Venice Beach, California.

It would be easy to come here and live on the beach, lots of people do it. There’s sunshine, showers and pizza.
It doesn’t feel like the healthiest atmosphere however, mainly because it’s filled with marajuana smoke.

To support yourself you can sell your bob marley paintings, pirated internet banksy prints, you can busk, or, you can beg with a “need money for penis reduction sign.”

One guy asked me for money on the way to the shop. I told him no. He said “I’m rich,” in a sarcastic tone and walked away. He seemed peaceful and it pissed me off. Do you know how much money I’ve given away to beggars? Do you think what money I have fell from the sky? I knew I was losing my way when I felt angry at someone else who asked me for money. They didn’t say thankyou.

Bill Pettis hangs around on a park bench outside the famous Venice Beach Muscle Gym, he wears speedos. I assume he’s homeless. When tourists attempt to take photos of the carved bodies heaving weights within the perimeter Bill gets in their way flexing one of his biceps and holding a portable radio up to his ear. People screw their faces up and navigate around him, he mumbles to himself and shuffles back to the bench. He only has a couple of teeth left and is quite incomprehensible, but Bill used to be somebody. He was a famous body builder 35 years ago, friend of “Arnies” and apparently had the biggest arms in the world. I took a picture of him when he wasn’t looking and offered him a dollar, he accepted it and stuttered thankyou with a gentle gaze. Watching his primitive endeavours to reclaim the importance bodybuilding awarded him many years ago moved me at a deep empathetic level. I want to help him, but how? Money wont help. I can’t find his marbles for him, he’s the only one that can do that.

20130523-011838.jpg
Here’s some other photos of the area near my hostel.

20130523-012252.jpg

20130523-012530.jpg

20130523-012807.jpg

20130523-012915.jpg

Santa Monica Pier – Los Angeles

photo-1

I once saw a women doing Thai Chi with her eyes closed right out the front of the Sydney Entertainment Centre, there were people everywhere.

At 11pm I moved down to the beach from the grassed area on the boulevard where I’d been meditating.

There were lots of people around, teens, couples and families. I couldn’t sleep. I watched a character emerge from the distance. Using his foot, he rummages through nests left behind by beach goers during the day. An attempt to acquire some items belonging to a strolling group is thwarted by a vigilant couple. He carries on and glances my way, I smile knowing there’s no way he can tell if I’m awake or not, my face indiscernible from the shadow of my hood.

Something is moving behind me, on inspection I see a figure resting against a trash bin 5 metres away, looking at me. No wonder I can’t sleep.

A container of spinach beside me has a layer of condensation on it from the damp air. It’s too fucking cold here.

I walk up the steps back to the boulevard, it’s overlooking the beach about 30 metres above sea level. There is a path all along the cliff with a concrete fence providing safety from the drop off to the freeway below. To the east is the pier with all the lights of Pacific Park’s ferris wheel, to the front and west is beach. I jump a medium fence and lay down between it and the drop off.

I hear the sound of water and open my eyes,  liquid is splashing onto the floor next to me and allover my boots. Dude! What the fuck! Some guy is pissing through the fence. “Sorry……Sorry,” He says with a spanish accent. He buggers off and shortly later another group congregate in the same area.

I venture down a less vertical part of the escarpment towards some concrete flats I could see on top of a freeway tunnel entrance. There’s a man with his head between a girls legs, they are on a disused set of concrete stairs, her hand is gripping one of the rails.

A mass covered in a beige blanket is already in the spot I was after, it doesn’t respond to my intrusion.

I found a flat space less than a metre wide behind another fence. I scrawled “KILAHEEM @ WORDPRESS” and got in my sleeping bag. There is a 10 metre drop onto the freeway below. I think about my mother. “I won’t move in my sleep”, I reassure myself.

As I drift away I’m pulled back into consciousness by diminishing confidence based on an event earlier that day.

On the way here I held my camera by it’s strap in my teeth while my hands were full. “I won’t drop it,” I assured. I put my wallet in my pocket, some rubbish in the bin and zipped my spinach away in my 2nd backpack strapped to my chest. I opened my jaw and the camera smashed to the ground.

Don’t know if I’ve slept, maybe. It’s 530am.

I run for 25 minutes along the beach, followed by a swim and shower. I feel redeemed by other joggers acknowledgements. See I’m not filth.

I join a group of earthies for a 30 minute meditation and make some new friends.

I’m walking to the other beach I heard about where the street artists are.

photo


When I went through puberty I noticed my chest changing, I didn’t understand why.

I remember swimming in the backyard pool of a neighbourhood friend’s house when I was 14. One of my mates walked up and grabbed my nipple. “Hahaha, what are those?” Everybody in the pool looked at me and looked at each other. I was like “Huh? What did I do?”

Over the years wether people laughed at them or just wanted me to know they noticed them, it has been consistent. I kept taking my shirt off, swearing I wouldn’t let it bother me. Fuck, I was born this way? What do you want me to do?

