The Heroes Journey!

The lounge of my Auckland family home, two nights before SHEEP’s first show of the tour… She was pulling the curtains across the windows when I snuck into the lounge, not noticing as I took a seat on the couch and sunk into the cushions. My fingers began interweaving - I was curious. “Hey mum,” I said, startling her. “I was wondering something.” She tugged the last curtain over the window, and came to sit on the other couch. “What’s that, honey?”  “Well, I wanted to know why you and Dad chose ‘St Clair’ as my middle name.” I still didn’t know story behind it, and yet, three years had passed since I had decided that ‘Joshua St Clair’ was the perfect moniker I could have as an Artist - it just sounded right. Mum looked surprised. “I really loved the name St Clair,” she began, looking up at the corner of the room thoughtfully. “I was pregnant with you when we attended Olive Bottings funeral. She was your great grandmother. I remember sitting there, reading the funeral brochure, a

We were just heading out of Queenstown when my eyelids slumped, and immense tiredness consumed me whole - the kind of tiredness that accumulates over a wild journey across New Zealand, playing punk shows in small venues. Everything faded into the night. Dreams swirled about like the West Coast myst, roiling and folding and shape-shifting, upturning visions in a strange fashion. I found myself in the Octagon, of all places, five days before the SHEEP tour had even begun, having my near-future foretold by an elderly lady and her talent with tarot. “You will meet a mentor here in Dunedin, somebody you will advance with spiritually.” Her words reverberated in the dream realm, and her eyes sparkled with knowingness.  Suddenly, I was amongst the roofs of Dunedin, looking down at my new home. Dunedin has a magical way about it. The journey across New Zealand has to mean something. It has to! The Sheep tour… A spiritual journey…? A pilgrimage home... …?  — — — The next thing I

I was nudged awake. Confusion engulfed me for a moment as I opened my eyes. We were still in the car, still driving. And it was blacker than pitch outside. Only the road before us was illuminated.  “What…?” I mumbled. It took me a few moments to remember. Toby turned from the front seat. “We’re almost in Queenstown,” he said. “Oh, of course.” We’re still driving to Queenstown… I must have slipped into quite a deep sleep, because I was only gone for 2 hours. “Where can we pitch the tent?” Tommy asked without turning to look. “I’m getting pretty tired. I can’t drive forever.” Queenstown was the district I knew well - it was expected I could find a place for us to camp. I said I could, back in Haast. “Yeah, I think I know a place,” I said peering out the window, trying to get my bearings. Hmm, let me think. As we drove on through the darkness, I wrought my brain trying to think of a spot to pitch a tent. We didn’t have the money to pay for a campsite, and I knew I could think of

I blinked. Rubbed my eyes. Blinked again. The sun was so bright, trying to burst through my eyelids, as if it desperately wanted to show me something. Reaching for sunglasses, I opened my eyes.  We were gliding through wooded hills, basking in the morning sun. The land rolled; down and around we went, curving along the hills, through valleys not yet touched by the sun, and then back up to the bright golden hill-tops. The South Island, I breathed. As if he could read my mind, Tommy opened all the windows to let the fresh air gush into the Emerald Wagon. It was invigorating. “Woah!” I couldn’t contain my excitement. The middle seat definitely had the best views! “Yeeep! She’s beautiful!” Tommy said in a deep country voice. His light-orange hair was surfing the wind. Ethan was leaning forward in the front seat, as if the drive was a rollercoaster ride. Toby on my left was half out the window, hair blowing wildly. Our Queenstown show wasn’t for another two days yet - we had two da