I am not special. I don’t identify with anyone being special or talented. Show me a person who is selfless and doesn’t hate, kill or judge, that’s special, not a musician who can play or sing just like 50,000 other “talented” people. There are just people doing things which make them feel something as a result of their influences. But what was the impetus? Without influence there isn’t one, It’s a womb. Art is imitation.

Realising I’m not interesting is when I become interesting, and not for the sake of being interesting but for the sake of realising the truth.

Don’t you think it’s ridiculous that it’s acceptable for adults to lie to children about santa claus and easter bunnies? How does lying to kids benefit them ever?

What am I contributing to downloading all this pop music for djing? How long will sex be comodified and women villified in it? When will saying Nigga 30 times in 1 song become passé?

Does the world really need another aspiring musician? I don’t need to do it even though I think about it alot, it’s environmental, it was the last thing on my mind in the bush and I was convinced I was done with it and sold all my equipment to keep travelling.

I’m only doing it for the skate rink, those kids make me so happy having fun. I enjoy the connection. I just want something to do, I’ll just sit there otherwise.

If I look back am I proud of all that time I spent downloading music and barely djing? No. I am however proud of the time I’ve spent away from the laptop screen and the countries I’ve been to and how I did it, quite extraordinary really which seems like it never happened now.

I’m thinking more about taking off again. But why? Because I’m treading water, and learning more about the world would have to be the best thing I could do if everything was pointless right?

I’ll get back to travel in a sec.

Sometimes I understand life perfectly, being worthless and weightless, a part of all other life, just a consciousness without a cause. The purity of nature is what’s beautiful. Feeling that makes time vivid and still in those short moments, I can continue living knowing nothing is important because I can’t make a difference, I don’t make a difference. Other concepts are forming and become alot clearer when I don’t poison myself, but they are still very hard to describe. I spoke to a women at the Kalamunda magic shop the other day and she understood me. It’s all much much less about “I” and more about “this” and “is” and “ok”.

Gough Whitlam our 21st PM was active about resource rape, consumption and capitalism in the early 70’s and what difference did it make? We are still expanding, consuming and destroying the place with increasing determination and efficiency. John Lennon was a huge peace activist and educator and we are on the verge of war right now. You might be able to provide some temporary intellectual entertainment, save a few lives, make some social reforms but it’s nature’s way in the end rectifying the imbalances like tsunami population control. We will destroy ourselves someday, but we have some catching up to do to China!

Travel….so……..wandering the streets with wet socks and a dirty backside is horrible. The cold is horrible, being lost is horrible, having no support is horrible, and I have that here. Maybe it will be different this time, cleaner, more planned….

There’s a few important things to spiritual health which probably doesn’t exist but for the purpose I think they are….



Stillness of mind however you get it.



Some nutrition.

Giving, in no order.

Despite the security, I’m still unsettled, my identity is constantly collapsing, which is rapturous and torturous at the same time.

Has travel helped me as a person? I don’t think so, the same emotional obstacles would have challenged me without leaving the house, I’d just have different observations to recall. Your so abasing. Thanks.

Remember I know nothing only think some things and people can say whatever they want without any action, because that’s what our politicians do, besides Kevin Rudd.

Since I destroyed all social media accounts and links to this blog there is only a handful of readers now and if anyone could be special you’d be close to being it, so share your thoughts if your so inclined.

Love outpouring.


9 OCT 14

Babies are like pigeons in a park, but if they land on your arm and love you they become special.

I just sat with Kailey at mum’s, I held her, fed her and burped her. She wanted to cry but I fixed it. She just stares at me. What do her thoughts look like if she knows no words? Feelings.

I said, I’m your uncle Chris, and a wave of emotion washed through me leaking out my eyes. I’m always going to be there for you, ok darling? She looked at me in wonder with her little wet mouth and smiling eyes, shoulders up near her ears slipping through my grip under her arms.
I don’t know if it was sadness or happiness or that her stainless spirit was reaching out to mine and saying that everything was going to be ok.
The cat looked up at me intensely brushing against my leg. They know.


Contour 50 Litre

Aug 27 2012

I hitchiked apx 150km from Freycinet National Park to Sorell by 8pm. I enquired about accomodation at one of the two pubs in town and seeing as I felt I could do without my own personal spa I wandered up to the second pub which was closed. Through the window there was a similar aged women to myself with ringlet hair, she was counting money on the bar. I tapped lightly on the window and prepared an “I’m a good guy smile”. She reciprocated however was unable to cater for my request. I departed the pub for an adjacent Subway noting an iron stair case leading to the pub roof from it’s rear.

I discussed my predicament with the sandwich artist (SA) and he offered to call his mother who had reputable local knowledge. As I received a response similar to previous enquiries I began to feel quite effusive about the rest of the night, particularly when SA reminded me it’s illegal to camp in public spaces. Sleeping on the street is a paragon of nonconformism, especially when you don’t need to.

I walked around for an hour looking for a park, I even considered camping on the lawn of Red Rooster as a demonstration, unnecessary I reasoned. I’d already decided where I was going to sleep, I was just looking for something better (I do that in many areas of my life).

On the roof was a disused outdoor area on a mossy cement flat. I pictured townsfolk socialising from years gone by as I looked over broken chairs and rusty ashtrays. The condensation in my breath leads me to the less exposed front balcony where I find an exit door. I peer in the window and see a light on, I did see her drive away in a holden commodore not long ago. I grab the door handle and flex at my elbow joint, the door opens. I pictured Sloth from the goonies living inside and going into a frenzied attack from my intrusion.”Maybe nobody uses it anymore and I could sleep in there”. I feel my headspin and place a foot on the door ready to enter. Wait. “This is not right, it’s tresspassing and not consistent with the objective. Abort”.

About 12 pm I hear the slurring voices of two young males walking past the pub to Macdonalds. I shuffle over to the edge of the floorboards in my sleeping bag and peer into the street below through the missing trellis. They are dragging their feet and looking at the ground, talking to eachother in a primitive form, one of them almost walks into a street sign. They remind me of myself 16 years ago, there’s no way in the world they know anyone is watching them.

I make my way to Port Arthur which is 70km away. I find a good spot to hitch from and figure a teeth brush is in order. I pat a horse, get sneezed on by the horse, fall over then wonder if I was in danger of contracting equine.

The highlight of Port Arthur was getting there, besides the 1863 inscription of a prisoners initials in the guard tower wall. I got a ride there with Martin, a local footy player, lobster exporter and champion ruby smoker. He spoke with conviction of great memories with his ex wife, how they would entertain the community after the local football match with food and live bands. He also told me that “women are nothing but trouble”. I’ve lost count how many times I’ve heard that on this trip. He told me all about the affect one particular incident in 1996 had on the people of the area and pointed to where the main participant once lived. Martin is a good man, I can tell. He cares about his kids and philosophises about treating others the way he wants to be treated.  He said he has a secure home of his own and is lucky that it all worked out as he was quite worried about it for a long time. I suggested luck might have little to do with it.

I get back to Hobart and relax for a couple of days. Then I decide to hitch from Melbourne to Perth.


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