A rebel without a clue.

Robots of death. Legions of those descending blindfold into hell. Maybe not blindfolded but blinkered. Those who can only look ahead. Not aside. Their heads are restricted in neck pulling them along the totemic ridged. Glassy eyed these are slaves who never will see until they are at the gates. Even then I think they'll choose to continue into the centre of hell where Satan's waiters and waitresses will pour pure vengeance. This is not it. This is not the answer to that obtuse equation; this was not meant at all. The complete package: fucking Daily Mail or Telegraph, Hello and OK - our thoughts to be controlled inside a Boeing 747-800  At 38,000 feet nothing exists at all. All memory. All past or future must be seen to be an illusion, but they bring us back with their capitalist pursuant. Escape lounge, Steven goes off to buy stuff in duty free like a lamb to the stone and half attempts at women crack open Champagne: it is 7:13 am - where is your real brain, reason, wit or do...

Almost a bad end to a wonderful experience: a hornet landed on my ankle. I didn't know what it was at first. It tickled and I thought it was a big fly. When I tried to shake it off I saw how large it was. It wasn't dislodged when I shook it. It was a little lethargic so it must've been sleeping before I sat near where it was - maybe it's too warm for flying bricks. Now it has left the room, out the window, and I am not damaged. What would the effect have been of the barb in its tail? Time for breakfast with the Sisters and repetition of the same emphasis over and over. Then I realise that I am being unnecessarily impatient with a woman who hasn't probably left this room, walls, cloister in a decade. And speaking to anyone male, let alone British (by birth), must bring all her forgotten skills from the corridors of her mind: a forgotten room so overgrown with brambles, dog roses and briary. She must've reminded me seven times between 7am and a half that another ...

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...