I must have deserved it for one reason or another because nature doesn’t lie. I was a punk at school. I’ve done some pretty nasty shit and I wouldn’t be surprised if people had fantasized about putting bullets in me. I’m serious.

Despite the facade, after hours, I was on the track, in the gym, trying to sculpt the perfect body. Didn’t matter how big I got or how low my body fat was they were still there, like Raspberry Creams stuck to my chest. :lol:

Girls never seemed to mind, quite the opposite usually, but you never know what they’re thinking.

For 15 years I tried to accept the cards I’d been dealt. Today I folded.

I just returned from Dr Mordcai Blau’s Plastic Surgery Clinic in New York. I’d seen photos of his work years ago and ruled out ever getting surgery. It would be the ultimate example of rejecting my body and would cause an equal and opposite reaction in some way.

Today I paid him $7000 to take out the excess tissue gland behind my nipples and basically cut them off. He did it all while I was awake under local anaesthetic. The most pain I suffered were the injections before the procedure.

There were 10 males in the waiting room, of all appearances. One man was very tall, built and well dressed. He kept looking at me.

At the moment I have a compression bandage around my chest which must stay on for 2 days until I’m reviewed. I have no idea what my chest looks like.

Besides the 100′s of patient reviews, before and after photos on his website and the countless surgeon awards on his office walls, the moment Dr Blau gained my trust was when he said, “You won’t find anyone else in the world that can do what I’m doing.” “We have seen thousands of males with gynecomastia, I think you will be very happy.”

We’ll see.

If anyone has any questions about my experience please email me at crdbell@gmail.com.

Before and after photos will ensue.

 

IMG_3943-rasberry-creams-final

 fuck it.

I’ve been riding my bike everywhere. Zig Zagging up and down Manhattan and Brooklyn systematically, taking photos. It gets boring after a week. I decide I’m going to leave and go to California, I pack my bags.

I wait in the hostel courtyard while I make my decision on which travel medium I want to use. I sit there all day.

Do you ever feel like you don’t want to be here but you don’t know where you’d rather be? Like you just don’t want to be anywhere? Something won’t let me leave.

About 8pm I go to Subway for a feed and 20 Raspberry Cheesecake cookies. I have my pack on. A guy looks over and says “Where are you going and where have you been?” I told him I was going to bounce and we got to speaking about photography. He shows me pictures of celebrities he has taken. He told me he thought I was leaving too soon, “There’s a lot going on here, maybe you should give it more time.” “I think your right,” I said.

I decide to stick around and get some film for my polaroid camera. I’ve been carrying it this whole trip without using it and was going to sell it to lighten up my pack for the road. I’ve had it since I was 15.

In Australia I found a place to buy film seeing as polaroid stopped making it. Now being in New York it’s pretty neat to visit the project space  Impossible  where a team of artists are responsible for it.

I hit the streets, taking pictures of anything and anyone that interests me. “Excuse me sir / boys / maam, I think you would make a great photo, can I please take one?” 90% of people have said yes. 70% have traded emails with me. Some people have said no. My anxiety levels are usually about 3/4 out of 10.

I’ve seen the same people a few times. 1 in particular was a thin brown skinned guy about 23 years old. I saw him from the other side of the street across 6 lanes. He was wearing tight black jeans, a loose fitting singlet with a long neck pendant and a black jacket. He has tattoos on his face and is carrying a skateboard.
I think to have tattoos on your face you need to be one of 3 things. 1. Tough as fuck. 2. A fucking idiot or 3. Bold. I wanted to figure out which one he was.

I remember a song I listened to growing up with the lyrics “Let’s take it back to the old school, let’s take it to union square.” A few days later I’m there, siting on the steps facing broadway [avenue].

“You got film for that thing?” says a guy sitting on a skateboard near me. He has dreadlocks and dark skin. He’s a courier and a professional bmx rider. His name is Dilly. He shows me his own film camera, says he has 4 rolls to develop. There would be some magic on there. I feel peace with him immediately.

There is people playing chess, dancing and playing instruments. There’s a pack of skaters close by that Dilly is down with. I notice one in particular, he has tight jeans on and a white singlet, he’s wearing a long neck pendant and a black jacket. He’s landing some pretty tricks. “I’ve got a girl tonight,” I hear him say. He puts one of the boys bags on his head. “Smells like Mcdonalds in there,” he says. Some young men look up at him from the steps when he speaks, applying attention to their own remarks. He’s like a doberman at the park amongst chihuahuas.

“You a videographer?” he calls to me. I hold up my polaroid. He comes over for a chat.

“You should come to my show tonight, you can get some pics.” A flash from the art movie “Basquiat” races across my mind. Jean Michel [Basquiat] has an exhibition at Mary Boone’s NY gallery in 1984 and rocks the art world. As much as I hate it, my vision is a product of my influences.

