Just shit from my brain.

I just finished ‘catcher in the rye and I think it is hands down the best book I have ever read. As soon as I put the book down I began making plans to make a log cabin in the woods and fill stupid cars up with stupid oil and gas to pay for it. I would obviously be contacted only through pen and paper, as I would to be a deaf mute and all. It’s a great read and I can see it being one that sits on my shelf for the rest of my life, and I will let my son read it when he turned 16, and then I will tell the story of how I bought it when I was in London one day after getting a hair cut and searching for something to read over a coffee. I will say how I only ever read the book in a coffee shop and always with a coffee, and that I was stuck on page 208 for a week because I couldn’t get in the right mood to finish it. There were too many people talking, or I was too tired, or I felt like writing myself, or I couldn’t get the caffeine dosage right to take in every last bit of Holden’s incredibly thought narration. I have a hunting hat as well, which I bought two weeks prior to purchasing the book and every time I even look at it now I think of “turning the peak around to the back, just the way I like it”. I do wear it like that and I had been two weeks prior as well. I was wearing it in Edinburgh when I caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror and I said to Mitch “Fuck I look stupid in this thing” and he said, “I could have told you that 2 weeks ago” and I laughed and wore it for the rest of the day. I probably wouldn’t have if I weren’t feeling a bit like Holden. I think Holden and the way he wears it is a sign of his distancing ideals towards people, because he is beginning to lose faith in society the further he mulls it over in his mind. I just wear it and I don’t want to think too much about it other than I just like it. I think it’s a book that everyone should read. I might build a book shelf when I get back to put in on, I’ll have some time and I think I need something to rest my books on, so I don’t lose them. I have already lost quite a few this trip. I have upped my reading to maybe 2 hours a day, which is quite absurd to think that considering a year ago I wouldn’t of even thought of 10 minutes a week if it weren't in a Text book entitled "Understanding Health". The last thing I read that really did it for me (other then Catcher in the Rye of course) was a short story by Kurt Vonnegut called the “euphio question” which is really good and I suggest that you read it because you would enjoy it. Probably. (I sound like Holden Caulfield there). I have mentioned how I usually read in coffee shops. Coffee shops are a great love of mine. I find some harmony in them that I don’t get at home, because home is too goddam distracting. I probably spend an hour or two in one per day these days. I think about my old mans view on coffee and how it doesn’t extend too much further than beneath the lid of a Nescafe gold tin and drank over his school reports, but I see it as so much more. He sees it as a right waste of money to have a real espresso made coffee at $4.50 a pop, but I will buy him one from have ya bean, and we’ll sit down and talk about a book or something. I like having a chat at a coffee shop, probably more so than having a chat over a beer I reckon. That’s why I do not get too annoyed when people are having a concentration interrupting discussion when I’m trying to read or something. I see them as place were my usually unproductive day turns to something more worthwhile. I will do more uni work in coffee shops I reckon. They’ll make something of me yet. I got to go to work once again. I don’t really mind though because I’m feeling pretty good. I didn’t last shift and other than shooting some shit, with the old guys at the pub I felt quite miserable. I was made more miserable when the girl at work asked if I was ‘alright’. Mitch knows well enough to know I’m fine and was having a down day, maybe unconsciously missing home and worrying about my friends. But it annoyed me. I don’t know. Haha. Anyway read Catcher in the Rye and add me on skype because I really would love to chat. Tom.barnard92 (do it, it’s pretty regularly on). 

Edinburgh.

Edinburgh.

(Remember you don’t have to read this shit. Just look at the photos!!)

