7 August 2015
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 out of empathy for the patient.
who felt inadvertently violated and might be suffering with a sensitive medical condition. 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 wanted to hiss.
Have I finally snapped? Am I going to be wandering around arcades shouting at strangers with shit in my pants?
They gave me £7 for the film and I felt compensated seeing as I only paid £1 for it in Poundland.
Need to thank jeffreythecatt for recent writing tips.
Jokes. Sort of. I don’t think I’m ugly, but I used to. WHY? I look back at pictures when I had a terrible self image and see there was nothing wrong with me. You ever feel like that? Why do we feel ugly? The moral of the story is your not as ugly as you think you are. Even you.
I was trying to hitch out of Uxbridge and nobody would stop. I started to get 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 to the perfect spot for hitching. A huge shoulder up the road big enough for 20 mack trucks to park side by side. (Will upload map later – shit connection.) He kept saying London is 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 for the night but decided to try hitching from the worst spot where the motorway started. I almost gave up to camp in the park as it was getting dark and raining but a car made a huge effort to stop for me holding up traffic and calling 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 I had an edge because I was different and they probably aren’t used to picking up Australian hitch hikers, 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,” while his teeth twisted and pointed straight out like a beaver.
He used to hitch hike 20 years ago and told me how he was picked up by a man in Dagenham that seemed alright to begin with but turned out to be a “fookin gay.” “He suggested I stay at his place,” said Kev, “I knew what he was up to 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 fucked off.”
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. I had £50 in my wallet so I felt some guilt for accepting the hotel but it was all I had and I was happy to sleep in the park.
I went upstairs to write, and Kev knocked on the door soon after. “Aren’t you Australians meant to play the guitar or something?” He kept shaking my hand and repeating himself, obviously full of liquor.
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 wanted to make the effort because he was a nice guy with a sensitive side common with young 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 while I was travelling in Mexico. He’s living in his uncles house for nothing and offered me my own room overlooking the junglish backyard where I saw a fox cub earlier.
I don’t think Flo is happy but I’ve run out of sorrys, I have to do this, we’ve been through worse. XXX
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.
I just quit my new job, and am leaving the house on Sunday. I pulled out of moving into the next house with them because I felt trapped and now Flo has to share a room so they can afford to live there.
I felt incredible pressure into agreeing to it in the first place by one of the housemates because the property was important to them and their personal objectives.
They have been good to me though and I let them down. Josh says I’m not a cunt just a hypocrit.
There are exceptions but mostly everyone is doing what is best for themselves, even if appearing to prioritise the comfortability of others it’s only as long as we are getting what we want. And we will protect it, even if it means someone else going without.
I’m probably off up North with the tent and 20quid until a months wages hopefully comes through, which I don’t want to jeopardize by telling you why I quit. I assure you it was dramatic, the injustice made my eyes spin around in my head and I may have used the F word.
Flo is cool with me going as I have been really unhappy. I cried 5 days in a row recently and have this sensation of dread buzzing around my mind like a hangover and mistakes. I started joking about killing myself more than I already do and was unfortunately quite fixated with the option. I don’t want to die, I rather like myself, but life is just too hard and I haven’t found a way to support myself which doesn’t trigger acute psychiatric disorders. And if you haven’t experienced depression you obviously wouldn’t understand.
By some miracle does anyone have an old smart phone they can give me so I can snap and blog while I roam the earth again?
Do I really have to meditate for the rest of my life just to keep it together?
At this point in time I think so. I have a new job based around unfamiliar technology, high customer volume and capitalism. It can be traumatic but I’m managing, so something is working.
I am starting to dread going in already however, but seriously, what on earth would I do if I didn’t go to work? 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.
Taking influences from picture below at http://jakeranford.tumblr.com/
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.
Housemates had a party, my girlfriend floated around in her long low cut black dress with a relaxed radiant smile. I watched her endeavours to appear unaffected by whatever substance she was taking become overpowered, as the skin on her face contracted like a picture taken at the wrong moment. I went upstairs and poked my head into one of the bedrooms she was periodically visiting. I saw her back and a protruding hand resealing a little clear bag with a redline across the top.
When I woke up I had an unexpected message from my gf’s friend asking to meet him in Lucas gardens the next day. He’s read the blog and is interested in spirituality. The content of his message was affectionate and I thought it was brave of him to step outside the restrictions of conventional masculinity especially since we don’t know each other well. I would certainly have been more reserved in his position due to the conditioning of rejections from people I’ve looked up to in the past. I did question the peculiar nature of the message and whether it had anything to do with the synthetic candour of a post big night, especially since he didn’t show up.
We’ve been buying this biodynamic apple juice from Peckham platform farmers market for months. I asked the employee if they needed any workers and was invited down to the East Sussex farm to meet the owners.
I was introduced to the farmer who shook my hand while looking in the other direction. He lives in a trailer home with his family in the middle of a 200,000sqm orchard where 3000 chickens roam freely. He took me for a walk around the perimeter and abruptly told me everything he didn’t want from an employee. His austere behaviour was unreflective of my character and I began to smile with declining interest.
He invited me into his home and I sat on the couch, his kids lounged on me while their cat quickly sprawled out on my lap purring.
The farmer had made it clear that he wanted permanent, reliable workers and I summoned the courage to tell him I have a tendency for spontaneous wandering and that I was just after some quick money. He gave me a lift home and offered me a casual job at his London farmers markets.
