He sits there, preparing breakfast in the sun. The wall of the house is the back of his chair; his seat is the asphalt. Snow White bread balances at a challenging mathematical angle. The strawberry jam is thick, gelatinous, as easy to smear as a jellyfish, or a liberated viscous organ; it is clotted and resistant to reduction. I can see his thumbnail through the tram window, long and ending as the blunt end of a butter knife might. Appropriate, as the thumb is his only utensil available for sandwich construction. The clot is distributed across the surface with an awkward dexterity. That shit is sticky. The knuckle looks arthritic, aged, impractical for the privileged evenness that correct spreading requires. It will do.

I am on Wurundjeri Woi Wurrung Land, otherwise known as Melbourne. A taxi ride transported me across the city to where I’m to stay, a co-living hotel. It’s an interesting place, a multi-level complex that aims to create some sort of community atmosphere, hosting regular communal events and activities. I can’t make my mind up as to whether it’s a distasteful way to monetize the communal experience, or a thoughtful way to decrease alienation and disconnection for the people who are living semi-permanently in the complex anyway. Maybe it’s both.

Three days of rests, repairs, and admin. The Monday is a write-off after the overnight transit; I arrived in the city just after 7am. The next day is slightly more enlivened. That evening, I learn to ride the trams. A wonderful form of transport that warms up the sound world with bells, a hefty bass rumble, and a hushed track-clatter. I go to Bar Open.

People just meander from the path to the side of the tram; all traffic stops. I don’t see any wheeled vehicle cutting through on the inside; for a moment the road is pedestrian. Back home, people get apoplectic at the installing of bicycle lanes; I can only just imagine how beetrooted their complexion would become at such liberal movement on such precious roads.

The Make It Up Club is a local institution, running now into its 28th year, a weekly experimental music event held every Tuesday at Bar Open in Fitzroy. We’ve played here a couple of times, the last being 15 years ago, and unfortunately couldn’t make it work for this trip. But to not attend while here would be remiss, and it was truly worth the effort. Headlining is Kae Takahashi on solo bass, fully immersive, unrestrained, and bombastic, interwoven with a Butoh-styled stillness. Impressive.

More wonderful and unexpected was the reconnection with Cher Tan. Cher organised a show for us in Singapore 20 years ago, and here she was playing a noise set with Pete, an equally welcoming and interesting cat. There were other reconnections, people from across the years, whose paths we’d both crossed at some point in the past. It made the night quite special.

Cher was playing the next day at The Last Chance with their Gameboy/grindcore band ESP Mayhem. A mighty fierce and intense five-piece, three on keyboards, a monster of a drummer, and Cher on a microphone. Blistering. This was followed by another set from Kae, more compelling than the night before. If I were to choose between the two nights, then this one takes priority, it was just more of everything!

The day before I leave for the Wadawurrung Land / Geelong show, I hear that one of the other band’s members has received an injury, and are no longer able to play. Snatching success from the jaws of defeat, two acts step up and into the spot made available on the stage; the show goes on.

The journey is straightforward, as is the settling into that evening’s digs. The venue is a simple five-minute walk away and is Medusa Bar, a beautiful brick longhouse down the end of an alleyway. First up is The Grimwoods, delivering sophisticated pop tunes, a delightful combination of HoodooGurus meets Talking Heads. Next is KalaMaya, who traveled down, especially from Melbourne, to play. A duo of one producing electronic beats, textures, and one skilled drummer! A crackle of tension and release, it’s an improvised set that winds its way to completion. I follow, messing up the stage in the way that I do best. Sometimes, when you finish, you get a sense that what you aim for doesn’t really land. That was my feeling this evening. Yet these things aren’t worth talking about afterwards to the people who genuinely enjoyed what they saw. Brains lie (as in personal reflection), and it’s not my place to compare my notes with others. It is good enough to trust them.

Friday is big travel. I start at Geelong and end at muwinina Land / Hobart. It is this show that kicked off the entire tour. Earlier in the year, I fired off an introductory email to MONA, roughly saying, “This is what I do, maybe it might interest your gallery?” Several months later, I received an email with an invitation to play as part of their regular programme. MONA also run the festival DARK MOFO, and that is happening simultaneously.

I travel to MONA by ferry, a stunning way to start the day, and it’s my first chance to see the actual landscape of the city, as I arrived in the dark last night. Hills and houses are the scarf that wraps around the neck of this harbour. Arriving at the pier, I am directed into a long tunnel that takes me into the heart of the hill onto which the gallery is built. I’m early, so the gear goes into storage, and I have 90 minutes to explore.

There’s a lot to take in. It feels sprawling, and disorientation finds me quicker than I find my bearings – a room that contained ever-smaller rooms, a library with walls of blank white-paged books, a reflective pool of oil, more tunnels that thunder with drones, and a most magnificent space that hosts works by the German artist Anselm Kiefer. Truly breathtaking in scale, paintings bigger than buildings. It is the most satisfying display to take in as my viewing time runs out.

The stage is prepared, the plants have arrived, and I assemble the equipment in the container to present my offering to the audience on the lawn. The space though feels transient, a venue in between locations. I make a point to be as open as I can, lock eyes, and ensure contact. And people remain. I’m even able to coax folk into the spare space on the stage to dance as they feel appropriate, and they do. The whole time, the sky is heavy, spittle from the clouds hints at a downpour. I finish with perfect timing — two minutes later, the sky opens in full saturation. Post-show there’s no natural space to mingle with those that saw me play, but now on the ferry home a few people make the connection and we chat in the half light.

Next day, the first task is washing. I am travelling with very few options, and it’s important to remain on top of the basic domestics. During the arvo, I take a walk to explore the free exhibits on the DARK MOFO program scattered around the city. My favourite is Trunkman, by Xiyue Cici Zhang. A show that is the polar opposite of DARK MOFO and MONA’s Gothic, edgy aesthetic. Zhang’s work is bright, playful, speculative in vision, and considers a future somewhere different from the dystopia we’re constantly told to expect in stories. It is a vision of a future being, part human, part plant, part something quite unpredictable and unknowable. There is not a hint of cynicism in the show. This is the sort of art I want to head towards.