I was thinking about it but I changed my mind.

Here’s what I did.

Found a friend who didn’t call me selfish, change the subject or tell me it’s not that bad. Someone who could listen without giving me advice. Unless advice is offered very tactfully it will be perceived as a judgement, that the answer is simple and that I’m not trying hard enough. And basically just make me hate them.

Saw a therapist. In Australia you get 10 free sessions a year on Medicare and surprisingly when combined with the other coping tools listed here it can prove very helpful. Even if it’s just one thing they say, it has helped me move through a new door of self awareness. I was certain there was nothing more for me to gain from counselling and when goal setting was suggested I scoffed. ‘That’s one of the reasons I’m so messed up because of all this pressure to achieve something.’ But It did help me. It helped me realise that living on the street wasn’t an option anymore. That what was most important to me at that time was having somewhere safe to live. So I started taking steps towards it and am picking up keys to a studio apartment.

Faced my emotions. I read somewhere that if people could just deal with their emotions, there would be no need for therapy. Luckily I have a tool for that, Vipassana Meditation. On average I practice 1 hour a day, have done for 3 years. And I don’t have insomnia anymore. It’s like excercise for the mind, making it strong. It is not about 3rd dimensions, it is like training a very naughty dog x 1000. But like excercise which makes me feel good when I do it and enhances many other areas of my life, when I don’t do it, the benefits are easy to forget. So frequency is key.

Minimized addictions. There is no way around it, whether it’s heroin or cake, there is no truth for me in synthetic experiences. At times it’s not even about resisting it’s about knowing what I have to do to get better which is experience those difficult feelings naturally. Nothing motivates abstinence like abstinence. The feeling of being clean and not needing anything to be myself. I’ve been working on this for over 10 years and have remained completely drug, alcohol and cigarette free since the 1st day of 2013. I am currently looking for a group to help with overeating. Besides my friends and even my therapist thinking it’s hilarious for me to eat 10 donuts covered in Nutella and regular quantities of similar shit, I feel like it is just as physically, emotionally and spiritually damaging as other drugs. Just my opinion. I cut out sugar again recently for over 2 weeks because I’d been hitting it so hard I was breaking out in dermatitis and waking up in night sweats. I tell you that in conjunction with the other efforts, after a week some relationship troubles resolved, I was able to make some important decisions and had rock hard stiffys everyday.

Excercise. Nike got it right, just do it. I know it’s good for me. It burns the guilt of excess calories, it tones my body, it stimulates metabolism, self discipline and endorphins. And most importantly it gets my mind off staring at the wall trying to solve the mystery of depression. I said to my therapist, “I feel like excercise is just a distraction, like a band aid, that I’m literally running away from my problems and they will be right there where I left them. ‘That may be so,‘ she said ‘But is sitting there thinking about it actually helping?’ Absolutely not,‘ I said. ‘I’ll sit there for 3 fucking days drawing nooses.’ ‘Exactly, she said ‘It’s very dangerous.

Work. All of the above, helping my mate at work, djing, volunteering in arts communities. Even if I do feel like pulling out on the day, even if I am quiet and weird, I go get involved and usually find it was worth it. Just doing something to get me out of the house, into a routine, a reason not to stay up allnight. Developing my interests. There are times when all of this rationale is beyond me and I can’t get off that dark path but I like to think that my determination has something to do with improvement. Recovery is hard work but suffering is harder. I know some people don’t have a support network and depression has often convinced me that I don’t have one either, which is bollocks. Because there is someone to ask for help, I just need to keep asking and if they don’t come I’ll scream at the top of my lungs until they do.

I didn’t always have a support network or interests to give me something to work towards. I used to drink, steal, and hate. But with continuous hard work better things came. It happens very slowly but 15 years passes quickly and there is nothing more important than my mental health. That is my job and it is so difficult, almost impossible, that’s why I don’t blame people for killing themselves or most of the population for being addicted to something. I know when I see a filthy person crouched in a street corner talking to themselves that it most certainly could have been me. I was on the start of that path. Can someone come back from that? I would love to know, or hear from anyone that has recovered from mental illness (or developed the tools to cope.) There was a time when I thought I might actually be able to kill another person if they wronged me but I’ve completely changed. So I make an exception on receiving advice when my therapist says, ‘Keep doing whatever your doing, because it’s working.’


