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| The Journal of Narrative Detail 9 most recent entries |
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The release of my snapshot records of the Island has passed; and it has prevented any immediate release of all that my journey has contained. It is a very somber process of selecting photos that intone something, or touch my desire to bring what remains of my journey, into real, conscious awareness. I realize now that as my life becomes more complex - especially in the journey towards dreams, the fulfillment of daily needs, and the little paths my creative and deep feeling selves take - my deepest or more authentic writings and scribblings can only appear in short bursts. It is rare these days, to be able to spend an entire writing period - twilight into darkness becoming dawn - developing the images, thoughts, and feelings that themselves only appear in short bursts. Many times in the last few nights, and in those mornings that exhaustion made me sleep through, there were feelings of needing to write as if this was my last night on earth. What matters now, is that I am home and able to find time, wherever it may be hiding, to share with anyone here things that I've been wanting to say for weeks now. "...The evening was more beautiful still, when the sunset sky was all aglow with delicate shadings and a young moon swung above the sea in the west. The robins whistled in the firs, and over the fields sometimes came lingering music from the boats in the bay. We used to sit on the old stone wall and watch the light fading out on the water and the stars coming out over the sea."
There are descriptions that tender writers make; Stretchings and pools of paint, strokes that painters take; lyrical words, strings, and moving fingertips that can cause a heart to melt, or to break. These forms of expressing things have perhaps been the most present in my life among all the other ways people celebrate, mourn, clarify the spirit, and compose something they feel is beautiful or edifying in its sadness. The life of Nature is even more a part of my life than what I have been shown by powerful words, large canvassess, perhaps only a little more than a morning spent with someone who was playing, even making music for no-else. Grand Symphonies are somewhat dwarfed because they only appear out of my computer's rather tiny speakers. Today, in my home environment, the Island is far away. It's own Grand Symphony reverberates weakly inside me, even though there are new notes, lyrical thoughts, and phrases tipped by colour, that remain strong for now... In the beauitful areas in this world that compel me to speak in a personal, unique way, I will not merely spend my time there, but be generous with it. If only a moment can be given, it shall be offered all that I have. In my earliest missing of the Island, little captions were written for each of my printed photographs. It was easy to accomplish, to imagine being there again - and what could be said by one who came so far to be there, returning when the future gives dreams everywhere, a chance. I have this image in a 4 x 6 photo, the caption written into my journal. "Wharf scene behind, and distant harvest time wheatfields ahead. A panorama of farmland at the horizon, it so rarely appears in my time among the forest, or within the right angled surfaces of the great cities. The place here definitely makes me sense something concerning all the ways one feels about or thinks upon the word, village. I left the studio gallery feeling wistful, mystical, and feeling like I was everywhere in this scenery that would have made me cry in my saddest days. Sigh... rose tinted aquamarine clouds... breezes visible on the riverbed where the tide will return" There was a local artist working in a studio gallery, who 'came to the Island' long ago. We had a conversation about this, and she spoke of her native Toronto, about how she fell in love with it again. It made me believe that one could only speak of a place that way, if it was such a part of someone for so long, and spent months and years in absence. Indeed, my homecoming was delighted by the hours that the scenery brought to me, through the windows of the Greyhound bus. I am a Northerner, who went among Islanders - themselves born there, or with a story of their relocation and settling. If one moves to Prince Edward Island, they listened to the call and have 'come to the Island'. An artist moved there and now makes beautiful printwork, with aquatinting, etchings of spiritual depths with titles like "Baptism", "The Beloved and the Dreamer", "the Soul She is an Arrow", "The Farewell", "Moon Dancer","Beloved Voice", and "Mermaid's Dream". In my writings I would like to mention the name Doreen Foster, as an artist who wasn't too busy in her studio to talk to someone who merely 'visited the Island'. Novelists mention the name of real people all the time. I do so with respect here. Another view of the Gulf in its Solitude of Strength, among salt spray winds, waves that sound like meditative mantras. It looked like a large bird was more in a mood to contemplate the sea, rather than hop around looking for food. This view was noted for its wide vista of even more distant sandstone cliffs, and of how much of the beach is under the infulence of the tides. It was wonderful and scary to feel how much energy that moving water actually had. This would have been a beautiful place to spend a moment with someone in Romance - to see if passion can flow between two rainjackets, if salt-wrinkled hands are just as delightful to hold, if mist droplets are visible in the eyebrows despite being hidden by a hood, making it more of a moment to look into someone's face. I was getting cold, hungry, and very alone. There was still 50 kilometers to bike, and night was falling fast, the time being 6 o'clock. Supper and a bottle of beer in 14 kilometers. Every grain of sand and droplet of sky, worth every headwind and every incline, every inch of the way... How can I not say that life endures among a scene or even a memory like this? This is as closely as I can approximate the feeling of seeing tremendous natural forces, still desiring closeness, having to push ahead after a small moment of waiting for the world.