I couldn’t believe the beauty of the Scotland landscape as we drove the timeless countryside. It depressed me a little that I was heading back to London as we winded along the edge of lush green cliffs, accommodating the blessed white dots grazing and dozily overlooking a blue blanket ocean that makes the sky look a little too red and a little too beautiful for someone to bare, who knows they will back, broke in the big London bustle. I wanted the bus to drop me off a couple of times, on the high vantages with sitting rocks where I would lay and drink beer and soak in the cold rays of light by myself or with anyone else who deemed it as necessary as me. It is something else out there. It made me feel lousy to be leaving it. I have never been so aware of the earths domed shape until being on this plain road splitting the paddocks with equally distant clear land and grass to my left and right and maybe a hay shed or a small beaten silo probably holding not much more than some rain water and a story. The clouds were perfectly enclosing us in this domed earth, where the red seemed to dance as much on the rain made lakes as between the dark grey clouds. I felt like the windows were ever so slightly tinted yellow, creating this sepia tone that accentuated the hills and the sky and the red tinges of cloud. It didn’t look like it could snow and if I didn’t know any better I would have said it looked warm outside. I like the cold weather I think. I was born in summer on the 7^th of February, which according to untried pseudo theories passed on by stupid mothers to stupid children in the playground I should like the heat. I like the heat but I think I like it most when it’s cold and there’s a fire and I get that sudden ripple of relief. Maybe that is just my recent feeling formed from being here. I found this quaint little traditional Scottish pub called the ‘Jolly Judge’, which I really liked for the reason I just stated. It could be raining buckets outside and as soon as you duck your head through the low-trussed doorway you get the greatest feeling of heat and atmosphere you would ever find. The beer is tasty and the conversations are interesting. There is no music in there, no Nicky Minaj or some other piece of processed cheese coming through the speakers and when I looked to the old boys in the corner wearing bland old button farm shirts, packing wood-grain pipes of tobacco and drinking neat scotch you can easily forget that it’s the 21^st century. I liked that place a lot. I liked the Beer McEwen 80. A hearty strong Scottish brew that Mitch and I may have over did. I headed to Edinburgh castle by myself the next day. I like doing those sorts of things by myself. I like being able to go at my own pace and read an info panel or not, or take 200 photos of something or not or listen to the audiotape with my headphones or not. I took my camera out with Georgie and Jess the other day and kept getting left behind, I like to stop and take a photo if I see something unfolding or some angle of interest. I think I always look for those angles or lines of perspective now, regardless of whether I have my camera or not. A place I was glad to of left my camera at home was the Hogmany street party. That thing was crazy. It was an amazing, great, crazy day in fact. I kicked it off by purchasing a double pint of cider for mitch and I at a pub called ‘The Three Sisters’ on cowgate street under King George the IV, where they were reigning the Australian new years’ in. I didn’t care too much about the count downs I was more interested in having some good conversations and drinking a gut full with some of the people from the hostel. There were these two odd dudes, one who studied particle physics and another one that had a degree in animal gentics. They were smart, but socially a little inept in my honesty. They were nice enough though, but I was rather enjoying the banter with Lily and Joe from the room. Mitch and I were riffing off our unique style of wit and they were just as up to it as we were. We joked everything from the bonehead Australians wearing donning flag capes and thongs to the controversy in the world darts championship with the much televised push from the Phil ‘The Power Taylor’ Taylor on his defeated opponent. I never thought I would ever have interesting conversations about darts (or even watch it for that matter), but we were having one and they agreed to come watch the finals the next day. The double pints were getting to get a little low, so I sent Mitch to get another couple while I chatted with Joe for a while. Joe is the kind of girl I would loved to of gotten to know better, she interesting, a little shy, likes photography, has an amazing smile and above all she is incredibly intelligent. She really did it for me. Too bad I left her and Lily hanging on new years night because I was vodka drunk in some uni apartment on the other side of Edinburgh. I felt awful and came up with a scheme to say I was passed out and that’s why I missed the pick up, but I didn’t feel at all like lying to them. Plus I didn’t really feel I could because they were so goddam smart. I was really getting drunk on the otherside of town with some crazy American girls that our crazy New Zealand girls knew. I got really drunk and was having the best conversations with them. I think I can be kind of funny when I get into a half pissed state. I told them the story of how I had kissed a girl once when I was younger and passed out in a bush at a party and then the next time I heard her name mentioned she was a full blown lesbian. They loved it, while I took a few large swigs of my apple and vodka mix. I topped my mix up and took it to the party. Fast forwarding abit I got talking with this girl in the line to take a piss. I can’t remember how we got talking but she was really beautiful and what not and she seemed to kind of be interested in me. I some how got talking music and she said one of her favourite band was Bon Iver, which interested me no end. There is nothing I like more than the high tones of Justin Vernon and his solemn acoustic (for emma, forever ago album) on the tube. I got her number and we danced a little and held hands for a while. I gave her a little new years smooch, and the had to leave her. I’m half tempted to give her a call and what not as she lives in Camden and I live kind of near Camden and she is beautiful and I really want to go on a date for some reason. Probably because I have never really been on a proper one. I’m broke, so maybe I won’t. I would rather go on one with Joe, because she seemed like the kind of girl that would understand my destitution, not that she’s poor or anything, but because she so nice. I also don’t own a phone. Anyway I got really wasted that night. I kissed or was kissed by Georgie on the new years countdown. Haha we had a great laugh about it in the morning, it felt really weird actually. I hate cutting things short but I have to go to work, for my meager pay, which I won’t get in time to do anything worth while, like buy a phone and call the girl or call Joe. She lives in Nottingham though and I think that she sees me as a bit of a fool. It’s hard to convince people sometimes that I’m actually not stupid. Well I don’t think I am, but the continual  act of having to prove that I’m not probably is evidence enough that I am. Catch you next time boys and girls for my next installment. I’d love to thank Georgie and Jess for the amazing New Years. My best ever and I thanks those two buddy ol’ pals for it. They are the greatest.  