I should spend longer working on this but I don’t want to.

mum took this

7 August 2015

Newcastle, England

I was just in a Doctors surgery trying to get some support for depression. While sitting on plastic blue chairs in the waiting room looking at the grey wall next to the typical surgery clock and health education flyers, I thought how sterile and restless a picture it made. I pulled my camera up to figure out the best composition and lowered it again as people passed. When the room was empty I rested my camera on my knee for a low shutter speed and took the pic.

5 minutes later a crowd of staff surrounded me enquiring what I’d taken a picture of. “The wall,” I said, without moral conflict. A staff member told me that a patient was very upset that I’d taken pictures of their personal details up on the patient monitor.

Very calmly, I replied “Absolutely not, the screen was blank and the room was empty when I took the picture. I’ll go and develop them right now and show you.” She asked for my address and ID and told me I couldn’t leave with the film. I wanted to say “You can try and take it if you like,” but cooperated.  The only way to settle the misunderstanding was to sacrifice the film.

Patients were watching on, shaking their heads, slowly convincing me of being scum. It wasn’t hard considering I’m depressed and my girlfriend just broke up with me. I tied my hair up to look more presentable and began to wind up the film. “It was completely artistic,” I said, “I take photography very seriously.“I don’t care,” said the staff member, “you can’t take pictures in here.” A patient started speaking about her nephew who takes pictures of everything and how people are so suspicious about it. “Everyone loves pictures of children but if you take one you’re a paedophile,” I replied. One man close by kept watching me as if waiting to make eye contact and chastise me.

AND HOW ARE YOU?” I hissed.

They offered to reimburse me the cost of the film and I told them it was £7. (Got it from poundland.)

Have I finally snapped? Am I going to be wandering around arcades shitting myself and shouting at strangers?


Withington, Manchester.

I was trying to hitch out of Uxbridge and nobody would stop. I got frustrated and realised that it was in this moment that I was truly free, not the destination or getting there. If I didn’t get a lift I could camp in the park and I’d still be truly free. I didn’t have to worry about working in that fucking place or what the housemates think of me or my girlfriend feeling neglected while I sat on my laptop.

Reg picked me up after I changed locations. He kept saying London was a toilet and that I’d made the right decision. He is a taxi driver because it lets him be his own boss and is able to come and go when he likes. “THATS IT!”, I said. “My biggest fear is not being able to come and go when I like, I’d rather be beaten than trapped.”

He asked about my girlfriend and I told him that she was amazing, and not the kind of guilty separation “amazing,” but spiritually and physically beautiful. “But, just because she is,” I said, “it doesn’t mean that I have to keep her for myself, what if she is better off without me? Or me her.” He gave me 5 quid and his phone number.

I ended up in Birmingham where I considered breaking into the boarded up Ruxtin hall to sleep. I chose to keep going and the only spot on the motorway to hitch from was terrible. It was raining and getting dark, I almost pitched in the park but a car made a huge effort to stop. They held up traffic and called out for where I was going. They said they could take me a short way but before long had paid for a night in a Welsh pub and organised a ride to Manchester the next morning.

They seemed to laugh at everything I said which almost made me impersonate myself to entertain them. I realised they probably weren’t used to picking up Australian hitch hikers and that I had an edge because I was different. So all I had to do was smile and keep it simple. Some might say “be myself,” if I knew who that was.

Kev reminded me of my dad. His voice whined like a scouse’s and he used fast anecdotes that I didn’t understand. He valued wit in men and cackled like the intro to the Gorillaz “Feel Good.” His teeth twisted and pointed straight out like a beaver.

He used to hitch hike 20 years ago and told the story of being picked up by a man in Dagenham that seemed alright to begin with. “He suggested I stay at his place, I soon realised he was a fookin gay and said nah I’ll be right. He kept insisting and luckily he pulled over to have a cup of tea, so I had one with him then went to the toilet and fooked off.” We all laughed.

I sat with Kev and his 2 sons at The Stanton Hotel in Chirk. They had about 3 pints each and for a moment I considered joining them. Kev chain smoked and repeatedly offered to buy me food and drink while getting money of his sons for the next round. All I had was £50 in the whole world but I still felt guilty for accepting the hotel. I was however prepared to sleep in the park so I just went with it.