...At dawn, when the rising sun rent apart the mists hanging over the sandbar, and made rainbows of them, joy came to the little house. Anne was safe, and a wee, white lady, with her mother's big eyes, was lying beside her. Gilbert, his face gray and haggard from his night's agony, came down to tell Marilla and Susan... Gilbert smiled rather sadly as he went away. Anne, her pale face blanched with its baptism of pain, her eyes aglow with the holy passion of motherhood, did not need to be told to think of her baby. She thought of nothing else. For a few hours she tasted of happiness so rare and exquisite that she wondered if the angels in heaven did not envy her... At first she was too weak and too happy to notice that Gilbert and the nurse looked grave and Marilla sorrowful. Then, as subtly, and coldly, and remorselessly as a sea-fog stealing landward, fear crept into her heart. Why was not Gilbert gladder? Why would he not talk about the baby? Why would they not let her have it with her after that first heavenly--happy hour? Was--was there anything wrong? "Gilbert," whispered Anne imploringly, "the baby--is all right--isn't she? Tell me--tell me." Gilbert was a long while in turning round; then he bent over Anne and looked in her eyes. Marilla, listening fearfully outside the door, heard a pitiful, heartbroken moan... Her name was to be Joyce - for they looked forward to using the affectionate name "Joy" when the right moment came. There are many more joyful moments than sad ones in the world of Anne's Land. Characters appear and share their humour, their strong presence, and add one more human dimension to all of our stories. Captain Jim was one of the most wise, and benevolent characters one could read about. I make no apologies for presenting him because one might actually look forward to meeting him after the proceeding novels have been closed ...Captain Jim was a high-souled, simple-minded old man, with eternal youth in his eyes and heart. He had a tall, rather ungainly figure, somewhat stooped, yet suggestive of great strength and endurance; a clean-shaven face deeply lined and bronzed; a thick mane of iron-gray hair falling quite to his shoulders, and a pair of remarkably blue, deep-set eyes, which sometimes twinkled and sometimes dreamed, and sometimes looked out seaward with a wistful quest in them, as of one seeking something precious and lost. Anne was to learn one day what it was for which Captain Jim looked. It could not be denied that Captain Jim was a homely man. His spare jaws, rugged mouth, and square brow were not fashioned on the lines of beauty; and he had passed through many hardships and sorrows which had marked his body as well as his soul; but though at first sight Anne thought him plain she never thought anything more about it--the spirit shining through that rugged tenement beautified it so wholly... He is there for Anne after her loss, through his innate kinship with her, his assertion that the most devastating loss will not end our dreaming, and his own tale of what he calls "his lost Margaret", taken by the sea... Characters appear like this throughout the whole journey of Green Gables, Avonlea, Four Winds, and Ingleside. Yet, indications of what is contained in these eight novels of life must be relegated to my next work, "Anne and Her Island". I will still write about the tides; how it feels on every inch of the red-earth roads; how rare and beautiful the thick woodlots are, among the so many hills and through all the solar fields; the way large rivers and slices of the sea make the sky appear so large; what the feeling and taste of Ocean air is like; how wheatfields of August really did shine like they were releasing all the stored up light of summer; what it felt like to simply stop... Stop, and let the sea work its flowing and receding magic, allow the bustle of people enjoying the summer to move past, obliquely glance at the sky in its changing light, be still as the winds pass... Stop in the midst of all these things happening, and say nothing more than... "The Island". This entry started out as merely a small piece of the Island that lived among completed, spent dreams in my deeper inner life. It has unfolded and peeled open new ones, about being able to gaze upon life with eyes of the sea, about embracing my identity as a man of the North, about working through lonely, grey moments to be free enough to dream, and to one day go to them. Montgomery's Island came to speak as my few little scenes began to wane, and her characters began to stand clear in the same place in me where the waves and the silver bushes live. The Land Cradled by the Sea will last, and the heavens will abide. I will try to find some kind of poetic honesty with which to speak of this place, as it was able to completely surround me and be its own self so very much... My best image to celebrate the next entry's crossing to the Island is one called "Sky Bridge over the Sea", no caption is needed...
Over So Many Hills, and Through Solar Fields... Since it would most likely be a very long time until he saw his friends again, winter was sharply presented to him, in a sense beyond the falling nightly temperatures. That is why his eyes were so sad today. His life wasn’t a part of Ottawa anymore; and there would be many steps forward his friends would take, without his presence. There would be times where his nostalgic reflections would shine upon them in a new light; yet it would fade when he knew they weren’t there anymore... Yes, they would be in his heart, always; but it was hard for him to understand the existence of a happiness that didn’t include them. For this reason, Robert Baumer, and his otherworldly leanings, was completely taken by silence and drawn towards the large windows one would find on any large passenger bus. At other times, the finality of leaving his friends oppressed him, his eyes being closed, head pointed at the floor. To some, the posture and facial expression of somebody is not too different if they should be praying, or merely suffering in silence. People moved to these places, moved from them, took families on holidays there, tearfully dropped off bright young people at their universities, conducted business between them. It was this thought that made them seem quite close together and connected. The art schools; the centre of the world politics of places like these; the entertainment districts, and even the long green-filled promenades have always provided agreeable stimulus for the best and most creative minds of this part of the world. Robert was particularly drawn to the green spaces where he could see people coming to renew themselves. A nice park can often bring anyone into a relaxed state. Beholding something like a river or a small duck pond can be quite contemplative, if someone were to look at it while exploring their own thoughts. Most importantly, people often come to places like these to be together, to find shade, to be barefoot upon the grass, to smell life in the air, and any other things that people haven’t told Robert of yet. Reflections of these things, and of especially of their summertime connotations caused his heart to reach out with his eyes. If anyone were to break his gaze from the window, they would look straight into the face of someone with an unguarded sense of distance, strangeness, and wistfulness. They wouldn’t be able to see for what he was looking; for his otherworldly moments were spent among former times, the vastness of experience, the great expanses of literature touching his thoughts, and alternate endings… By 3:45pm, the bus had made stops in Kanata, Arnprior, and Pembroke. The travelers at these places mostly traveled with nothing more than a carry on bag. Because the afternoon was warm, the people boarding looked crisp and smart. As sunlight echoed off the lenses of their sunglasses, they moved with a more energetic posture than the Robert who had awoken at 7:30am. The night before was hard on him. He had just been in Walheim, his dear little wilderness garden. The intimacy he had there, with the life surrounding him, can only be approximated by that which makes someone feel loved, without words or even the other’s immediate presence. There was no lover waiting for him, and even the most poetic time spent among nature could not conceal the fact that the best parts of his heart lived alone. To this day, a labyrinth of sorrow exists around his heart, and sad memories lead him astray so much. There was no clear path to happiness with Robert; and for this reason, women often left him alone. Walheim was a place where sadness could not surround him or lead him astray. The simple and unadorned existence of the forest and meadow, allowed his spirit to soar in its passions, or to be brought to a comforting repose when darkness threatened him with guilt, despair, and isolation. A great challenge lay before Robert Baumer. He would understand the language of his most intimate thoughts of life, and find words among them that would bring him closer to the people he has shared months and years with… All these thoughts could be contained by Robert’s mind in a matter of moments. By now, the bus has just started moving again and has quickly reached normal highway speeds. Once on the move, and tucked away safely into the seat, those who just recently boarded have perhaps entered into their own world of internal meditation. In an environment like this, the silence of others is largely significant because the amount of external stimulus is low besides what passes by outside. We all have instruments of edification and entertainment which come for the ride. Most commonly it is the magazine closely followed by thick editions of national newspapers. After all, a single article or editorial can have someone thinking strongly about its significance and many miles of the road pass by unseen. Many believe that the multiple hours of sitting still can best be used in exploring what truths are revealed by non-fiction, or in literature’s