“You a painter?” I ask. He confirms. My anxiety is at about 8, but he wouldn’t know. He turns his head away while we are mid conversation before getting my contact details.

“Nah nah man, not cool” he says retrieving his skateboard from Dilly’s feet. “I don’t like people touching my stuff.” Dilly looks at the floor and takes a seat.

“Are you going to his show tonight?” I ask Dilly. “No,” he returns, looking in the other direction.

KILAHEEM ©

I didn’t really discover the Notorious B.I.G’s music until about 10 years ago. I got a few of my mates into it which created a few songs which are synonomous with that time together in our lives. I felt ownership over the music, like he was mine, my discovery. Who said you could listen to Biggie!?

Around the workplace I see 18 year olds bouncing around, reciting his lyrics just like I did 10 years ago.

Biggie grew up in Bedford Stuyvesant, Brooklyn. He was shot in 1997 when he was 25, his funeral procession was a historic event and took place where I stand. This video brought me here.

I define a place as being cool by the way people look and dress. I want to photograph everyone.

The first time I was in Brooklyn I asked a stranger for a rundown of the area. Pointing to our right he said “This area is upper class with restaurants and business people”. Pointing to the left he said “Fulton Street is a middle class shopping area, mainly black”. My attention sharpens on his face, our eye contact experiences a window of non verbal phenomena.

I’m with a new friend, she used to live here in the late 90′s and now lives in The Bronx. I asked her opinion on the man’s method of description. She asked me if he was white. “Yes” I say adding “Surely his statement would piss some people off”. “Definitely” she replies.

Kilaheem ©

Alex_Grey-Diamond_Being
1. Meditation is
something hippies do.

2. Meditation is not for
me.

3. Buddhism
sounds like some mystic cult / religion where you worship a statue
surrounded by the smell of rotting fruit and burning
incense.

4. Fuck
meditation.

Sound
familiar? A lot of people will never be interested in meditation or
even want to understand it. But some people are searching,
searching for a way to come out of misery. This post will
articulate how meditation is helping me to come out of mine. Grab a
pot of tea.

I started
meditating in 2009 in my room on a navy base in Sydney. I looked up
meditation on you tube and found a number of recordings including
listening to rain, spoken word and visualisations. All were
beneficial.

In 2010 I
began Cognitive Behavioural Therapy for
Depression / Anxiety. The author of the treatment was Dr Richards from the Social Anxiety
Institute in Phoenix USA. It was a 20 cd series with
exercises including guided meditation. It
was incredibly helpful and
only a stepping stone. I did my exercises every day for 2
years.

In 2012
I met a man who took me even further into the realm of mind and
matter at The Energy Store in Bondi Sydney. This
is when the insomnia I’d had since I was 1o years old left my life.
I haven’t had a sleepless night in 12 months.

While sitting down against a brick
wall outside The Energy Store waiting for my appointment, I had a
conversation with a passer by. He told me he visited an amazing
meditation retreat in The Blue Mountains NSW.

6 months later I googled it and found
Vipassana.

I took
part in a 10 day meditation course at Dhamma
Bhumi which is on a beautiful property in
Blackheath, NSW. It was very hard and equally as
rewarding.

Once
you’ve done a 10 day course you become an “old student” and are
free to attend one of the more than 100 centres worldwide to “sit”
(meditate) or “serve” other students staying at the
centre.

As I was
travelling through the United States I thought I would drop
into Dhamma
Dhara in Shelburne, Massachusetts for some
refreshment.

I ended
up staying for 15 days and completed my 2nd 10 day course. No
mobile phones, 2 vegetarian meals a day, no eye contact, no
talking, no sensual entertainments. Just me and my monkey
mind.

It was harder
than the first. Much Harder.

You observe the breath for the first
3 days, sitting in a hall with 100 other students on cushions. You
sit crossed legged for an hour at a time and do anywhere between 8
- 12 sits a day.

The
remaining days you observe the sensations on your body which hold
the key to the door of the deepest level of the mind. This is where
you keep all your stock of misery. The place that makes you say
things like “I’m this way because this happened to me when I was
this old”.

As the
days go by you are encouraged to sit for the entire 1 hour period
without changing your posture at all. Not even moving. This is
where the magic begins to happen.

When I first started meditating I
could not sit for more than 20 minutes without severe back ache and
the feeling that someone was drilling into my hips with an electric
drill. Now I can sit for 2 hours without flinching. At some point
you teach your mind to observe pain. It’s like a white screen goes
up in front of you, you are standing in a control room and a red
light goes off with a sign saying “Pain is arising on the right
knee, let’s see how long it lasts”. Your hand is on a lever with
two options, “Change Position” or “Just Observe”. The pain is going
to stay there until you learn how to observe it. When you learn, it
becomes half. This is one of the
very important lessons. Imagine how useful this could be in life?
The pain of being rejected by somebody, the pain of addiction, the
pain of loss in it’s many forms. The pain of craving things,
attention, beauty, RICHES. It’s all there. You learn to observe it
all. Suddenly you begin to see that your just trying to fill a
space, and not just see,
experience.