I went upstairs to write, and Kev knocked on the door. “Aren’t you Australians meant to play guitar or something?” He kept shaking my hand and repeating himself, he was jolly. I thought to myself he is drunk.

He said goodnight and that his son would pick me up in the morning outside.  “It’s been a pleasure,” I said. “I bet it fookin has!” he said nodding sarcastically.

I could hear the doors playing through the wall in his room and he called me 10 minutes later. “Do you have an alarm clock you drongo?”

Mitch picked me up out the front, I didn’t get a chance to look at him much but he had small brown eyes. It was a slight struggle for me to talk but I made the effort because he was nice with a sensitive side common with males like myself who’ve grown up without a good relationship with their fathers.

I got into a posh part of South Manchester and succumbed to repeated biscuit and strawberry thick shake cravings. I don’t look after myself anymore and it worries me. I haven’t been meditating and temptations for anaesthesia have gotten louder.

I’m staying with Dan who I met whilst travelling in Mexico. He’s living at his uncles for nothing and gave me a top floor room overlooking the junglish backyard where I saw a fox.

I don’t think Flo is happy but I’ve run out of sorrys, I have to do this, we’ve been through worse.

The last time I saw him he found a wallet in the street and kept the money. He asked me what I’d do with it and I said I’d return it, but not when I was his age.

His flat was an old pub conversion it was white and smelt new. I had expected his place to be like ours, crusty couches and cannabis but it was clean and minimal.

Something was different about him in his bedroom. There were no baggy clothes or bucket hats, gold teeth or beer cans. Just a good looking kid sitting on his orange pattern bedspread wearing track pants and a white long sleeve shirt.

“Remember that wallet I found,” He asked.

“Yeah.” “Did you get some bad karma?”

He smiled, “Yeah, I lost my passport.”

He showed me his pictures. He uses a 1983 Nikon L35, one of their first point and shoot cameras, it’s square, black and robust looking. Fully automatic but clear with consistently accurate exposure.

He looked through my pictures which I discounted before showing him. He suggested we do an exhibition together.

He pointed out how hard I am on myself and offered rational alternatives to the opinion I have of my own work. “That’s only one persons opinion,” he said, and “It’s about telling the story your way,” not what you think people will like. He was always careful not to patronise me and I saw us with equal wisdom which is usually difficult for me with younger people.

I rambled on for an hour about how I thought I’d have it figured out by now and that I’m embarrassed for being a 33 year old who is still wandering around without stability in home or mind.

“From the outside it looks like you have the perfect life.” He said.

Jake asked me if I regretted burning all my journals and if I thought about them. “It’s like an ex girlfriend,” I said, “you think about them but they’re gone.”

It went quiet as we both stared internally. I was happy to remain so but didn’t want him to feel uncomfortable so I got up and got a drink.

We share a mutual disposition with human interaction. Each have a profound interest and desire to connect with people but when in the presence of them, generally want them to go away.

There are moments of eye contact between us which obviously remind ourselves of a deep self doubt which is too uncomfortable to sustain.

His housemate came in and told us about his night. I wondered if he always spoke that way and Jake looked at him without capacity.

His house is in a part of Peckham I hadn’t been to and it annoyed me that I didn’t have a camera.


Do I really have to meditate for the rest of my life just to keep it together?

I have a new job and am starting to dread going in already, but seriously, what on would I do if I didn’t go? Sit on my laptop? Or wander around again for the next 3 years wishing I had something meaningful to do.

I’m starting to value my time off dearly but too much of it is miserable.

Here’s a picture I drew of Figo The Fruit Fly


I was falling asleep on the train coming back from Victoria which some dudes were watching from the opposite seat. They were poking each other and laughing at me thinking I had no idea, so I continued, expanding the performance with an open mouth and rolling my eyes. I waited until the time was just right and shouted at the top of my lungs HAYYYYY! Everybody on the train jumped and it frightened those two so much that a small part of them may never recover.