rich and diverse history and continuing expression. Music is perhaps the most diverse and expressive edification and entertainment, and it too comes along with people’s journeys in the form of personal cd players or digital storage devices. The mind could connect with so many things, even passively accepting them. Window gazing is often ephemeral, evanescent, transient.. A slight glimpse of the wilderness the Ancients saw as a source of mysticism; a short play of light or the shadow of a rapidly passing over cloud; A bend or curve in the road revealing a striking scene and another closing it up again. By simply looking outwards, the scenery beyond offers one a chance to open up and be delighted. In those moments where there is an increased collective silence, Robert’s mind allowed itself to resonate deeply and left everyone to enjoy their own reasons for being silent. The expanses between towns were growing larger and he allowed himself an interlude of looking toward the distant horizon forest that he connected to with all of his heart. It was out there in its last glory of yellow autumn. Remains of the forest reached out and stood very close to the road. Solitary clumps and avenues of northern trees act as windguards for the tracts of farmland existing wherever the soil is rich enough or the vegetation plentiful enough for grazing. As the land extended away from the highway, the farmland gradually gave way to the forest. When the terrain moved towards the so many hills that Robert loved to ascend, the farm buildings seemed much smaller than the landscape behind them and their colours – ranging from red to grey and brown - were made more prominent. The colours of things made by men have always differed from the natural hues and tones of the earth, water and sky. Rolls of hay in their fenced in fields, quietly reposing before being processed into bales, stood starkly against the rapidly sloping background of trees and fallen leaves. In the collective quietness of people reading, listening, watching and dreaming, the capacity to notice and look for things increases. Life in its diversity, vastness, and opportunity speaks through the materials we direct our attention to. Those who want to be diverted from their own thoughts are often sufficiently entertained by what lies beyond the windows. After having passed through the quaint, historic towns along the Ottawa River, the Greyhound wound its way along, between the granite impasses of the Canadian shield and the land that sloped towards the Great Lakes. In all these climatically different areas, the pockets of meadow and the cleared sections of grazing fields reveal downs, gullies, and small streams where so many grasses and flowers grew. The great tracts of wilderness between towns are shown only in a reduced form along even the most isolated stretch of highway. One can no longer really pass by the last town and not see another human being as they journey closer and closer to the sea. Far away from the direct influence of the great and world cities, there is certainly an ‘old world’ feeling. The clumps of forest between fields are known by some as a ‘woodlot’ and the areas of untended grass are known as ‘pasture’. One is very quick to discover a feeling of the times in which families lived from the land and by the labour of their hands. A long time ago, this area was known in Europe as “the new world”… There must be things in the world that awaken us to view scenery and goals in life as a kind of frontier. Someone connected to simplicity and nostalgia would perhaps identify with Robert’s desire to see these visible aspects of hard work and honest living within himself. He thought of it as a kind of humble peasantry, remembering Thomas Gray’s “elegy in a country churchyard”, yet acknowledging that times were far too modern for the word ‘peasant’ to apply anymore. There was much in him that was very complex and longed for very urban and modern conversations with the other passengers. He wished he could dream aloud of stimulating dinner parties and salons, feeling like the great thinkers who thought and spoke during the twilight dawn of democracy. There were so many evenings he longed to spend with all the different cultures that began new histories here. The great cities in Canada are unable to completely assimilate those who come from other parts of the world. Here is world culture making a stand against what some would call “western hegemony” He wondered about their revolutions and powerful moments, how they live, the achievements they were proud of. Robert’s mind peered deeper within itself towards thoughts on global life, enough to look at the landscape around him, but not really see it. The remaining few hours, until the arrival at North Bay, had many miles of landscapes that resembled his home in Northwestern Ontario more and more. Soon the scenery around him was so familiar that it awoke him from his internal dialogue with the idea of the global village. He was made sad whenever he saw boarded up gas stations, rusted and abandoned machinery, and once ploughed fields taken over by invasive weeds. It amazed him at how quickly the pavement of a motel parking-lot can be cracked and grown over with new vegetation. It was hard to earn a prosperous living in the North. Sparsely populated, dominated by resource industries, vast and spread apart, highways and rail tracks acting as a thin line connecting it with the rest of the world. There was a part of him that searched even harder for signs of prosperity and happiness. They existed. He was sure of it. People traveled from even far away parts of the continent to be here, especially in the summer time. People all over find happiness in their own way, wherever they live. He wondered if anyone was looking out the windows, with the same eagerness to see how people live - among undulating fields and trees, thousands of lakes, with hills and bluffs rising in sharp, granite profile. A great awareness of time, immediacy, and vividness silenced Robert’s misgivings about speaking of the places we all have in this world, and the places we get to see… As this is descriptive narrative, it has omitted the actual thoughts of my main character and any dialogues he might have had. There are times to simply explain what was going on; and there are moments where it is a great source of experience to be right in the mind of a literary character as things unfold. Since this chapter is long, I wanted to open it with a long descriptive interlude and have it continue from the character’s perspective. As it develops, the narration style will allow the reader to feel along with Robert, in its keenness of joy and sharpness of pain; or be a part of the adventure in his or her own way, focusing on some things and glossing over others. By the end, one should know what I mean by the difference between description and experience…
A Just so Entry. It must begin by finding some way to have all these thoughts make sense. I wish to simply tell things as they are for once. It’s funny that so many songs have been played today, perhaps in response to one of those blah grey Sundays. It was so grey today with minor snowfall all day. If the sky were like part of a drawing, it would have looked like it was glaringly omitted – not even a shade of variation. I believe for even the laziest people on earth, there is a type of day that is perfect for them to voluntarily do all their laundry and scrub things. It was that day for me today. Longing and laziness were an odd combination today, keeping me to simple tasks while awakening a desire to act in some way that can be called alive. Cleaning up things in here allowed me to hold some things that would have otherwise remained ‘lost in the pile’. Putting away books take so long, because they get flipped through, pondered upon, connected with some distant scene of former life, and put away for further reading. To gain more of a sense of freedom here, my paragraph structure is determined only by how large the thought is. Describing long sensory interludes is my most dear form of writing: page long paragraphs, putting all these wonderful nouns together like colours, textures, light, shade…….. most importantly, connected with a very human, feeling subject. I never write love entries, because I would be lost in the details of a single kiss, much like how scenes in the spring would be lost because it made me breathe too deeply at that moment. How sweet is the feeling that is a prelude to a deep breath. Longing is what has characterized everything written up until today. Moments of loss do appear in my work here, but they are tempered with a strong attempt at wise acceptance for what still remains. There are songs that I still play, which sounded so lovely and reassuring during my times when heartbreaks seemed so large and fears were too big to handle. At my writing station in this present day, the same music allows me to touch some kind of past sorrow and remind it that lovely things pave the way to happiness. Something truly beautiful is the way it is, even when it should be gazed upon by someone with a vulgar or sublime sadness. Sadness has been such a part of my twenty three short years, not so much more than desire. There were hopes that by the time I was twenty, it would be easier to understand the mystery women put into men’s minds. There were excited, invigorating walks that would make me seek out ways to hold onto "snapshot insights", and create memories from artist eyes. I am going to show you a picture now, to see what I mean. This one is from Tori... Dedicated to those times I wanted to feel warm and full of sunlight, whenever I should look upon fields of snow.
There is a significant part of me that believes my body, mind, and spirit, are sufficiently aligned to live a noble life of conscience, with enhanced sensory experience, and of course, closeness. I love it when I see humanity as ‘comrades’. When my heart speaks to me, it makes me able to feel more of myself…. I’m here.