Whenever I generate negativity
in my mind I become agitated. These thoughts are automatic because
I have been practicing them my whole life. With Vipassana, I am
learning to observe them without reacting.

I meditate twice a day. 1 hour in the
morning and 1 hour at night. It is very hard staying at a
backpackers.

When I
was going to the energy store, I told my teacher how I was very
lonely and how I would sit at home by myself in Surry Hills on my
red couch thinking “I just need
something” some friends, a root, a cigarette, a
coffee, a drink, anything! It didn’t matter how many times I’d run
off distracting myself from those feelings, they would always be
back. My teacher said to me something I repeat often
“feel the heat
and
transform”. It’s
exactly the same thing that Vipassana teaches. Feel the pain,
observe it, it does not last forever.

I realise
that I’m not spending my time wishing I had more friends or a
girlfriend, wanting to be somebody or wishing I was famous. I also
used to spend a lot of time reliving the moments when my friends
had said things that upset me. We are not our thoughts. Thinking is
the cause, Meditation is the answer.

I haven’t drunk or smoked in 2
months.

I do however have an unhealthy sugar
addiction. I have been choosing to ignore these sensations. Not all
is perfect.

Where are
all the shaven heads? The brown robes? The worshipping of the
Flying Spaghetti Monster? Nope, it’s just you, in the beginning and
in the end. “Know thy self and the truth will be
revealed”.

If you
want to know more about the technique and where you can attend a
course head here.

This is a great Vipassana introduction video.

A documentary was released in 2007
chronicling the experience of inmates in an Alabama prison using
Vipassana meditation. Even if you don’t want to meditate it’s a
powerful movie.

IMG_2881 New York Colours

My pack is absolutely full again. I have a pair of Supra boots that I love but do NOT need at all. I have a polaroid camera, portable hard drive, laptop, Serato Dj Box, camping mattress, sleeping bag, camera and 3 lenses to name a few items contributing to my packs 25kg weight. I can’t continue like this.

I’m in MANHATTAN! NYC.

It was about 25 degress today. ALOT warmer than I’ve had for the last 4 months. Did I mention it was 4 months ago that I left Perth? KILLING IT.

Eating in a Subway restaurant a heavy set guy sits down next to me and starts talking. He has a couple of sparkling rings on his fingers and tattoos on his neck. He owns a barber shop upstairs. He offers me his phone to find a backpackers. Soon I’m talking to his cousin “Clipper” and other business partner “Touch”. They nod at passers by and appear to hustle the footpath outside the shop.

Touch offers to try get me some work while I’m here with photography. He says all the celebs know that his barber shop is the spot. He introduces me to another blogger outside. I can’t shake her hand because I slammed my finger in the subway bin and blood is dripping from it onto the pavement.

I’m not prepared to do photography work. I don’t take it seriously enough. I don’t even edit my photos. My blog site could look a lot better too but I just can’t be bothered. I can’t even be bothered making this post interesting. I went to a Knicks game tonight. It was fucking awesome.

thankyou

I don’t think I’ve ever done anything that has allowed me to connect with as many people in my life this far, besides maybe being the mc at my year 7 Graduation at West Beechboro Primary School.

Out of all my interests writing seems to be the thing I have to push myself the least to do. It comes quite naturally and always has. I am by no means saying that I’m a good writer, but I’d go as far as saying I’m not shit.

Thank you to the people who consistently take the time to read my work. At times I wonder why I’m even doing it and it is you who make it worth it in the end.

“Happiness not real unless shared.” (Into the Wild)

Yours

Chris

IMG_2702 syracuse

I just had a conversation with the hostel owner here  in Syracuse New york. I’ve been here for 4 nights since Detroit and have been hanging out in my room on the internet and sleeping in. I was making a feed and he dropped by the kitchen and asked me where I’d just come from. Detroit, I told him. I saw a chemical reaction in his eyes. I spoke a little more about where else I’d been and where I might be going and reopened the Detroit forum again. He lived there from 1989 to 2003, he was there for the music. “That’s Motown” he said.

I asked him if the environment had changed or stayed the same during his time there. He said it had gotten worse. “You have to be tough to live in a place like Detroit, thick skinned and smart”. “Street smart?” I questioned. “Yeah” he replied. “There’s a saying you know. Don’t go to Detroit without a gun”.