From London Bridge over the Thames. 

My weekend and a table.

It’s been a weird weekend, which has left me wanting to do absolutely nothing, but sit at our new table, drink a cup of tea and relax in front of some football. The windows are open to savor the rare rays of sunlight and I feel good. I didn’t feel great all weekend, ups, downs, vomits, scoobs, working and a couple of punches thrown in for good measure. I know my weekend is interesting, but I love the new table we have so want to start there. I’m sitting at it right now. My book from the chigwell charity shop to the left of me, cup of PG tips tea in a floral mug on the right of me and a clear piercing view into the epping forest ahead of me. The feng shui is good in this spot, or it’s just the sunlight giving me that much required melatonin hit that becomes so lack living here. I love England, Essex and my house mates Em and Dan. They are too good to me here. Anyway apart of them addition of a table and some shelves I was involved in a one-on-one street fight against an Albanian fuck wit outside the pub I work at. I cannot remember if I got him at all. My first street fight and I was pretty happy with how it went. I stood up tall and kept to all the basics I have learnt. The routines I have practiced in my car port or at footy training with the bags and gloves stayed together, contrary to my beliefs that they would fall apart come to the crunch and I would be throwing fists looking like an octopus on MDMA rather than a fighter. Coward is the only way this man can be defined. Spitting in a gay mans face because of his sexuality and then hitting a woman surrenders any sceric of the word ‘man’ he can cling to. I said I would be willing to press and I’m sure justice will prevail. I cannot say enough about the British polices response to the call.Four vans and a riot vehicle within 5 minutes of first word and picking up the fleeing culprit in less than that was an impressive act of enforcement. I earned a few beers and a shot of tequila from witnesses in the bar for my efforts, which warmed the heart and settled the nerves of the ordeal. Was an event. The silence of the bar when I walked back in was incredible. A packed English pub that wouldn’t of registered a decibel for those few long seconds. I had no idea if I had been hit or my hand was broken or I was going to be in trouble or I was going to crumble or I was going to cry or I was going to go on as normal. I got a shot of tequila and pinched a strong camel cigarette of zsofiah and then I was fine. I couldn’t hold back a few smiles when the old bloke I was previously serving shook my hand and bought me a beer. Even if it was my bad hand. Zsofiah hugged me and all was back to normal. That was the biggest event of the weekend, but I am much more impressed with the neat sorting of the shelves and the positioning of the table in all honesty. Yeah.  I couldn’t help notice a present under the tree saying ‘to barney from Dan and Em’ wrapped in red paper and a bow. I’m so thankful that, that is the only bow I have in my life, one under the tree rather than living in one. (see last post to get that).