A window in wintertime, on a late Sunday afternoon, is a way to look at stillness. I come here to gaze at everything once, letting the details burn out. Snow becomes emptiness, The sky an infinite space. Soon reality has relaxed, and the window is just a way to look at what’s being thought about.
A rainy morning walking in the woods, initiated by a moist draft that has settled onto the hardwood floor: love and nostalgia work so closely together, reminding the mind what it once forgot, coming back to tell of its role in creating something that lasts.
Pine-needle smell, water tipped hair, and drops streaking over skin.
Neck, fingers, knuckles, perpetually tingled with the splashes that only a drop can make. Breezes freckled by the drizzle, drizzle becomes water-jewels for trees, shelter seeking animals silence the forest. Footsteps upon some path, softened by moist ground. Pressing only lightly – this quiet place makes such a request.
Without the completeness of being in love, I am still making a memory anyway. We often find ourselves in places where we want someone to find us. Yet, I am far removed from such a morning of mist; yet one thought remains: “Nothing is worth more than this day”…
In the room, the lamp gets lit at five in the afternoon, and night comes so suddenly. The sage painted walls show me the space that I can make my own. Lamplight is a thin wash of yellow warmth, while a melodious tune is but a small ransom from silence.
I no longer need my morning of the rain, but only the parts of me feeling its resonance. Standing by the window, I shiver from imaginary raindrops. Love and Nostalgia both forgot to say that rain was cold. The music stopped, noises take over – the kind only heard while alone. For now, they surround just one thought: “Find me……………… here”
List seven songs you are into right now. No matter what the genre, whether they have words, or even if they're any good, they must be songs you're really enjoying now. Post these instructions in your Livejournal along with your seven songs. Then tag seven other people to see what they're listening to.
This entry shall be my hardest. There is much in my life right now which is held back and restrained. Today my words wish to speak of adventurous willingness, and the tenderness with which the heart expresses and describes its happiness. Spring is officially here, but it too seems held back by the cold night winds. A thick and bright warmth has been teasing my thoughts lately, and it comes with the peculiarly radiant morning light. My tremulous inner life has been holding back all my heart's extensions - into words, thoughts, and feelings. So much has been going on unexpressed; the beauty of a sparkling thought is clipped by some remembrance of sorrow, while the melancholy of a dark room turns into a chaste reverie with the presence of a sweet song. Through my many miles of river trails, open lake crossings, and miles on dirt road, I've carried my inner expressions with me. My metal waterproof box is a little heavy, but it is an enchanted box; containing Yesterday and a roadmap for how it became Today. In my box, however, time does not move except backwards: everytime I open it, Yesterday seems more and more distant. Tonight, I shall keep it open and let Yesterday catch up a bit. Yesterday is so distant because my older heart feels things far more differently. An entire winter separated me from the life I lived at Outward Bound, and I have changed. The days lately have been enticing my thoughts to make the journey to becoming words. A single memory, passing by, can leave the heart captivated by a hidden fragrance, wanting to know more. My winter won wisdom has not forgotten the strength it knew in the summer, and how dearly it enjoyed listening to other people's love of nature. What shall await me, when my soul's stoic wintryness relaxes into an open coat welcoming of springtime breezes? Tonight, I want to entice my inner life to be energetic and hopeful; for far off in Tomorrow, Outward Bound will have me in the wilderness, teaching others how to get along with Woodelves. 9:53pm, Sometime in March, the sun creating nostalgia for days spent entirely outdoors. The temperature has been dropping since four o'clock today. The night calls me for a walk and to endure its benign austerity, among the cold, dry walking ways. The night knows that my moments of unsettled wandering have led me to understand how much it lets one talk, reminisce, and dream. The silence and vastness can feel reassuring when my thoughts can pour freely out of me, and not intrude upon the broad formless areas of the moon's domain. I wish to allow my summertime memories to lead on my heart as seductively as it wants, with the aid of the unique soulfulness of the dark. My wish is strong, to be able to fearlessly describe things, and to be more reached out to and touched. It burns like a midnight fireside, and my small intimacy with the night time creates a little space of warmth. This task shall be a heavy one, for some of my journals go back more than two years. They look limp and unread, while their weight feels awkward from not being carried for so long. Since I seldom take photographs any more, it makes me wonder about the pictures that should have been taken today and a week ago. A few days have passed... Some quite lovely weather has settled in, and has taken away my voice with its many speechless details. sigh.. my outward bound details are like that. they seem very meek against a background of what else is going on. The days have been lovely enough on their own. I've been terribly bad at keeping dates and things in my ol' triplogs. My writing has been a little bit slacking lately. People are really sociable when it's a fine and fair day. They bring animated talking and spontaneous chuckling, and it echoes strangely off the walls in my structures of solitude. When the summer awakens the ripening of my heart, perhaps even I sometimes become really social and extroverted. I've always been talking about "my stories", - they should perhaps be remembered as 'early narrative'. My friend once told me that such early narrative starts at my innermost core, making its way towards the world that is felt so keenly within me. Only recently have I attempted to go beyond my practice of making my thoughts the only way to understand things in my stories. The center of things will be out there. So much happens around me, but what I see cannot be all that happens. It is now April. Where I live, the weather is holding its breath, to see whether or not it wants to have a final blast of winter, or if it wants to begin a full release of Spring. Tonight shall bring a full release of a pilgrim's story. We shall travel to untouched stone beaches in our laden canoes, and with wet clothes from swimming, we'll will have lunch while listening to the forest... Within the enclaves of stark pines and spruces, I always wish to find upon the rock, chiseled-in lore of powerful beings who were the stewards of the Earth's life-giving forests and pure waterways. "Powerful, benevolent beings once found sanctuary here... We found these places to be beautiful. Honour the memory of this land and you shall become our friends... Beware, those who poison the waters and desecrate our totems will discover our wrath, unfettered and raw." Even though I wouldn't be able to understand a single stroke of their language, I would know what they meant. Looking to the unadulterated blue sky, enclosed in spires of trees, with my fingers tracing their lore, I could feel their strength and virtues through the peacefulness of the seclusion in this wilderness. I wish to visit the shrines and carvings I would have left in my own places of sacredness. The Outward Bound story is a wilderness one, expressing the sprit's path through a place that is incredibly soulful for all the eons it has spent by itself... Outward Bound - still just a whisper that was promised for me by my most lonely nights in winter. Hopefully my heart is careful enough to hush the voice of joy i feel in returning here.. "The Return" A giggling smile accompanies me, as my feet wade tentatively into the first steps into the water. On this rockstrewn shore, the ground just below the water is sliced with tendrils of sunlight, held fast by the ripples of water just above. The place here is just so pristine... this place is a testament to the mortal forms that one's thoughts are so free to leave behind. Such solitude that is contained in a deep breath! Switfly flying birds, high above, teach a half-sacredness that a lonely person can't quite pray for, when he watches the winter's ghostlike afternoon slipping past outside, deserted and alone. What things one feels in the few hours of free time, while