I told him how I was out by myself in the hood taking photos and how I could feel this imminent danger with cars driving past me slowly. I smoked a lot of weed when I was a teenager and have an inclination for paranoia but after talking to him I know it was just hyper awareness. “Why would they want to hurt a little white guy like me?” I ask. “Why would they wanna hurt anybody? Those people are crazy. They’ll kill you! God was with you that day, you don’t walk around out there by yourself”. “Real?” I ask. He stares at me “Whaaat?” as if I’m questioning his authority on the matter. I start laughing as he maintains a stern face. I can’t tell if he’s joking. “I lived there for 14 years. I know!” “So I shouldn’t be walking around in the Detroit neighbourhood by myself then?” He shakes his head leaving the room “Absolutely not”.

There is plenty that is beautiful and inspiring about Detroit. I haven’t stopped thinking about the place since I left.

Detroit, Michigan.

I read a book called “The History of the disc jockey” in 2008. It spoke of the design of Techno music and the handful of electronic music pioneers behind it. They were from The Motor City, Detroit. The book made fascinating descriptions of economic depression and architectural decay in a city which was now far from the industrial affluence once enjoyed in the earlier 20th century.

I was also a big fan of the movie “8 Mile”.

I spoke of my loose plans in conversation while travelling through the U.S and was encouraged by more than 20 separate dialogues not to even bother visiting Detroit. When everybody is telling you to buy a house, you don’t go and buy a house. When everybody is telling you to get into the stock market, you don’t go and get in the stock market. The same goes for visiting Detroit.

About to go to sleep laying in a Chicago hostel I read an article on my iphone called “Detroit rising again thanks to it’s artists”.

Then I saw this flyer.

Tell: Detroit

Tell: Detroit

I packed my bags and took off, vexing my sleeping hostel friends. It’s 4am.

I had to pull over 3 times and sleep on the 8 hour drive there. I really am getting older. What the fuck!

I knew I was getting close, I drove into the shadows of an overpass, the walls were lined with grafitti. Within 10 minutes I was navigating my way through a myriad of potholes and looking upon an Industrial Wasteland. Huge skeletons of concrete factories, dormant chimney stacks and plooms of steam rising into the air from iron lids in the bitumen. I have never seen such a thing, my senses are paralysed. I want to live here I say out loud.

As the flyer articulates a documentary is being made calling on Detroit locals to come and share their experiences on video. I was desperate to observe.

I walked into a shopfront and out to a rear dim warehouse about the size of two indoor basketball courts. It had a polished concrete floor and inconsistent brickwork patterns around it’s perimeter. I peeI my back pack off and throw it down into a nook disrupting a number of conversations. 20 people look up at me. Some are being filmed on rustic couches and I am greeted by a friendly neo rockabilly esque man. I told him the inspirations that lead me there and he invited me to participate in the recording.

Apparently I was meant to tell my story. I thought they were going to interview me so it ended up being pretty raw and organic. I don’t think I sounded like too much of a dick head although I did mention that I was in the Australian Navy even though it had nothing to do with the topic.

IMG_1677-Kila-Interview

An older lady came in to share her story just as the crew were packing up. I felt pretty rockstar living this spontaneous life, magnetising to all sorts of interesting artistic initiatives. I still had nowhere to sleep however.

During filming of the last contributor I seized an opportunity to ask her if she could accommodate me for the night. She declined.

I was almost at my car when the same lady instigated a conversation with me from behind. She suggested I call a local artist she knew in the Area called Aaron Timlin. It was a long shot but I left a message on his answering machine anyway.

I knew I wouldn’t be in Detroit long and I wanted to photograph as much as possible. I had asked one of the Mercantile Co. operators previously if there were any dangerous areas to avoid in Detroit. She assured me there was. “Like….Guns dangerous?” I asked. Oh yeah. “Like murders dangerous?” Oh yeah. “Fuck” I said, and quickly forgot the ill advised destinations she spoke of.

I drove out to the first neighbourhood and parked out the front of the dilapidated St Alberts School. I have now accumulated about 6 thousand dollars worth of camera equipment and am carrying it in a satchel around my neck. Every 30 seconds a car drives past slowly. I monitor the shadows inside the vehicles peripherally while trying to keep my mind focussed on compositions. I’m fucking scared.

There is a man stationary about 100 metres down the road to my left conducting some sort of activity. I keep wondering if I’m about to be robbed.

The man on the bike pedals up the street towards me. He has grey trackpants on, a hood and slight facial hair. He reminds me of the Wu Tang Clan. I look at him until he looks away. “That’s an old landmark right there……..Olllld Landmark” he says. “Can I take your picture?” “Naw man………..Olllld landmark” he repeats while casually zig zagging in the opposite direction. I should have taken his photo first then asked him.

With escalating trepidation I moved around the neighbourhood shooting whatever I could on my 70 – 200mm. I must have looked like a scared little mouse. I pulled over at an intersection to shoot a house defaced in multiple colours. A car pulled up at the stop sign behind me and sat idling, watching me. I heard doors shut, I couldn’t see them because they were behind my car. Fuck this! I flew into my car and locked the doors without even looking up. They drove on slowly.