During meditation yesterday I decided I was going to attend the opening of Russell Brand’s new cafe in Hackney and try to ask him a question.
I ran to Queens Rd station about 1000am as a train was pulling up, my oyster card was empty (didn’t buy a ticket) but I knew I had to get that train. When I got off at Haggerston I looked for someone in a hurry without a bag on and piggybacked them through the barriers. A lady saw saw me and gasped as the alarm went off.
There were about 150 people outside the cafe including BBC reporters in a roped off area. Russell appeared and made a speech then posed for pictures. It went quiet for a moment and I yelled, “Hey Russell! Can I have a job?” People around me started giggling and the creases from his face disappeared as he looked in my direction to verify the question. “Can I have a job?” I repeated. I had his undivided attention, it would have made an exciting photograph but I refrained. “Are you a recovering drug addict?” He asked. “I’m completely recovered,” I called out. “Wrong answer,” he said “Recovery takes one day at a time, but yeah, maybe.”
What I wished I had of said is “Well if I take drugs I want to kill myself so it’s a no brainer.”
“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
seven angels painting
a flower staircase and it’s miracles
raining spells gather sounds
teddy bear’s invisible hopes
baskets of cherries
special apple summer comes
drinking cups of moonlight
canal boat reflections
friendly violet spiders
sometimes you could hear the cats dancing
climbed up into her bed in the stars
the colour of tears
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.
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.
Have a super night :P
Something or other triggered it, she was holding me, I was crying. I looked up at the wall in disbelief, like, how much longer can this go on? Here is someone who wants to change, I’m ready, I’ll do whatever it takes, just show me what I have to fucking do, you know?
My phone rang the next day and I was asked to volunteer at a Vipassana Meditation course in North England, lucky I’d been practicing consistently so my mind was concentrated and sensitive to the requirements of service.
I got the train out of London and walked along the A12 for 2 hours until I felt like sticking my thumb out. I always expect to have romantic experiences when I tramp like riding freight trains with vagabonds and poets, but it doesn’t seem to happen, I just wander around by myself feeling dirty and looking in peoples windows as they enjoy warm dinners.
I got picked up by 2 kind drivers and left a huge ink stain on one of their seats after a pen leaked in my back pocket. I knew I was never going to be able to hitch there as it got dark and the rain came down, so I kept walking to the next town where I found a bus stop and had a beautiful still moment in a sudden quiet snowfall.
I got up to Saxmundham on a series of rear bus seats, tired with wet socks and numb toes. Despite being miserable knowing I had to sleep on the street, everyone I came across had a talkative kind enthusiasm which I found hard to be coincidence.
I looked around the town for places to sleep gripping my arm pits until I found the meditation centre. It didn’t open til the next morning so I slept on the doorstep. I’ve been colder.
The next morning I heard someone coming and tried to look orderly, it was an older women with died bright orange hair wearing nike hi tops. She came and inspected me with a curious smile then opened the centre.
I was asked to be a student manager seeing as I had sat courses before and there was noone else to do it.
A student helped me in the kitchen before the course and I expressed my confliction with the ego, creativity, recognition, self publication and capitalism. He said “There’s nothing wrong with being rich, and the rest is livelihood, there’s people making loads of money on youtube just being themselves. He had a point and I’m a big fan of Russell Brand. I’d rather exploit myself than be exploited by someone else for income.
So for the next 4 days my mind justifed reestablishing social media as I meditated for at least 8 hours a day with the students, catering to their needs and liaising with the teacher.
I would look up to see if anyone was having trouble during practice as they sat for 1 hour periods without moving an inch. I felt a unity with them, sitting up with straight backs, eyes closed, hands in front, gritted teeth and teared cheeks – all there for the same reason, working to live better lives, working to come out of their misery.
Diary Entry – Sun 1 Feb
3rd day here. Sankhara’s, they only come up when the mind is focussed. It takes 2 or 3 days preparation to focus the mind. It just does. Constant thoughts continue in the background, livelihood sometimes overtaking. Not much anger at all. Write a book. Once a thief. Have not spoken to Flo for at least 3 days. I thought she might message to check on me. I shouldn’t be writing, drawing and eating chocolate at a meditation course. I was clean and as soon as I ate it my thoughts clouded and I got clammy. When I do something I know is not good for me it makes it easier to slip into other behaviours or thoughts which I’d otherwise be able to resist, especially anger.
I saw the lid of sleep shut on my head.
Something is coming – to understand. something words cannot teach. Pain are tools to heal. The difference between understanding and not is how much you are prepared to work, how much pain you are prepared to face. It’s so easy to runaway, and most do.
The pain won’t go away until you learn what it is trying to teach you. Don’t poison yourself it makes your mind weak. The reaction to pain is the misery. Dr Richards (social anxiety) was RIGHT! I can’t yet face all the pain, it’s duration outstays my determination but I stalk it persistently. The sensations are not the goal but a way to observe the truth in a physical form. It’s about getting to the point where you are detached from them. They are not yours anymore. You are the control man sitting in a glass box watching. In this moment I understand. I remember.
No words or feelings. Watching, knowing from the window of amber light, unattachment, so perfect, things pass, continue to scan to see what happens which has no importance. Something is coming and it’s not how I thought it would be.
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.
Having or showing a cautious distrust of something. Peckham – London.
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
Man buying tickets wearing sunglasses at Queens Rd station Peckham.