entwined in all the busyness of getting ready for a course! All this is happening within the area of People coming and going forth; meeting up, sharing their thoughts, allowing memories to sink in, and finally having it all pass away quietly into something new. And in my mind I’m back at the dining hall after completing my thirty day Native instructor development course, at Outward Bound. We’re all enjoying the clear late-summer evenings, the last day breakfast of buckwheat pancakes with bacon, the morning coffee time and its readyness for aimless conversation; the idea is quite wonderful and it creates a tingling within me just thinking about it. There really are places on Earth that create what I call ‘evening benedictions’, and today I am having them. In the sweetness contained in my bunkhouse, some Tori song is sounding its way off the walls, in the manner I could barely dream of in the worst of a winter's night of hard drinking. The land is beautiful here, the sound of the lake's waves is chipping away at my memories of sorrow with a diamond tipped hammer. How shall this place be described... Let me give you a hint by saying that it has the mystery of a language that cannot be understood, yet is so lovely to behold... On some days (especially the grey ones tinged with rain) it has reminded me of song brought forth in Latin, with strong Gaelic laments for the temporary awareness of the lives we all have left behind. The land here is Wild, just ask the circling eagles and the occaisonal bear we pass while moving over the water in our canoes. They move without being afraid of humans. We struggle to live out here, while they naturally belong here. I'm sure that they must have made friends with the ancient benevolent spirits of my dreams. Imagine being able to speak in an eagle's language! In this harsh land, one could hope little to see something profound out here. It's like poetry in which one cannot completely understand it at first, but will require many lookings back to discern a meaningful message, one piece at a time. It's funny though: the first impressions of immediate experience, and of poetry, are the most lively because they consume our fullest attention. The next moment of poetic feeling and the next campsite are Both a mystery while encountering them for the first time. It is with subsequent musings that one is able to find how poetic words and spiritual landscapes, fit right in with our own lives. It is there that we can make a personal meaning for ourselves. Any moment in our lives is never completely our own. We have to be Out There, in the world. The world is as just a part of the moment as we are. But the world that we share cannot last forever, much like this world of hills and water, levelled by forest fires and replaced by bright violet fireweed flowers. Perhaps the wilderness is busy enough with it's own duties that it too cannot speak of everything that lives within it kingdom, with fondness. What could it say of those who pass through it temporarily and become transformed, like those guardian spirits who took care of this place long before us? How can one ensure that a moment will be felt in times that pass away? A moment becomes ours through the fact that memories live inside of us. Poetry, and very deep part of ourselves is timeless. There are things which I have called the Perennial Relationships, simply because there are things recalled which we Can get a hold of, in which they would bind us more closely to the present. Things like Time and Eternity, Understanding and Feeling, Loving and letting go... The pieces of memory we are able to inherit, are like silhouetted photographs of ourselves etched against the twilight of a meangingful day. Even in other seasons we can see ourselves there, even if our from is little but a shadow. We see ourselves out there, in the land of lived out narrative details. Perhaps it didn't matter out there in previous courses, in which I didn't try to arrest the peacefulness we all felt after a day of paddling, and its arrival at the campsite in the late afternoon. One time, I paddled away towards the solitude that caused me to break away from the group at suppertime, in a moment of homesickness and a temporary aberration. Sometimes one has to feel truly alone before they are able to cry. My mother passed away just less two years ago, and my father followed her a little over a year later. There was enough sadness in my heart already, to make people uncomfortable with my dark and heavy eyes. I wonder who can see what my eyes really look like after even a small moment of crying; they become big and dark, yet containing a glistening of tear moistened acceptance and new found strength. It's so hard not feel alone sometimes. In the wilderness land of perpetual solitude, my own uniqueness says there shall lie a part of me untouchable. Even out here, someone might caress me, but the gesture is more important, even more so than the fact that it might not be understood. Still, even such untouchable-ness can be spoken to. After all, that's why I am not out here alone. As an instructor, it is my job to bring people close enough to the wilderness in order that it may reach out and speak to them in its own tones. I wept once before, because my mother was not there to share in the strength that I was able to find. Away on that beach of solitdue, the tears came forth. Like a sustained thought, solitude comes at the time when the heart doesn't notice itself opening to an 'alone' moment, and all the things it may uncover. Sure, something like that may very well say: "If you can't say anything right now, it's okay to sit there and simply smile." Such a feeling is little different than being in love. It's like seeing a bright planet appear before all the stars do, and then wishing that someone could be there with you. Such intimacy is had while standing still among the procession of colours in the evening. While away on trail, I could feel the need for such peace and open-ness in my own heart.... to feel the ancient and benevolent forces, sustaining me out there, yet brought into the city, and into the shadowy cracked spaces which I have grown accustomed to. ... My dear readers on Open Diary ... coffeehouse ... my space ... my heart ... the love that a peasant feels for his country village. Now it's dark out, and the first waves of sadness have already come forth. But I've got my music for now, until the generator is cut. I'm in my sleep clothing, so I'll feel vulnerable going to the outhouse in the dark, with nothing more than a cheap flashlight. I've remembered many courses coming through this base camp, with all its box lunches, and getting the woodstove sauna ready for the next group. Another group is coming! Soon all the energy coming from them will once again fill all the once busy spaces with more memories of summer. While out here, the first waves of happy anticipation come along. So much sadness was expressed while wistfully imagining such scenes in the winter time. I remember the little house hidden behind the equipment building. One day, some senior imstructors and I had a long talk there; about what we expected from each other while we led some new people out into the wilderness. The other day, some base-staff and I went out to its bare furnishing of rug and comfy couch, in order to bust up some tunes. One guy sang, while the other played in that wonderful hippie idleness of those who play simply for 'the music'. I am a thinker, but certainly like tapping my feet to a good tune. We had a whale of a time in there, in that place's emptyness that felt more like a clearness. Peace was sealed in that little staff house by the thoughts of since moved away perceptive spirits. There were some trinkets that instructors left behind over the years, as well as cooly hung posters that other people didn't have the heart to take down. In the silence beyond the contained space of the music, Black Sturgeon Lake was still as inexorable, and beautiful in its tireless waves. After my thoughts have strenghtened, I will be able to bear all of my latent strangeness that the Lake has made me feel now. Once again, this isn't a 'real' story. But it is important to understand what the wilderness can say to just one person. What shall the wilderness speak of in its fullness? Even my future stories will struggle to barely express it... post a comment
