A rebel without a clue.

From the right hand side a greyed out man woman became my voice; a rainbow stripped momento of Oxford Dons. Stating something I was subconsciously thinking. Someone struggling against anonymity in hell sent Harrogate and sixty years feeling a need not to be the drifting within an inert body. Having the same deathly battle on their hands: mother and father destroyed another young and afraid face. Glenn and I assailed Harrogate on a very cold, winter and damp May day. I was reminded of a July Saturday in London where the temperature plunged to seven and Scarlett and I were battered beyond our meagre senses; I rolled into a copious puddle and sprained my right ankle. The same ankle I went over drunkenly on in Newcastle upon Tyne back on 1993. Another year where realistic and positive weather eludes the English. Anguish of bleak clouds rolling heavily drawning dreading o'er our fragile pates. In the end it was a quiet day and eventually a deep blue shone down on the Stray and upon our ...

This morning I know the world is mad. I'm sat in McDonald's consuming a burger and a big mac. My first meal today. Waiting for Glenn to join me in Harrogate and battle against the maddening crowd of undone souls. Even the children of this world are mad. They are blank of realising. Something corrupt is present. Witless like the trembling mad. What vanishes into nothing within their something creates anything but truth. This indoctrination of sounds, sights and smells isn't what it appears to be. It is all false. My choice brought me to eat here, but maybe it wasn't a conscious choice. Between the Station and here I saw nothing real. The cenitaph consoles us who are terrified by the cacophony of galavanting mad. The stones permit this hell infernal and doors stand back while plastic bags proclaim a want of empty symbols and misheard drums. Why did this happen and how was I also caught by it for many many years. The cycles and patterns are a web that splays us formulated ...

As I look across the valley I can see the wind ruffling my hair. Swinging in the March breeze, hung from the neck, I see a body limp and raggedy, urine stained and empty of life. Around the circling swaying body stand a number of heavily wrapped individuals. Covered up against the unseasonally cold weather with only their eyes peering out towards the dead deed lingering on the hastily constructed gallows. From a twisted contrived bending crumpled ancient hawthorn the body swings pendulous; marking the passing of life and the gathering of the dusk. They start to drift away, leaving the empty shell as a warning for any others who pass this way of the punishments and summary justices preserving their society; but I am now free. Singular and discorporated. My body no longer the chain binding me to the corrupt and insidiously moralising society that only spoke to me through broken teeth with blackened bile dribbling from the whimsical, half smirking, sinister lips.

Well there are only a few days left until my pilgrimage begins in earnest. I've been keeping away from this blog to put a little room between my convulsive negative feelings, dwelling within my past and struggling with my turgid mental system. I am feeling enthused more than I have been for a very long time; by looking forward and with help from the various positive inputs, since the pilgrimage idea popped into my head, including Prozac, planning, therapy and karma. I am making a conscious effort to think differently. All of this may be helping; but I think I am stating the obvious. In the last month I have been helped from an unexpected source and I am completely thankful of my brilliant and selfless cousin; a being whom has a million senses open and aiding with a fundamentally true understanding and he has supported me with real brotherly love and engagement. On Wednesday, during my analysis visit, I felt it would be useful to try to explain how I perceive the world: so I tr...

After my first nights sleep, when I was woken up without any bed clothes, I stepped out to fix my trip to Piran. Buon giorno: sorted €5:40c, and now I am officially in an Illy caffé house in central Trieste. I have taken a photo of James Joyce walking over a bridge on the grande canal (well a bronze!) First ever Italiano cappuccino. I notice that the modern Italians are coffee crazy! Last night I ate some awesome cheese and pancetta. Pancetta del calabrasi and a matured local cheese. Some bread a few glasses of Merlot and Aperol Spritz aperitivo. Some thing like a Friulian tapas style food along the way. Then bed. I was aware that they all talk so much. From that chattering mouth what must they be talking about. A commanding style of pristine hair and immaculate clothes here, but it's atypically Italian I feel. I will myself to walking up to Castello; it is very windy day today; dusty too. I am less uncertain today than I was yesterday. Will I camp in Piran? Plans? 5 days t...

Eyes full of irritating pus gunk. Slept fitfully waking with crusty eyes. Self prognosis suggests bacterial conjunctivitis. Sun was out this morning but it is hiding a little. So shorts might not be the obvious attire. Quick coffee then a walk. Man having a discussion with the fishmonger in loud voice. So everyone can hear what is being discussed. Politics. Business of the day. Not real. Not real at all. Steven Smith off to do his driving theory test. Was out for a couple early for Jonesy's babies head wetting last night. Everyone in shades of grey, blue or brown. Not a bright contrast of colours except for Lloyd's Nike red and green. Not sure I can do much more of those contrived events. Nice to bump into Simon Handley, though and I am very happy for Mr and Mrs Jones; Westy is weary: he's a baffooning gibbon. I linger. Second coffee. Alerting me: perhaps! No rush today. Louis Armstrong playing his jazz in the coffee shop. Gravel voice. I don't really enjoy Ladyday. Tha...

I got off the bus once the traffic slowed to a stand still. We had only come as far as Bardsey and I felt I would be here on the A58 for hours yet. I had to be at work for 2pm at Coors in Headingley for my evening shift. I called ahead to explain that I was going to be late. It was a pleasant afternoon at the end of August so I jumped off the bus and I walked all the way to the Oakwood Clock so as to catch a 12, 13 or 13A into town. It was the first time I had ever walked most of the route to Leeds. This was before Snoopy came along in the early noughties. I knew I had a short time back at Coors before I wouldn't return; I would leave Coors tearful as half of me was going to miss those I worked with. This was either 2003 or 2004 and I had started counselling with a lady called Jean Booth. I used to go to her house in Oakwood every week. It was useful to talk to her. I was referred to her through occupational health whom Coors had onsite. I would get breathless, I had trouble walkin...