Before that I was seeing Flo off at the coach terminal and eating a chocolate flapjack she’d bought me. Often when I look at her and the energy she emanates, I have trouble believing that it’s real. I figure I’m not worthy of such beauty and that she will surely die in a horrific bus crash because I have now experienced happiness and something HAS to come and take it away.

She was being silly and about to get on the bus, so the atmosphere was not quite right for serious affections, but I managed to stutter “You are so beautiful and I don’t know how I found you.” Someone once remarked to me those feelings about first meeting their wife and I’ve hoped to experience them myself since.

Her cheeks went red and I contemplated why such a thing would be so difficult to express. I made her promise she wouldn’t die. I can’t see any reason why we won’t be together until one of us does die, which let’s face it will be me because I’m way older, have been traumatized and am about 5 years away from type 2 diabetes.


I came home and ate 1 litre of cheap ice cream which I had to hide from my housemates because it was made by Nestle, I had to put 3 bananas in it for taste and heaps of Flo’s honey which I’ve been banned from touching. I also found some chocolate up the back of the cupboard which had obviously been hidden from me so I finished it as punishment.

I shamefully sat on my laptop and played with Lola as Finn clanged around with a mop and bucket, cleaning the house on her morning off. Jack then woke up grotesquely phlegmmy and left a puddle of tea on the clean floor.

While Jack was in Barcelona, Finn and Flo lovingly and charitably cleaned his room where I’d earlier witnessed a bulging rubbish bag being circled by small flying insects. I thought it was noble of them mainly because Jack is such a brat and I would never do it for him myself. Finn had discovered something amusing and called me down to see. The room looked great and they’d written him a poem. Upright on a shelf stood both of Jack’s rubber dildo’s and Finn cheekily pointed at the smaller one which seemed to have some of his remains on it with a hair stuck to it.

Jack and I had not been getting along at all for a while and a recent argument between us had left my attitude towards him in disrepair. When I went into his room however to retrieve some shorts he’d borrowed a week before, I found myself intrigued and empathetic towards him. This was his first time living away from home and had obviously never had any domestic responsibilities before. For a gay kid growing up in Essex I assume the only way to cope is to become insolent and efficient at devaluing criticism which unfortunately crosses over to things he doesn’t understand or hold importance to. On a night out recently he was smacked in the face by another gay guy for some out of hand repartee and I understood perfectly how he could provoke that. They were calling him chubby however.

I saw almost our entire collection of bath towels on his floor, empty booze cans, all sorts of grimey debri and evidence of independant sexual activity. There was scattered change, his drawings up on the wall and a recent one which looked to me like a sweeping example of good draftsmanship done without lifting the pencil from the page.

He complains about being the only single person in a house of 8 and at least was, spending a lot of time on grinder. Since I’ve known him, his increasing sexual experiences have entertained my own curiosities and his frankness around homosexuality is refreshing since it’s not typical of my upbringing.

He came into our room the other night and woke us up crying and saying he didn’t want to drink anymore, something which he denies the sincerity of while sober.

There’s no denying that self destruction is as interesting as it is irritating, after all most of my role models killed themselves. Not that Jack is on that path or even close, he’s just figuring out who he is, navigating between the extremes, and sometimes outside them.