It would be quite lovely if one's state of mind could last through a restful sleep. Only the most hopeful, comforting, or prescient thoughts are those which guide the mind to its most nourishing and strengthening slumber. To wake up with a renewed sense of eagerness for day to day living, is to become a Willing Spirit. Willing Spirits are ever more ready to let go of the sight of the shoreline. They still understand that they will eventually return to their familiar coastline. A ship is safe in it's harbour, but that is not what ships are built for... Far away from his hometown, someone finally decided it was time to come back to the world which awaited him. There were so many stories to share, and so many people to feel close to. He was now aware of the Wisdom which can be shared by dear people close to one's side. He lived in Ottawa for about 2 years, and loved the place enough to Return and spend two weeks there meeting old friends and recasting all his impressions of buildings, parks and the cosmopolitan ambience that big cities are supposed to have. But most importantly, he came to say goodbye to his little wilderness garden called Walheim. He wanted to go there and feel how much he has changed over the years, and to find out if he liked what he saw. Since he left Walheim the night before, all his hidden reasons for coming home multiplied in his heart. In the next 5 hours, this person will be on a greyhound bus with a load of travelers, heading to North Bay, Sudbury, and all other points West. For now, he lay upon a park bench, warmly tucked into his sleeping bag. The city around him became covered in a layer of frost as the temperature dropped overnight. The day become more and more audible as it built up in activity He slept in a park which was pretty close to the downtown shopping promenade, so the day was getting pretty noisy in all its "activity". This character has a name. His name was Robert Baumer, and he woke up in Glebe Park, Ottawa at 7:45 am. It seemed like the noise of the energizing day was sayinng "Arise. Come enjoy the frost before it gets trampled and finally melted by the noonhour sun." Indeed, it was a sunny morning. Not quite yet bright, because the falling particles of cold air made the city seem fogged under in blueness. When Robert opened his eyes, he saw a world that still seemed primeval. Yet, it was different from the way it was last night. It didn't have a sense of buzzed out tiredness, but it seemed to be a world where one could make fresh footprints. It would have been nice to watch the sun finally shine through the veil of suspended frost, but Robert's rumbling stomach said that there were more important matters. The time was 7:50am, soon all the window seats would be taken at Ada's Diner. He would need his strength for what was happening today. Robert scrambled to his feet and packed everything away. He looked to forward to moving through the misty droplets of cold air, and feeling it against his skin as he passed through it. **
I just wanted to put a start to my next chapter so I don't get lost in new growth and development. Just something to do while I'm trying to learn how to live in real life. It often feels like I'm just not getting it. It's a challenge to direct all these worldly feelings towards some ideal, some homeplace that grows in my heart. The sound that my keyboard makes, as I type in letters, allows me to feel as if I am getting it. These words are not inert or lifeless, because they are a sign that I've lived long enough to create them. They have their being and substance insofar as I am alive, still breathing and guiding my heart closer to moments of happiness that lead it forward. Storytelling is so wonderful that I'm learning how speak it out loud. By embracing solitdue, my thoughts have reached out gently towards other people. By being alone, the sight of others makes a deeper impression. Sometimes, a little walk to catch glimpses of blue sky on a grey can be the something that makes one smile. When will be the next bright day, in which one can be nourished simply by being surrounded by all the life that goes on....? The character in my story really misses home, and eventually returns, in order that his experiences may live inside of him for a long time. In real life, I can feel the seeking after adventure. It has me thinking about all the things one can learn while being away. My character is sad that he had to leave his friends in Ottawa, but knows that such a city would never has been as great without them. In my next chapter, the story itself takes to the road and leads away towards 'Home' It's hard to describe, the virtues that are to be found through life in the hometown. I've been thinking that one's best virtue is found wherever one might just happen to find himself. And sometimes, one must get lost enough in order to begin some honest soul searching ..... As this is an excerpt, I've skipped over my character's deeper stream of consciousness style of narrative. So this is Chapter nine, and the next one will complete Part One of Alternate Endings (a tentative name). Part 2 will attempt to make stories of the life that I live presently, as it leads to wherever I shall be next. Part 3 shall be the hardest, for all my fears of the future shall be overcome, and it is here that my narrative powers will be challenged greatly. It is my hope that completion of this book will pave the way for the world to ask for more stories from me. A duty that I would love to take up... **
Robert's thoughts could have continued in this way for a very long time. Eventually the meal did come, and he enjoyed it very much. Time passed, and he payed the check very politely. Bank Street was really lovely in that late October morning. The time was 9:30 in the morning. Now the streets were insanely busy, and Robert couldn't really pause and reflect on the things he was seeing because the pedestrian traffic kept nudging him forward. Soon he came to Wellington Street, and the majesty of the Peace Tower bade him to stop and wonder. It was the most recognizable feature of Parliament hill. The pedestrians knocked him around a little bit, as they were still in a hurry. He slowly made his way to Parliament Hill, and spent much time in the big field between the East and West Towers, enjoying the wide panorama of downtown buildings the buses zooming by with the business clad people walking beside them. All the buildings of Parliament Hill were designed after 19th Century British romantic architecture, and of course after the Houses of Parliament constructed in England. A solidly laid stone sidewalk leads from the street to the main entrance, and in the middle is a fountain with a perpetually burning flame above the water. The ten provinces and two territories have their stone crests cut into the fountain's circumference, along with the year that they joined Canada. Robert could smell history a mile away, and so he relished all the details that his senses could pick up. He studied the statues of heroic prime ministers, and paid some kind of homage to the bronze statue of Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, with its large stone base and Roman letters carved into it. She rides a horse, wearing an all covering robe, with the hood drawn back to reveal her strong, royal features. Up from the height of Parliament Hill, the Ottawa River flows on tirelessly below. Across the river lies the city of Hull in the Province of Quebec. Closeby stands the National Gallery of Canada, and the Nortre Dame cathedral. (Both Robert and I have never seen the one in Paris, but, someday) The area near the river and the capital region can be thought of as a tourist frenzy. Big buses with tinted windows carry people with cameras and those holding onto the hands of small children. Going East on Wellington Street leads to a big mall, and major busroutes with all sorts of sundry people boarding and disembarking. Here is also the area of people busking, panhandling, and smoking outside. People traffic at the Rideau Centre Mall is usually pretty fierce. When Robert used to live here, he would come here often to window shop, and check out the local wares of the By-Ward Market. As well, some very nice pubs line the streets in this area. Robert really liked those places. Soon Robert became dizzy with everything that he was seeing, and came to himself by checking the time. It was now 10:45 and he remembered that it would take about 30 minutes to walk all the way to Bank and Catherine Street. Yet, it would be fitting to ride the public transit one last time, so he resolved to take the 12:27 bus from the Rideau Centre. The walk away from Wellington street was lovely for him, for provincial flags rustled along in their many proud colours. The street lamps displayed provincial flowers, hung upon silk banners, and Robert sought out the white trilliums of his Ontario. He knew how much he was going to miss this place, so he walked with loud marching steps to join the mass of humanity in the Rideau area. As his last morning in Ottawa went on, it started to get a little overcast out. It didn't really matter