Born in Sunshine, Victoria, 3rd in line from a family of 7, I have always been a Melbourne man at heart. Until age 3, I had quite the average upbringing, for a musician. My mother Sophie; an attempted self-inspiring artist, had a severely unfortunate problem with Pathological lying. Not long after my third birthday, my Father; one the most Honest, Compassionate and Brilliant men on this planet, packed up and left. Then, I was devastated, heartbroken, and angry. So much anger, sadness, anxiety, depression; consumed by emotions, I lost myself slightly. A bouncy, cheery young boy; I pushed my feelings aside, I can still remember the hurt, that I felt. I can still feel the anger, every day.. Straight away, as soon as I was able to talk, I was learning music. I begged for it, I had to learn, have to learn. At three I had already begun taking to concerts in our fireplace, in our small flat in Melbourne. By the time I reached 7, I was one bouncy little kid. I made myself smile, jump, laugh and sing. I sang sweet songs, always sweet songs. I can remember now my Father telling me a few times that when I was born, the first thing I did was grab his beard, smile, and sing. Two minutes, and I was done, closed my eyes, slept for half a day. That’s me, all over.. Or so I thought. At age 7, there were now four kids; my Father was long gone, still connected but constantly pushed aside by my Mother. Tabatha and Kara, the Twins, separated by a mere twenty minutes, two worlds apart. They look absolutely nothing alike, and share only minute psychological and cognitive similarities. Cassandra, the fourth child from my Father, the outcast. Even at age 6, she was even then, a liar, thief and difficult to deal with. We went to school at a small primary called Yapeen. To start with, the school had around 30 students. By the time I was 11, there were six of us, four of which were still Grahams. Straight away, I was picked on, ridiculed. Now understand this, I was raised, to think I am a complete fool. Good for nothing, no one. Told I would never achieve, that my stupidity knew no bounds. I believed it. Worse, I used it. To fuel my emotions, my anger, my hunger for a greater life, my desire to find another loser like me. I was also born, with thick, Golden locks, that now, don’t exist… My first day after school, I came home crying, hiding into myself, something up until then, I had never done. My mother asks me what’s wrong, and I say how the kids pushed and picked at me about my beautiful hair, until I beat them up. My mother was shocked, and took my reply as an admission to wrong-doing. Against my pleas, my tears and my anguish, she chopped those locks right off… I can’t say how it hurt, as the emotion I feel towards it is too great, but I can say, I have never forgiven her, and it’s there that the hate in my heart began. By 8, my hair no longer hung in locks, it had become dark, and brooding, much as I had. My mother had torn so much hair from my head, never looking at what she was doing, obviously; that the resulting regrowth didn’t know which way to go anymore… My head must have been so scarred, it came back in spirals. Still to this day, my thick, dark, curly hair grows in any and every direction. Not long after, my greatest friend and idol, Yogi, passed away. His death broke me, the love I had for him so great that I have lost almost all memories from then til around thirteen. I remember all the emotions taking over, I remember losing my mind, how much it hurt, how nobody helped me. I remember thinking that was who I was, always will be. A nuts, musician/artist. My mother had me so convinced of this, that I waited, almost all of my young life, for “them” to take me away. At ten, I was happy. At thirteen, I was crazy. My Father started pushing my emotion and grief back, I suppose not wanting me to grow up too fast, to reach my peak unready, and lose myself completely. I figure, the first few years, must have been hard to see what I was going through, I bottled it up so much. When I got to high-school, I suppose things changed. I started becoming someone, something else. Cocky, Stupid, Dangerous. A Dickhead. I realised how strong, fast and nimble I was, and tried anything. Everything. Looking back, it is no wonder I was bullied, picked upon. Bloody weirdo, not an ounce of self-confidence, musician, angry and so confused. And I could play any sport, could play a mean game of chess, and even spent some time in a Mathematics group, working out ridiculously long equations. Until I moved to my father finally, at 15/16, I still had severe issues, and beat up every kid that looked at me funny, half the time. I’m not proud, I never will be. I am so sad, so ashamed of myself. But it happened, and I live with it all, every day. My father rang me constantly, checking in, pushing the emotions back, calming me down, and helping ease my crazed mind. I was 15, and living on the streets, another story I suppose; and my Father heard of my struggles. He rang me up, and the conversation sits in my mind constantly, a reminder of my on stupidity. “What the Fuck are you doing Richard?” “I’m not doing anything, mum kicked me out and she’s lying about it to Centrelink. I’m living on the streets, alone.” Silence, for a moment. “Come home Richard. Come here, I will help you.” Those words, they did something to me. Lifted a great weight from my heart. Someone did care! I took all I had, which wasn’t much more then my guitar and the clothes on my back; and headed to Geelong. Twice, I went back to my mother, the young boy in me still confused, broken. Again, and again, I lost my mind. Again and again, my Father, that beautiful, worldly soul, bought me back. Now, I didn’t exactly have a great childhood, with my mother. I can remember dozens of visits with my father, wearing rags that hung off our skin and bones, so thin you could just about use us as a kite on a windy summer’s day. I can remember a few years, living in a bus, starving, the house owners we rented the bus from, raping my elder sister, again and again. The poor woman, the poor little girl. How I feel for her, wishing I had known something, seen something. I can remember so much. I can remember how for six years, I didn’t know what a television was, what it felt like to have a full stomach, or what it felt like to fall asleep on a real bed. My father, he changed everything. I can’t truly describe how brilliant he is, but I can say this; when I was born, he had one plan. To ensure that I never turned out like him, that I wouldn’t have his life, his sufferings, pains and heartaches, his craziness. But his isn’t crazy, just brilliant. 24 years, he has never lied, never steered from his path, as hard as I’ve made it form him. A 24 year plan, to stop me from going crazy, and to help me reach greatness, like him. 24 years, is a bloody long time. All that time, he has lived. Travelled, became a Nurse, got a security licence, even met Al Capone in Italy. Not that he knew so at the time, so dedicated on being himself, he didn’t care to search his memories of the bloke he saw. Fair enough, right? For his brilliance is finally showing, is finally obvious to me. I look around me now, there are brilliant paintings and portraits everywhere, all his. Amazing artworks, the lead singer/guitarist for the STiF DigiTs, Nurse, Poet, worldly and a mind that would baffle most, I am not him. He makes me so proud, so privileged, to bear his name. I wear his name like a badge, and now, I want to make that name forever famous. For him. For me, For the world.