I almost walked out of work before I’d even started my shift. I was waiting like a moron for my boss to open his office door so I could ask him why I hadn’t been paid. I called him two days ago about it and he said he’d get back to me.
In his office he said he would call the pay people on Monday and let me know. He asked me if I was struggling and without hesitation I told him I was. He said he’d lend me £100 out of his own pocket and that I could pay him back later. Until that moment I was indifferent towards him but the gesture was considerate and trust germinated. We shared a hint of a smile and I asked where he’d like me to work figuring I’d see him later about the loan.
I went out to the beer garden which was busy. I don’t look at the patrons or know what to say when they talk to me, I worry about how my hair looks. I get on with clearing the tables and sing a little, scanning any horizontal surface for forgotten possessions.
Chris was working behind the bar, his girlfriend is best mates with the bosses girlfriend. Chris’s eyes are always wide and engaged, words quickly on his lips. While attentive and curious, I have to work much harder.
“Nice shirt,” I said.
“Waah yyeannn, I like your shirt too man!”
“Oh I always wear this, I got it in Germany, it’s Italian.”
I showed him the tag. “Don’t see that too often, usually says China. But…Oh no!” Looking down, “A threads come out, Not the Italian!”
“Anything but the Italian,” Chris added sympathetically.
I was hungry and collected wedges from discarded meals. A customer saw me eat one and kept his eyes on me as I continued stacking glasses refusing to look up, slightly ashamed.
I found a packet of unfinished cigarettes and tucked them into Charlie’s top pocket between towers of glasses in his arms.
“Your the man!” He said.
There was a brown paper bag under one of the tables and I seized it and looked inside over the bin. There was a take away container with a half eaten steak in it, and……a pair of orange ray ban sunglasses.
I put them in my pocket.
If anyone came asking for them I’d certainly return them but they’d only be looted from lost property and I wasn’t leaving them under the table for someone else to find. I’ll get 40 quid for them!
I’m aware that the moral grounds on which I base my decisions are beginning to slope at either ends, for having no money at all justifies questionable considerations with survival. If it weren’t for the refund on an oyster card I found last week under similar circumstances, I wouldn’t have been able to get to work today or buy a box of chocolate breakfast bars from Poundland.

A rugged looking new employee brought some glasses up as I was stacking the dishwasher. “Are you Australian?” he asked in that east coast twang I miss.
The outdoor area closed and we cleaned it up together singing “Tomorrow,” by Silver Chair. He didn’t seem affected by my nervous lethargy talking enthusiastically and patting me on the back.

I found a gold pound coin in a crack in the stone floor and marveled at it between my fingers. I added it to the other 85p I’d already found and shifted the ray bans from my bulging jeans pocket into the Italian’s.
Although I was relieved that the loan would finally buy my girlfriend and I some food, I lamented over the unfulfilled challenge. After all I wanted to be in this position, and while stressful, small wins are big, and having to get creative just to eat is stimulating.
Seeing as the sunglasses must have fallen out of my pocket and my boss went home before lending me any money it’s going to stay that way for at least the next week.



“Yeah my girlfriend has just signed up to her first course,” I said at the lunch table in the meditation centre. “But she hasn’t experienced it yet so obviously if anything comes up at uni that’s more important. I can only wait and see what nature wants to do I guess. I’m not going to pressure her, as with anyone, I like to try and be the best person I can and set an example.”
“It’s the best way,” said Udo, a very tall German Pierce Brosnan. He is a teacher so who knows how long he’s been practicing.
“People are always watching,” he said “and when you think they’re not watching that’s when they’re watching you the most. When you first start meditating your trying to act like a good boy and set and example but your tense, soon though you keep practicing and it becomes natural, because Dhamma works you know. Then they see, this guys serious, he’s calm, happy and he hasn’t drunk in two years. Then some time later they watch a movie or get some signal and consider it more seriously.”

There was one question I wanted desperately to ask Udo. “Could you be in a relationship with somebody that does drugs?” That is also the same question I’ll ask Russell Brand when I meet him.

My girlfriend came in dopey after a night out recently and I ignored her. It pissed her off but I was pissed off too. It’s a tough one but she’s important and has demonstrated a profound commitment to me which has been covered before. So I accept the intoxication in our life, for now.

Initially I told my 7 housemates I wouldn’t be there for the joint birthday this weekend, basically because I’ve never felt that comfortable at parties and used to deal with it by numbing myself. But I don’t do that anymore so I just stand there uncomfortable having synthetic conversations. I’ve changed my mind though, this is where I am and soon it will change with only nostalgia to remain, so I’ll make the most of this young boho world I’ve been invited into, and not just invited, nurtured. I can’t work in England yet and they haven’t asked me for a cent.

Here’s a poem I wrote for Finch’s 21st birthday.

ambitious eagles and their cloud politics
wondering queen in lollipop glass
singing oceans
seven angels painting
mountain water
sunset dreaming
cute roses
a flower staircase and it’s miracles
rainbow thunder
sky possum
raining spells gather sounds
teddy bear’s invisible hopes
swimming poems
baskets of cherries
special apple summer comes
drinking cups of moonlight
canal boat reflections
orange pigeons
dolphin sisters
lemonade butterflies
friendly violet spiders
sometimes you could hear the cats dancing
bathing spirits
climbed up into her bed in the stars
charlie’s flying
space kisses
the colour of tears
singing bubbles
magic windows
fairy bread smiles

We were all in the kitchen lastnight and everyone had made individual efforts for Finn’s birthday, the Queen’s was making desert.