because all the activity surrounding him never slowed down for a moment's pause. Eventually the greyness stirred his heart enough to visit Confederation Park, which rested across from the new City Hall building. There were many trees here and since faded away flower gardens. It almost made him think of Walheim, but the downtown area held his attention with everything there that he wouldn't see again for a while. He remembered that this park would be bright and festooned with lights, of all colours, from December to February. As well, it was always very pretty in the summer time cause so many people passed through there and were tempted by the large areas of sunny grass and shady oak trees where they could relax in. For all the sadness of his Parting day, and the now settled in greyness, Robert was quite happy. The heart of the traveler beat strongly in him, and he knew that coming back here would always be an adventure. It was now 11:15 so he ascended the stairs to the McKenzie King bridge and made his way to cut through the Mall. He absolutely had to spend some time at his favourite Second Cup coffeehouse on Rideau Avenue. Some fiercely energetic journal writing had to be done. He bypassed all his customary window shopping because time was really running short; in fact, Robert checked his watch every three minutes now. All the things I have told you about were reported by him in his last Ottawa journal entry, except that he described all these things far more tenderly. The latte he had, tasted so sweetly of cinnamon, chickory and steamed milk. I can't describe how excited his tastebuds were, or the way in which he sat in silence for an extended time beside the wall-height windows of Second Cup. As it drew closer to 12:30 he started checking his Greyhound ticket to Thunder Bay, and planning out how much money he could spend at all the little stops along the 22 hour drive. As he got up to leave, he knew the remainders of the Ottawa city-scene would embrace him all the way to Greyhound terminal. In his heart, he said goodbye to every person he saw on the way there, as he saw them through the window, being passed by so quickly. As he retrieved all his stuff and boarded the bus, he knew that his tears of mingled happiness and tenderness for his city would be kept for later. His feelings would stay with him as long as he looked out the window and saw his favorite city becoming smaller as the bus sped down the highway. When it was out of sight, he placed his palm upon the window and turned his head away.......
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Walheim (8): The Journey towards Morning. On a still night in October, a wilderness garden rustled quietly among occaisonal breezes. No one was there because it was late. As the season got colder, the people began to leave earlier and earlier. When the wind blows roughly, the bare leafless trees in the distance look cold. At night, the still snowless hills and walking ways look exposed, and they feel more wild. When everyone had left the place, its simple and unadorned existence was even more pronounced. No friend, no enemy, just piece of land without gates, fences or bars. Come in when you can, leave when you must. The weather comes in all its beauty, its terror, and all its plainness. The land bears it all, lives in it, and the weather moves on. It almost seems soulful. Whatever may be happening, the land here appears in its own distinct way. "How beautiful it seems from this distance. From here, it looks like a parcel of detail that opens up more and more as one closes into it." The streetlights on the other side of the Rideau Canal illuminated the taller trees which grew upon the hill there. Among the cultivated open area, the moonlight touched upon the stiff yellow grass and the tops of bushes, flickering among the waters which passed along. It almost felt empowering to leave such a place to rest. On a still night in October, someone walked away from a wilderness garden for as long as he could. Finally stopping, he looked back towards it and stayed there a long time. His elbows and upper body rested upon the metal railing of a distant bridge. There it stood. Walheim. It was a good place for solitary ones to go to. His eyes almost remained unfocused, sweeping over the land caressingly. Sometimes the eyes would close when a particularly warm memory was touched. When they opened again, the garden was still there as a dark kingdom. He took a deep breath and held onto his arms more closely. When should one go, if the connection between person and place was little more than two people just touching by fingertips? Not quite blurry details merged into one another, and the whole garden was beheld in one sustained gaze. He would finally turn away from the garden when his final hold on it slipped away at last. He stood up straight and looked to the ground. The railing of the bridge was cold. It would be like letting oneself go, thinking of moments which lead from an embrace, to a tight interlocking of palms and fingers. He spent much time at Walheim and felt many things there; life grew all around him and he said many loving words there too. Everything that happened there could be thought of as friendly and dear. He let go of the bridge but looked at Walheim for the last time. It was like a parting embrace that led to held hands, and finally to fingertips that slipped away slowly as possible. The bridge was on a road that eventually made it to the tall downtown buildings, and the places there that were open all night... post a comment
(Before this one, I must explain that my other Walheim entries express some kind of metaphorical journey. My words here shall seek to help me understand what type of alchemy all kinds of places have had on me. I refuse to believe that my heart has not grown since I first discovered Walheim. This special wilderness garden is little else but a name because I'm here now. I've come, Here. These thoughts bring as much warmth as those single rays that leak through cloud cover; they are beautiful in how angled and colourful they are. They give warmth only if you stare directly into them, feel their tiny bit of fullness upon your clothes. My heart has grown. This feeling of being older, but not quite yet tame, awakens my need for closeness and makes my home feel a little more friendly. My unannounced homecomings are important to me; when I creak open the door and turn on the light. What was happening back then? Nothing has happened in the way I could have expected it to. Perhaps, for however differently things may have turned out, particular memories bring warmer feelings than thoughts on what should be. The land has always taught its own language; it grows inside whoever is wandering through it, and it speaks through whomever is describing it. Why did it all create this resolution against loneliness, along with a brittleness that makes me feel vulnerable? Such is what happens to one who is unnaturally prone to deceptive spirits or glowing vehement fantasies of the heart. That place was so beautiful, with its tall grasses, groves of ancient and noble spruce trees; with the big open field across the road. Gently sloping ploughland, distant building tops, and a continuous road noise that blew over the hardened snow...) Things are so beautiful that they are strange to me. It's not quite eight o'clock in the evening, and it seems the light here is content to just let itself float away. The streetlights have just turned on. The highway provides a constant background noise and reminds me that there are people moving about all the time, having to be somewhere. It seems that I'm confused as to whether I should be moving or standing still. The daily walks I take have a little bit of motion as well as not really going anywhere. But in my mind, I am already happiest and most away. The words I mumble outloud are little incantations of verse, blurring the lines between thinking and speaking. No thought is too fine for words to find. A spoken word never disappears fast enough for thoughts to be left behind. And all these thoughts and words are casting a spell to bring my heart a little closer to home. With all my feelings of being away, these so-called spells are ever increasingly necessary. It's already dark out now, and the first waves of nightly sadness have come. It hovers among my mind's concourse of images and not quite answered feelings. But I am out here, among the familiar steps of these streets in Thunder Bay, watching the last vestiges of dusk fade away. The light of day disappears like quietly extinguishing embers, into the western folds of low level clouds. Scarlet sinks into the farthest rows of hills, and deep cadmium yellow is caught afloat in the coming darkness and