I was walking around an abandoned kindergarden playground, there’s some text on the wall that says “Slaughter Hipsters”. I was doing my best to appear comfortable by walking on a waist high brick wall. A car I had seen earlier appeared to be monitoring me. It stopped and did a U turn and I got the hell out of there. On the way to my car I saw people get out with urgency wearing dark bomber jackets. My body felt heavy and my head started spinning. It was exactly the same feeling I got as a child confronted by Australian Aboriginals in precarious situations. The people went inside a nearby church. How much of this fear is paranoia? I don’t know if I’m in a dangerous area, I don’t know what locals think of people with my skin colour. I don’t know what people with my skin colour have done to these people. By the look of my surroundings they could use some $6000 camera equipment. I can’t lose my photos. I won’t.

My phone rings. It’s Aaron Timlin. He offers me a couch for the night and invites me to a concert at the Museum of African American History downtown. He seems incredibly pleasant and I’m not surprised by my good fortune. After the phone call I neglect to hang up the phone and catch a conversation he shares with his associates. “You know what the funny thing is, Australia was founded by convicts”. he jokes. Somebody laughs in the background. “Haha, they’re all criminals”. Group laughs together. I thought it was hilarious.

I didn’t take as many photos as I would have liked. I thought I would get a chance to take more later. This way of thinking is always a mistake.

Detroit Part 2 Coming Soon.

IMG_1692 St Alberts School 2

St Alberts School

IMG_1711 multi colour

IMG_1723 shitting

Cape Fear – Green car to left

IMG_2525 G

Chicago, Illinois.

There is a man standing at the entrance to a downtown Chicago subway bouncing lightly at the knees, colourfully asking passers by for money. A young boy is lead by his mother’s hand as she attempts to descend the stairs into the subway. The boy is distracted by the regale, he turns his little blonde head and looks up at the man, the sun shining on his face. The man jokes with the boy and playfully pokes his chest, the mother approves the interaction then refocuses the childs attention down the stairs.

I walk past the man feeling affection towards him. He says “Hey Brother you got any change for me?” I’d already taken a homeless guy called D out for Panda Express and didn’t feel I could spare any more. “Cmon……….cuMONN” He jests, full of fun and high spirits. I smiled uncontrollably. “Sorry man” I said and continued walking. “God Bless you brother” he replied. No. God bless you.

I cant believe that guy. He’s out there asking people for money, wearing rags and is probably ignored by the majority of a city. He has enough spirit to make me adore him and enough goodness within to gain the trust of a child.

The next day I purposely walked passed the same spot hoping I would see him again. There was a man leaning over as if praying to the floor, he had a sign and was dressed in dark clothing. Changing tactics I thought and smiled. I took a quick photo of him and realised it wasn’t the same guy from yesterday. There’s a man close by, he has grey facial hair and has his head covered in a beanie and hood.  He fixes on me and says “Why did you take that mans photo? Do you like taking pictures of homeless people?” His jaw appears to clench. “You mistake my intentions sir, thats not the reason I’m photographing him”. He shakes his head quickly and shows me the whites of his eyes. “I love people, All types of people. There are enough pictures of poverty around without me taking anymore.” Plus I thought it was my mate from yesterday.

I stood and talked to Lenny for an hour. He is homeless and lives in Millenium Park. He was a military policeman in the U.S army for 7 years. He is slurring slightly but joins his sentences and content together as well as anyone else I’d spoken to this week. “Are you happy?” I ask. “I’m alive” he replies with upward intonation. “I’m just homeless.” I want to know if he’s lonely and ask him if he gets the chance to speak to people. “Most days I come down here to get some money for food then I go back up to my bench and I talk to myself (his voice ascends in a pitch of helplessness) I talk to myself. It aint right but that’s what I do”. A surge of compassion fills my eyes with tears. I don’t care if he sees it. “I get up everyday and thank god I have another day, don’t you?” He asks. I share my perspective on the bible with him and he shares a 50 year old anecdote with me.

When I was growing up my parents sent me to Catholic school. I was an altar boy. I had a question that bothered me about God and spent a lot of time formulating how I was going to ask it. I was 15 and I stood up in front of the whole church and asked the priest – God knows all am I correct? He does, replied the Priest. Well if god knows all, why would he test Adam and Eve to eat the apple when he already knows the answer?

Lenny was expelled from the school.

“It aint no test” he tells me repeatedly.

He agreed to let me take his photo. I wanted to give him a gift and asked him where he was going to be later after I’d visited the art institute.

4 hours later I travelled to where he said he’d be and sure enough he came walking over the bridge holding a cooler bag. I stood aloof until he was within radius then leaned down into his view so he could see my face. He responded like a friend at the shopping centre. “Ohh hey! Look, someone gave me this bag”. He didn’t think I’d come. I have my reward.

IMG_2604 lenny

Polaroid film doesn’t do so well in Chicago’s wind chill.