Shelves, table and Mitch playing a morning game of fifa.

 I think I have grown as a person over here. I feel stronger than I normal do. A dependency on no one that I have relied on for so long. I cook, do my washing, do the dishes, walk to work, pay rent, pay travel. Live entirely on my terms. I cannot wait to get back into my studies and line up on the back flank for Upwey-Tecoma as I think I am more motivated to do these things than I have ever been. Travel is amazing, I love it, I love the thought of being in the Uffizi gallery looking like I understand Botechelli’s one day and sleeping under the Gare de Lyon clock tower the next, but it makes you realize one thing. How good we have it back home, I never want to live anywhere else. As unstable and as fickle as my mind can be, that thought is as stable and consistent as the beat of my heart. I also vomited on the tube on a previous unfight related night, consisting of guiness, glens vodka and a tuna sandwich. Was a sight, felt bad for a bit, but remembered I paid 35% tax last month so I'll call it even London. 

Photo from the new work space. feat tube map photo. . 

Bow

Above and the following photos show us smiling and having one of many great times in our bow house, which lies a 25 minute tube ride East of the central districts of London. Bow is no made in Chelsea, it’s more where Halal chicken shops meet the needs of the broke, where the Eastenders Snooker Club’s purple script front sends my heart beating a little quicker and Muslims sell push brooms and blue-tack in shops entitled ‘pound busters’ or ‘99p store’. It is nothing short of a ghetto neighborhood by an Australian’s standards, I saw a man yelling “I’m gonna stab that nigger” and run out of the chicken shop, as I paused a bite of my 1 pound burger and watched as the chicken man continued turning crispy breasts completely unbewildered. Despite this we made it here for a month, living on day old sandwiches and prêt soups, listening to post rock on stolen speakers and banging the football around our concrete back garden to pass the time between working and thoughts of being broke. Sara the girl we were staying with describes the situation perfectly by quoting her mum “I don’t care what you do as long as you’re moving forward” and we could all agree that this place wasn’t pointing us forwards or sustainable for or needs as wide eyed travelers, especially when the allures of home’s community spirit and it’s exceptional coffee shop cloud us. Mitch and I would kill to lose another day lost between Greeny sounding out the daily quiz and a slice of fresh carrot cake at Have Ya Bean cafe. These thoughts loomed all the while Mitch and I worked at the pub, Mel cleaned hotels under management of stout Romanian women and Sara tried for Jobs to no prevail. The times weren’t all as bad as they sound, you cannot throw 4 good people into a room and not have a good time. The conversations were great, everyone helped each other out and we became an odd, small family. I enjoyed not having a TV for once; I was able to catch up on some reading, always trying to see how others write and word. I have found salvation in UK’s free Vice magazine’s, reading about young writers describing the aesthetic views out of American desserts from open freight train draws as they hop the country or the ridiculousness of the fictional, always out of luck character Combover. Combover is extreme and I want to construct my own style character in a blog to which I can live the hypotheticals of life through a pen, as fucked up and as twisted as they might be. I always think great thoughts but don’t pen them down as I read, which I should do. I picture an early 20’s Neil Young shacking up after leaving Canada in a place like this, with the walls cracking and shower busted , writing with a joint folded under the E string at the headstock, a pen in the mouth and a creased look as he tries out the chords and tones that will one day revolutionise the listening world. Great stories come out of places like this, no example bigger than Dizzie Rascal growing up on the curbs of Bow. To me it’s really not that bad, but I know a lot of people who wouldn’t live like this. I read an article on Jacob Holdt the Danish renegade photographer of the 70’s and 80’s who lived on the streets of America for 2 years. I look at his albums often and bought a 98’Minolta Vectis panoramic film camera for 2 quid at the bow op shop to try and do some of more original works, not just shooting rose heads in crystal clear macro like a year 12 media student. The only barrier on this is that I just cannot afford a roll of film right now haha. I cherish my time at Bow, a chapter in my Europe story I hope is not forgotten by memories of the Sistine chapel 3 months ago or the northern lights in the upcoming months. It enabled me to save rent free, thanks to the others and I’m in debt to them for that. Bow was fine as long as we were getting food in our mouths, coffee was on the boiler and Barneys Bow Bar was fully stocked with beer.