becomes breathless, fading into dark blue. The days out here have a great deal of Open Spaces that often get passed by. Lately, I've been still passing these sights by, but I'm taking a longer time to look at them. The leaves are already starting to fall. Black Ashes and Alders have since become bare limbed and stark in the coming grey darkness. Now the ground is covered with moist yellow leaves. They still smell fresh for now, and their splashings of colour upon the road, under my feet, can be quite lovely. They seem to say that it's okay to feel vulnerable; that it's a part of almost all life. Fallen leaves upon the ground make me think of shavings of life that necessarily get blown away to reveal something beautiful underneath. A stark, leafless tree can be a tall monument to a soundless acceptance of all that happens. The strength and thickness of its bark says it has passed through many changing seasons unflinchingly, and is healthy and strong because of it. And here I am with a slight shiver because of the falling temperature, not quite yet mumbling things in my hard to understand solitary language. Strange cool weird things have always had a power with me, to be prompters of verses and tones from a way of speaking not quite understood. I must learn my language. These words must come; just like how I am sure that the morning will come, even if I am not there to watch the sunrise. My long night of silence makes sounds seem strange, makes daylight objects puzzling in lying so uncovered. My daylight heart is puzzling too; it feels strong enough to come out of its shell. It is strong, but it feels a jubilant sorta half-vulnerability. It can be hurt... it can bleed, but my body has taught it how to heal itself, how to turn pain into resolution. It's cold out, but I'm out here in half insulated tenderness. Far too many starless nights have made a stone of my ability to be touched by closeness; the darkness of a blank night in a big, lonely universe doesn't make me sad too much anymore. It can make me feel noble, just by a little bit; it teaches just a little bit about strength and openness (which is another word for vulnerability). Being out here is my way to manifest my own sense of one-ness. Things are calm enough to be able to identify what turn my feelings are about to take. I know that my mind is very sensitive to what happens and it can welcome it all, or push it away. It's lovely here with the dark quietness outside, with a clean well lighted place across the street. I go there and buy some over priced comfort food. The staff there are really nice, and smile warmly when I talk to them and politely say my goodbye. There is a peace among places open all night, and it seems able to find me no matter where in the world I find myself in. Things have been rather peaceful as of late, but my new voice is still speechless. It want to tell so many people of what changes I went through on my many trips, but still struggle to articulate the value that traveling is supposed to have. Even just spontaneously walking down a tree lined avenue could feel like traveling. Going nowhere in particular can be pretty cool; there are many streets in this city that I have never walked down. So many gardens extend close to the sidewalks and still have a bit of hardy flowers in them. There is a very real future of hard work, and times where I will have to be alone in order to be productive. While walking out here, I'm just floating and letting the world wait for me. It's okay to want to be alone sometimes; to slowly become close to the buried thoughts that many authors and poets have left in their books. Tonight I don't really feel like gazing into the universe and have its blankness stare right into me. Sometimes it's just a surface; designed to do no more than to contain everything that happens here. And what is happening here? Just a lot of close reading of my own heart... trying not to fix it because I know it's not broken.... Hello... my wilderness garden... One day I will really be coming back to you. All these thoughts I am having are my longest password to the deepest locked doors within me. All these little walks in the night will bring me forward enough to take the first new steps in the long winding path, leading the way to Walheim. I have since started to walk home because I can feel the heart becoming a little more closed up. It can never become completely sealed. By immersing myself in this pool of Solitude, loneliness drips in with almost every step. Yet, rays of sunlight penetrate all the small cracks and tiny holes all over me. It's the same hardness that creates an almost terrible brittleness; I've even crumbled in the hands of other people. When pain turns into resolution, when the heart speaks even when no-one is there, it puts itself back together again. Hello... my dear wilderness garden... If no one is here, I'm free to open myself up so to the fullness of this strange moonlit beauty, in the inverse world of darkness. Thoughts of such a perennial solitude, orbiting the fringes of human life, will make me one day wish to become a comet. Hello...my dear path which I walk down ever more slowly as I go further away. Why these strange metaphors? It's the private language of my own strange kind of closedness. What shall be held afloat when my wide gazing, nervous eyes are looking for things to help me understand this irreconcilable one-ness? What shall my palms press against when trying to find the strength to carry the loneliness burden? A little trickle of melancholy sizzles against my sustained flame of longing. It must be matched by an even stronger awareness of the present. It feels so late out now, and my heart feels like the cracking sound a fire makes when there’s nothing left but coals. It is possible for thoughts to be led on a long big windowed train ride of memories. I almost home, now walking with a renewed intensity, walking half-furiously in the midst of being happy and not even thinking about "why." I believe that it’s okay to feel free to babble, for it’s almost like being in love. You could say so much in both situations, but the only difference is that the lover is hearing every word you are saying. I could almost release a storm out of everything that has happened; but I have a desire to allow my melancholy of fleetingness to continue without saying anything. A strange passion of meekness is just one more type of sustained thought. It is able to wrestle out something nice by holding on, long enough for something to come out in the right way. It seems ironic that my ‘most authentic philosophy’ is one that is so hard to mumble out. Every thought in my head is entwined with the red and green glow of traffic lights, the streetlamp orange that seems to have oozed its way onto building walls. There’s a few deserted lots here with their grasses long gone to seed, exhausted flowers from the summer still holding on. Through the windblown cloud cover sparse stars are seen, and the glowing moon illuminates the darkness which it loves; such a soft, touching glow through the haze. Entwined poetry, caught up among attentive thoughts, held in transience, a small connection with a perennial faith in language. Simple desires and necessary holds on Solitude can find variety and richness, by coming closer and giving life to many kinds of near audible expression. Desire for home teaches how to understand how far away we can be sometimes; and just how different other places can be. My home is close to the Lake, and as I draw closer to my door, I can see its vastness and moonlit rolling waves. Sigh… an old journal once said to me: "you are most alive whenever you leave your comfortable silence." My home is usually pretty quiet, but upon entering, the door seems to close with a loud thud. The refrigerator hums along its own rhythm in the kitchen of scattered dishes. My brother is often awake at this hour on the computer, otherwise sleeping on his favorite couch. Today the warm air of home is suggested by the crack of light appearing underneath the door. My brother is awake today, and I can hear the sound that the keyboard makes when someone is typing on it. We’ll talk before it’s time to sleep. Dishes get rattled as I try to scrounge up an apple and make some lemonade juice crystals. I’ll blab a little about rummaging around the streets when I give him a glass of lemonade. He tells me about his day at the university, and we exchange stories about lectures and running into people we might have met before. We part company by agreeing that tomorrow is just another day….. October 4th, 10:46pm 2 comments | post a comment
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Fine...
literary, even.. erudite?
hungOVER
awake
almost peaceful
geeky
restless