She realised that George had put too much of something in the mixture. “I don’t want to be involved in these brownies anymore,”she said as George tried to reassure her they would be fine. “No they wont! they are going to be BITTER AS FUCK!” in a long, high pitched whine. Soon after she began smashing a measuring cup against the bench repeatedly in a plume of flour and a loud uvular tantrum. I looked at Jack and smiled, these are my favourite parts. I hate for her to be upset but it’s a lot more interesting than watching television. The housemates intervened with some time out and the Queen returned shortly after with renewed enthusiasm and some humorous self deprecation.


The Queen


They all sit around and critique my pictures after development, I almost enjoy it more when they tell me they don’t like something.

They get me into Uni every few weeks as a visitor and I go round taking notes on the work I like, then I go read all the great books in the library. Yesterday I got access in the computer room and was sitting in there all day scanning my negatives. “How’d you get in here?” asked Oscar very audibly. I hushed him. People I know through my gf kept spotting me in there and coming up for chats, I was paranoid the whole time about being discovered and trying to learn for free.

I was a bit uneasy anyway because of something that happened earlier in the morning. My gf and I were walking to Uni and an argument broke out between a driver and a pedestrian on the cross walk opposite The Pelican. The pedestrian was accusing the driver of trying to run him over because he was white and soon another passer by got involved. The pedestrians face was bright red and he looked dangerous, zipped up jacket and trainers on, beating on the car window and threatening the passer by with “You fucking racist black cunt!”

It broke up and they went opposite ways but the passer by looked very agitated walking in the middle of the street. I called after him and asked him if he was alright. “Are you fucking alright?” he shouted. I repeated the question, a little puzzled. I wanted to tell him the pedestrian’s vilifications were not the general sentiment.

“Who the fuck are you!? FUCK OFF!” I felt nothing and stood there looking at him. “Are you fucking off?” he asked.      I don’t know why I didn’t, maybe I thought love would conquer all or maybe it was pride, but he took a reluctant glance at the floor before running towards me, he had a hood on and brown spots on his cheeks, round glasses, “he won’t hit me I thought, he’s bluffing.” I saw his brown fist slam into my mouth and my head jerked in the other direction but my torso remained. My gf was on the corner watching. He jogged off, shoulders relaxed, the tension had been released.

Growing up you had to be ready to fight, not just ready but prepared, that’s why I did kickboxing, but there became a fine line between defense and offense.

I considered running after him and fighting him, it burned in my gut, but I know better now. Whether he realizes it or not he will suffer for that.

I felt embarrassed for caring. Like a stupid missionary.

I’d been trying to feel my breath like the teacher described. The bridge to the deepest level of the mind, an involuntary and voluntary bodily process which you could train yourself to observe without interfering. But I was interfering and my mind wandered far away every few breaths. I meditated like that for a year before becoming disheartened. If I couldn’t concentrate my mind to feel the natural breath without being distracted how could I meditate properly in the field of wisdom? But the mind did focus, after an hour and 45 mins there it was, in all it’s automatic subtlety, in and out touching the base of the nostrils, effortless, detached – like awakened sleep. Then the body became apparent, full of vibrating code, this is where the wisdom is learned. All the guilt I was fixated on that would keep me dirty forever became an equation with an answer. But there are no words to convey the answer because it’s an experience and persistent practice is the only way to understand it.

+ high-res version

This is the Sunday Flea Markets at Mauerpark which means “wall park” as it was part of the Berlin Wall and death strip.

I was captivated by the cold industrial energy and the grit.

The way people dressed exceeded my comprehension of style. Trench coats and military greens, deep organic colours, fur coats with boots mixed with dreadlocks and facial tattoos.

People talking to themselves with black eyes, a man showing his penis, the biggest public karaoke platform, twirlers, a kick ass drum circle dance party and alot of weedsmoke.

I’ve still seen no place like it.