This one snuck under the radar on my computer. I love the country side, low flog and the traditional houses

Club Seven in Nerjca,  Spain (L-R Willsy, Georgie, Myself, Finch)

A suspected Banksy I found in London. Regardless it is amazing

London, killing me slowly.

London is slowly chewing me up and getting ready to spit me out. I'm not sure which end I will come out of at the moment though. I'm feeling like even if I was to miraculously get a phone call from an employer asking me to join the team, I will be eating from bins, staying on floors, drinking from down pipes and pissing in the thames. I'm running out of money fast, accommodation, 7 pound a day to use the tube and the always tempting and overpriced night of sitting at the corner of Hately's bar talking guff and forgetting what's outside. Washing comes in to play when I start smelling like a hungarian garbage man and the fact that I must eat something doesn't help the cause. I have been smashing gumtree everyday, sending my CV to all corners, waiting for the phone to light up, but it's always sits, still and silent. I'm still hopeful that I can get work somewhere, but applying for jobs I'm not experienced in (hospitality) and no grass around to show my expertise on the brush cutter, I'm feeling less hopeful as time progresses. I had high aspirations to finish my trip on. Working for a few months, saving a few quid and heading to scotland for my last experiences, but it looks I may have to leave an amazing 3 month trip on the note of sitting on facebook in an east london hostel and playing in store fifa 13 at HMV on oxford street (training for the tournament in which I can win a PSP). Going home would be great, seeing my loving family, getting a home cooked meal from mother dear and scratching my dog freddy on the belly, while the more placid pooch Barney boy sits on my lap is so tempting, but all there for me in a couple months time. I watch the BBC weather report daily, where people are sending in pictures of the nothern lights (Aurora Borealis) from the top of Scotland, which is the most bright and visible it has been in over a decade and wishing my phone would light up. One lady said it was so beautiful she couldn't focus her camera because she was crying too much. It's good to see images on TV where people are crying for the world in joy, because the papers are so god damn depressing here. The most depressing aspect is that good journalism storys are put in the back burner, because Kate Middleton, wore a smart dress, dropped her guts or spoke to an insincerely to  an indonesian child with a terminal illness.

Related but unrelated story.

The child delayed a blood transfusion to fit in with duchesses' busy schedule. The boys mother said  "her son was tired and weakened due to delaying of the transfusion in the hours before the visit and although not really knowing who he was talking to it was like the pain had gone away". Pay the kid a visit after he has been pumped with some blood. The Duchess to think a visit from her is worth being weaker and in more pain than usual pains me. If I was writing that story I would have let her have it. The cutting edge journalism follwed with "The duchess' performance was great". Sincerity must not have been required.

The papers here can be summed up by reputable paper "The Sun" having a topless girl on page 3 everyday. you see males (finch and I included) walk into newsagents of a morning and lift their brows at the stunning chest of a young women, with syrian war headlines around it when shifting the first page. What a paper. I'm planning on plugging away for another week or so, but if nothing prevails I will be heading home. This blog will be over or retitled (I love writing) and I will be sitting outside ha ya bean cafe drinking a coffee thinking about where and how I will be able to go next.

Unrelated photo of Hatley excitedly bombing a hill in the Jungfrau.