalo-Beaver was a funny man you see,
Oft he\'d joke and clown around,
but alas he\'d never make a sound.
Mr Buffalo-Beaver, you must understand,
Was friendly but a quiet man,
Of few words but many smiles,
And of gestures which\'d reach your inner child.

The fishermen were ever attentive to his gentle ways,
For it was the attentive who enjoyed brighter days,
And in the moonlight of oyster bay,
the oystery of wakafiva was no mystery to those men at play.

On the precipice of the evergreen

written July 2007

If I was a moment,
What moment would I be?
And if I was your atonement,
What forgiveness would you see?

If I was a whisper,
Sailing in a dream,
Would the sunlight quiver,
When dappled on that scene?

Will I find surrender,
In a moment with no name?
Or is the present forever,
Going to leave me just the same?

Can this breathe that shortens,
Ever hope to find release?
And can the depth that broadens,
Ever fold into that crease?

reflective prayers

Written 29, June 2007

Certain Faith

Where the where was,
And how the how wasn’t,
Is it is or is it not?
Can we can, or can we can’t,
Are we are, or are we not?
Why the why we wonder why,
Knowing what wasn’t was,
Were who happy with how,
Or aren’t we, won’t we, what?

Golly Froggle, Twiggy and Me

Written 18 May, 2007

Once there was a golly woggle,
Who goggled all the way,
He liked to dance with jolly froggle,
They\'d dance the night away.

And plenty a jig, they did jig,
With twiggy the twig and me,
For in that land of moggy moggles,
Of twiggy twigs and me,
There was an air of jolly fine fellows,
Of soft belly bellows and glee.
So oft we would wander,
And never we\'d ponder,
We\'d dream and dance all day.
Dancing our dance,
Swinging our sway,
We\'d quaggle our boggles,
And twiggle our twiggles away.

Internal Disharmony

Internal disharmony,
External order,

Harmony within,
Disorder without.

Disorder within harmony,
Disharmony without order.

Inner synchronization,
Outer cacophony,

Inclusive anarchy,
Exclusive organization.

Synchronised inner anarchy,
Exclusive outer cacophony.

Outer within,
Inner without,

Exclusion internal,
Inclusion eternal.

A matter to think

Where is my mind? It’s in my head,
Composed by all things I’ve done and said,
And by context - as the context breathes,
Conferring meaning and function in an intricate weave.
So where is my head? Is it in my mind?
Lost in nature, environment and things of that kind.
Selectively dismantled, overjoyed and dismayed,
The situations handled, the memories just fade.
I am within my memories,
As much as they are in me,
Trapped in the light of time’s ambiguity,
Evolving, living and dying into infinity.

Silent dreams

Silent dreams are like conscious sleep,
Hidden by a fog that clouds the deep,
Like unheard music that only sounds clear,
The closer you are, the more you are near.
Against a blurry thicket of background noise,
Stand the imaginings of all the joys,
Unfolding before you, conspiring the moment,
Releasing behind you and finding atonement.
Lost in worlds of combinatorial possibility,
Defined by patterns of endless creativity.
Experiencing an experience as part and whole,
Accepting the present and the long term goal.
Tormented by structures layered and forced,
Healed by questions revealed and put forth.
Being the process, the product and becoming,
Being still and silent and constantly running.
Stopping to listen and wanting to know,
What spirits emerge and hide below.
Faint murmurs of distant voices within,
Raise their echoes for us to join in.

Published Works

• Mason, P.H. (2010) The Door or the Herd, in Flosculi Australes, James Mitchell (ed), p 160. Mason, P.H. (2006) Ecstatically Inclined, Winner of the Noise VoteForArt competition, September 2006. What will we know of man, if only man we know? published by www.noise.net
• Honeybee Experiments, Noise, 2006
• Called into Creation by Being, the Universe Breathed Her In, Noise, 2006
• Metamers of the mind, Noise, 2006
• Recursive Causality, Noise, 2006
• Mason, P.H. (1994) I\'m listening, watching and talking to my flowers\, The Age.

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