C008358-R4-06-6A C008358-R3-30-31

when i get angry at them i dont like it anymore and I was trying to change my head

then i was always folding my legs and can only seeing some blackness

i said it is the nothing

it was hurting and sweat was coming

i keep to work

i am always trying to perfection my head

in there some secrets cant hide

then i was dirty and i think nobody can friends with me

i was in my head at the bridge and so far down is the water

when im sitting on the steps jack said if i was ok

he told me did i ever kiss a man

i wasn’t doing it or the other things but i had before done some things

then my girlfriend heard it and asking that she doesnt know it

i was telling her and she was always my girlfriend and said dont ever to change.

i am asking the questions everytime what is the point for all this things in a book

everytime the pictures and blog and in and out some breathing

finn said not always changing yourself

i was inside dont know who am i

then i said hi im chris bell!

you cant answer your own question

There is no answer for always breathing

You will all the time ask it and learn dont to ask it at the same time

I think that was called a paradox

you were always have to trick the mind so it cant see whats your plan

always saying what is the point!

then i said nobody knows it


dont always looking for some instructions from someone different

then i drink the coffee but not some beer why?

my head wants to looking out the clear window

not if it has a shit inside

so how to stop saying why?

you dont and you keep in and out some breathing

i think it was accepted

all the time life was entertainment











15 September 2013

Glasgow, Scotland.

Yesterday Tom and I caught the bus out to the country, there were lush green rocky hills covered in animal shit. Someone owned the land but there are no trespassing laws in Scotland. We were looking for magic mushrooms.

I stood on the perimeter walls and noticed a Ram had fallen into a narrow channel of water and died. I showed Tommy and he staggered over, slipping on some of the rotten remains and almost falling in. I started laughing, he was so drunk. “If A’m drankin I’m drankin ya knoo?” he said.

He insisted he could sell the rams head to a local pub for 30 quid and fished it out by the horns detaching it from a mass of bones and rippling wool. There was a lump of white matter at the base of the skull which was obviously brain and spinal contents. I imagined it to reek of high hell and Tom kicked it off with his boot. I was laughing uncontrollably like that felonious cartoon cat while picturing this unashamed drunk tramp trying to get on a bus swigging a bottle of wine and carrying a stinking rams head.
I encouraged him, I wanted him to make a scene, carrying on like he does, I wanted people to look at us because life is fucking boring.
I took a photo to capture the mild luncay on Tom’s face as he tried to stuff the rams head in a plastic bag which wouldn’t fit, he hid it in the bushes so noone would take it, covering it with leaves.

We found the Whiskey Distillery he was going on about about and creeped out a few trail walkers. There were mushrooms all over the sloping pastures, I picked hundreds of them right out of horse shit and started eating them.

Tommy smoked another packet of my tobacco and I paid for his bus fare home because he lost his ticket.
He repeatedly told me not to lose mine on the way there. We stood in the bus doorway detaining the passengers while he looked in all his pockets. “Nooh nooh don’t take this Australian’s money, I’ve got it, I swearr.”

Before we got on the bus I ate a whole tube of pringles and a packet of biscuits. Tom fell over backwards in the bus shelter darkness like a helpless 80 year old pensioner. I fucking laughed at him, he is so funny sometimes. I could see why he had so many eccentric friends and people liked him. They still do but it’s not the same, he just wants to talk to everyone but it comes across inappropriate.  He has flaps of skin hanging under his eyes, his face is always flushed and he repeats himself constantly.

I’d been learning to play guitar and he told me not to worry about the “Horse with no name Shit” and learn Nirvana. It fucking cut me because it was the first thing I’d learnt to play.

At Karaoke later on I wanted to sing something and suggested to a mangled Tom (who’d been asked to sit down before hurting someone) that I sing horse with no name. He screwed his shadowy face into a grey unshaven disgust and said ‘Fook thaat’ and turned away. My chest and arms tingled as I imagined knocking him off his stool onto the floor. He then tipped half a beer into his brown backpack on the floor and looked up in bewilderment. I laughed, I enjoyed it immensely.
Tom if you read this your my hero.

Here’s some more stories with Tommy…..

Trainspotting (I’m in Scotland)
The Trap (Favourites)
Something in the way (Couldn’t leave Tom’s)


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