Madison, Wisconsin, USA

IMG_0949 Heem America

 

What’s up!? I dont have to deliver this car to New York until March 18 so I’m hitting Chicago tomorrow then Detroit!

I drove from Seattle across many moons and many states. I’ve been completely by myself for 5 days which always sends me wacky.

Lastnight was pretty dangerous. I’ve never had to drive on an ice rink before. The Interstate 90 highway through South Dakota was covered in a slippery black ice. There was nothing out there and I didn’t know what the hell to do. I put it in 4wd and crawled for the next 100 miles.

I’ve been sleeping in the car at rest bays which are roughly every 50 miles. I’m using a sleeping bag wearing all the clothes out of my pack with a jacket over my head.

I haven’t taken 1 photo yet.

The roadside is a ubiquitous posterboard for casinos, fast food, liquor and petrol chains. Every exit is a gateway to modern convenience blazing in neon glory on enough land to name a suburb.

I’ve been living off fruit and trail mix since Nelson BC. I did eat a vegetarian pizza the other night which gave me cramps and gas. The gas then made me drowsy at the wheel, which then nearly made me crash. See! Junk food kills!

On the road across the Australian Outback their are dead kangaroos everywhere. Here, I can count the road kill on my hands. Are Kangaroos idiots?Or are there no animals left here because the Americans have already shot them all?

I heard an advert on a local radio station while passing through saying that America was the best country with the best people on the face of this earth and that god made it this way. This was followed by a sermon condemning homosexuals for disrespecting their bodies and giving in to the peversion of lusting after another male.

Highway police have pulled me over twice. The limit is 75mph but everyone is speeding past so I thought maybe speed limits were just a by law and started doing 90. I got off with warnings but the 2nd policeman was very suspicious as he’d never heard of anyone relocating vehicles interstate that didn’t belong to them before. Then he saw I had my go pro positioned right at him from the dash. “What’s that?” Oh no I thought. He was about to have a rage blackout but luckily the memory card had filled up and the device had turned itself off before he noticed it.

My first night on the road I locked the keys in the car. I could not believe I had done it. The 4th person I asked to help me was Felix who was coming from Seattle orientating at a university he is going to attend to build video games. I used his phone to order a membership with roadside assistance and got some advice about a blizzard that was going to make driving conditions hazardous in a few days.

A man gave me some homemade cookies while I was freezing to death waiting for the mechanic. I had a smile on my face the whole time.

Before all this I was in Seattle where I got lost 50 times before finding Scott Templeton. He runs a business that relocates cars interstate for owners that want to save 60% on freight costs. He sources drivers who show him a driving record, passport and $500 deposit. All I need is fuel money. He is a mountain of a man with a penetrating voice and a neatly cut brown moustache. He “fucking loves Aussies”.

I only found out about him through a 19 year old German dude called Thorben I met in a hostel.

Getting to Seattle across the border took 24 hours on and off a Greyhound bus from Castlegar. I hugged a croatian lady and couldn’t stop myself laughing at a crass young male disturbing the peace of the rest of the passengers trying to sleep. What was he doing? Speaking loudly, complaining that his seat had “piss” on it, narrating a news headline of a madman who decapitated a passenger on a greyhound in Alberta recently, articulating all his native entitlements and pointing his reading light in the face of a white haired man in front of him. He was also telling me the guy behind me was going to chop my head off.

Crossing the border was easy for everyone on the bus, even easier for an Ex Australian sailor.

I used to spend time worrying about how I was going to do things and all that could go wrong travelling overseas. I have learned that when I get my head in the right place and listen to what my body actually wants, the world just hands it out to me.

20130312-033414.jpg

Nelson, BC.

Ever tried hitch hiking without a destination? Just Let Go.

I hit the road south and stuck my thumb out. I’m going where ever the driver is going. I was holding a sign that said “Just Let Go.”

Scott soon pulled over intrigued by the statement, he took me to Salmo where the annual Shambala festival is held. He has Crohns Disease and thinks he developed it from eating processed food. He also said he can’t sleep properly if he doesn’t eat meat.

He dropped me off at an intersection and recommended I go west. This is where Hozae picked me up.

I hold my go pro up into the car while i introduce myself, it’s hard to do you know. I got kicked out of a guys car in Oz for recording him and I’m reminded of it now.

Hozae is Mexican, I have to try hard to understand him. I learned “No Entiendo” previously which means I don’t understand, he is not offended. He tells me not to hitchike through Mexico. “You cannot trust” he says “They will steal your back pack!” “Will they shoot me?” I ask. He tells me he doesn’t think so. That’s good enough for me!

On his way home from driving trucks allday Kevin picks me up. This guy is a little intimidating at first, he is a big man, about 50 and has a firm look about him. I am careful to limit gratuitous commentary. Turns out he was a commando in the Canadian military and it took him a long time to unlearn a bellicose temperament.
“Probably had a few fights then” I say. “Oh ya” he replies.

