A rebel without a clue.

It must be forever. It has to be eternal. Life can know no death. Death is a force employed by the Ego. Everyday it has to be always. I can't be half way through the door. A threshold is purgatory and I belong only in paradise. It is The Matter and all illusion will vanish once it has been acknowledged totally for the reality it is. Every other way is a means of the Ego to kill me. I never was born only to look for death with such urgency. It's a long road, but it is all inside. It could never be found outside: no distraction from this purpose could help at all. Why do I need the escape? Well I don't. It's another illusion. But there an answer, yet it is so deep within that it can be so difficult seeing it - through a glass, darkly. Whenever I do miss this answer it isn't entirely is my fault for I know there are two voices at work. Yet I can never be guilty of anything, I have mis-perceived, in me again. It is an all or nothing change. I am on the threshold of a...

Away from Saint Pierre (on him was built a way so ridged, brittle and unworthy) Maison; a few clouds and a fresher breeze spell a day with a change in the spirit of the heart. Stepping onto the bus from Bourran to the city centre feels a little erroneous: I can't accept openly not walking anywhere and everywhere. My legs ache therefore I buy a bus ticket. Surely a Jazz, Blues or Rock festival would become tedious very shortly? Before Columbus etc what did we eat in Europe? Tomatoes, potatoes, squash, capsicum, etc ... The French are food crazy, but the food is all local and bountiful at this time of the year; celebrate the fruits of the Sun, Earth and Moon - they were in a union last night. Coche - a sow who has been allowed one litter prior to crrrr. Rodez market square Place de Bourg on a Wednesday. The next square - Place Eugéne Raynaldy - has vestiges of a Roman Forum; the Romans were very much in Gaul. Local Cerises (black cherries) are piled up next to Gallo and Cantaloup...

The mornings are golden. Early it is perfect walking weather, but by noon, or one pm, it is stifling. This morning i am heading a little south off the Chemin. So now I wait in Marcillac, a Vin AOP district, for a nine o'clock bus to Rodez. I have a number of irons in the fire of possibility for the next two night's accommodation (three of I am including one night about Bishop's Stortford too). First stop is the Presbyter next to the cathedral in Rodez. One of my personal dislikes about French manners is their tendency to say "Bon Appetite" when you're eating anything. What a throw away comment Good Appetite/Eating is - surely you can see I have a mouth full of pan, fromage au sauisson sec so surely I have a good appetite or I am eating. The other minor dislike are the number of conversations where "demain" is used. Everyone seems to only living for tomorrow so here I leave them today to their passionless conversations and catch another bus and it...

Mindfulness over a mining town tomorrow. There is a means of skirting around the north of Decazevilles. Tomorrow will be tough and it will be much more important to arrive a Conques without going into the cauldron of woes in Decazevilles. The hosts at Bio Gîte, who I find a little cold so far for Hippy types - too many instruction "do that" "don't do that", are going to be doing breakfast very early, which is OK with me. Awake for 6am. Depression is something that overwhelms me at times, usually at what seems an impossible time to be in that mode. I've just begun another Chemin and I need to lift my spirit. The views are divine, there is none of the Cicadas or Grasshoppers, nettles are lining the road sides and I crouched to shit in a toilet which was just a hole in the ground. Oh the road is warming, but it's not mountains. If I look at it it scuttles away into a deep ocean cave, waiting to come out whenever it can, it knows my fragility. Why did I c...

This is impossible. The heat is becoming unbearable, I am inheriting a moody sullen malaise - nothing will fix this. There are two options for tomorrow. Walk or bus. It is finished, back in Conques. Last time it saved me from the savaging of the Aubrac, but this time if feels like corporate pilgrimacy has come to town, this time it saves me from it's own illusion. For each pilgrim there should be a questionnaire to get below their faux pretence - an analysis beyond their skin to find out what dark mysterious secrets are smuggled in that body. I was here by around 2pm. The Abbey is a focal point from above the gorge and I was looking forward to it, but I am now just underwhelmed. Meh tourists. *** A brigade of youthful Germans are in the Abbey Sainte Foy; I don't know why? They're planning cards and talking as though they were everyone. When the war was lost Hitler put boys in uniform, gave them temperamental grenade launchers and watched a future fall: and he blamed the...

I decided not to be with the other pilgrims for dinner last night. After a some slices of Coeur du Boeuf, half of the saussion sec, some dried figs, bread and most of the bottle of Gaillac I decided the conversation between the volunteers (hosts) and another gentleman were judging far too many persons on the chemin so I went up to bed. Although there are always those who don't get it, and will use Donativo for their family too, any person who had just walked 25 kilometres in 32° deserves a Donativo evening anywhere. There are far too many capitalists who are hungry to use the pilgrim to have a simple, stationary life. The town of Estella in Spain only exists as it was built to service passing pilgrims - it is a fact and it is even a proud heritage found in the history books. This morning I woke too early. The German man was snoring hard and the sound of drunken Roister Doisters was traveling up to the room from somewhere along the Cele. The occasional mindless drunken annoying sho...

The Americans had a bomber (B36) designed to deliver the bomb to Russia - anywhere without refueling, it was called the Peacemaker - the killers think they're the messengers of God. Deliverance at the end of a gun. The brutal world we're in is truly a mistake. A friar is a monk of the road: take the sacred space with you. No building is needed. A couple weakness of purchases: vin blanc Fallacy, coeur du boeuf tomatoes and fromage du Tarn. One pure cow and the other 3 milks - both spectacular. The rip off of the day is possibly the train from Albi via Gaillac. Probably because it's crosses a dreaded frontier. From Tarn I head north into Lot. The weather has definitely lost its edge now which suggests that I should follow the path back along to Conques Abbey de Saint Foy. Tomorrow I am walking back along the GR 65 to Golinhac as last time I lost the plot on the Aubrac about there and now I consider I walked very little after Figeac. Such a liar I must be! But it must be do...