We got along well quickly. He is a musician and behold the small world, the guy that recorded his recent album is the guy I wrote Bubalooo’s Last Waltz about.

It made sense to ask Kevin if I could stay at his place seeing as it gets dark soon anyway. He would have said yes if I had. He dropped me off on a highway heading West toward Vancouver and gave me his number incase I got stuck.

I have my camera setup on a tripod to record my next lift. It gets dark. No one will stop. I look up at the snowy Kootenay Ranges in the distance and start laughing. “I know what you want me to do! I already know!”

I sling my 28kg pack on my back and head to the nearby Fireside Inn. It’s $100 a night. I ring Kevin.

“I hope your hungry” Kevin says while his girlfriend Sheree is cooking up a feast. I’m on the couch watching Kevins band videos and patting Diesel the dog. Kevin used to live up north in the wilderness where he survived off the land and kept up to 28 snow dogs. I thanked the couple for their kindness and told them I’d pay it forward.

6am I’m back on the same highway with my thumb out. It’s COLD. I do pushups and squats to stay warm. Nobody is stopping and to tell you the truth I don’t want them to. I’ve basically done a big circle from where I begun. I quit signalling and look to the Kootenays.

Sponging the Fireside Inn’s wifi I check my email. There is a response for the driver position I applied for in Seattle, a vehicle needs to be delivered to New York. “Are you available soon?” It asks.

My Greyhound ticket to Seattle is $170.

Hey there. I’ve just had another great vegetarian meal at Jagannath Express Nelson I heard a customer discussing a cookbook they were about to buy and decided I was going to get one too when I left.

I ended up having a chat to Jim who co owns the place, he came and sat down next to me and had some fascinating things to say. He asked me where I was heading. I said to the highway to hitch hike. He said “So what are you going to say when somebody stops and asks where your going?” I told him I would say “Where ever your going!” He laughed his arse off and said “I love that”.

See my next adventure is to hitch hike without a destination. I’m going to let go and see where the world takes me.

Jim and I finished our chat and he reaches over and says here you go, I’ve got something for you. It’s a small pocket size cook book.

20130305-121006.jpg

“Come in make your self at home” says Bubalooo. There are two huskies watching the new visitor from the left corner of the lounge room, gazes unbroken. Bubalooo’s friend is resting at the table, he laughs and makes vague commentary about something he is watching on his computer. Periodically he holds a flame to a device and inhales smoke from it. He blows it out of his mouth into the air and coughs aggressively. He has a pointy black beard and large holes in his ear lobes.

Bubalooo is sitting down on a chair in the next room, he has mousey brown hair in loose curls at a straws length. He reads sheet music from a stand and is surrounded by many instruments. He is rubbing the fine hair of a bow slowly back and forth against the strings of a dark timber cello, a slow drum beat is playing through the speakers. The visitor stands nearby watching, listening. “Do you want me to sing for that song?” “Oh no” says Bubalooo. “This song is very sentimental to me, perhaps when I get to know you better”. “What is it about?” asked the visitor.

Early January 2013.

Bubalooo and his girlfriend have been together for three years and have just spent many nights over the festive season celebrating with friends. The house is unkept and they begin to argue in the kitchen. Bubalooo becomes angry and picks up a coffee mug, he throws it. It strikes his girlfriend in the face, she is cut and bleeding. “I meant to throw it at the wall” he cries. Bubalooo telephones the police and his girlfriend is taken away to the hospital where she is given stitches. She ends the relationship. Her things still sit in Bubalooo’s house nearly two months later, her dogs without one of their masters.

“She used to say mean things to me” says Bubalooo. “I didn’t like it, but I love her with all my heart and hope she comes back to me one day”.

He joins his friend at the table and blows smoke into the air, he coughs loudly.

As night falls Bubalooo prepares a meal for himself and the visitor. While the visitor is still eating, Bubalooo sits on a lounge chair and plays his guitar. His head faces motionless across the room, his eyes are shadowed beneath the shy artificial light. One of the huskies is making short howls, staring at his master. The visitor looks up from the kitchen bench chewing his food, Bubalooo is singing quietly. “The sweetest feeling that I got from you, the things I said to you, were true”. The visitor stares unfocused toward the floor for a short time. He lifts his head and continues eating. He takes Bubalooo’s picture.

The next morning Bubalooo does not blow any smoke into the air before walking with the visitor down to the creek. The water is flowing energetically because the snow is melting. He gives a towel to the visitor and they both sit on the ground facing the stream with their eyes closed.

That afternoon Bubalooo takes the visitor home in his blue truck. The pair shake hands in the street and share a short embrace. “Your a good man” says the visitor. “Don’t ever forget that”. “Thanks. You too” said Bubalooo, and drove away.

20130304-200430.jpg

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 110 other followers