January 1, 2013 § 12 Comments
The Annual Report from WordPress made me feel terrible for my laziness with regards this blog, and so a minor update: I’ve moved a few times since descending the Blue Mountains, and will be on the go again in a month. A brief on the wonders of 2012 (easily one of my happiest years, might even scoop first place as The Happiest) have been jotted down below:
In drunken revelry, a year of time and fierce presence is remembered.
Another full year, and I did not see the sea very often, but the sun did set and rise in it. And as light pulled back and forth, so did my stories. It is no longer easy for me to say where I’ve come from, nor where I’m headed. This knowledge is now like vacant truth, denied by meaning.
My story is not my own. It has travelled over surplus borders and languages and foods and faiths. And the people that scrawled words across its canvas are some of the greatest poets I’ve met. Their lives – their everyday – tell limitless tales of what it is to hunt down meaning, to fight and struggle with passion, to feel full of blood and humanness. There is no longer room for merely getting by, no longer space for a single day to pass forgotten.
And somewhere in between all the skies, I moved from countless house to house, always calling them home as they buried themselves in nooks of living memory – new neighbours to dine with and listen to and share with; new teachers to walk tight ropes of freedom with; new friends to love and challenge; new families of my own.
I had never been pushed so far unto freedom, and could no longer claim to know myself. I started to dispose of unnecessary articles that halted, even so slightly, every opportunity to live and engage with life. And in began to flow older thoughts from younger days: the knowledge that routine is a myth, but exhilarating comfort still appears when a local recognises you as part of their landscape; that no matter how full days become, there’s always time to be more; that another drought and flimsy banks and lawyers can drive someone you know to suicide, even as you watch a storm light up a desert with soft rain; that no amount of seeking refuge in pre-defined sentiment will teach joy, but sunrises come rather close; that to disconnect ourselves from our lands is madness of a dangerous breed; that winter winds carry flocks of migrants who choose to trust despite unknowing change; that trust isn’t, and will never be, as significant as love; that we are all vulnerable to theft of many kinds; that we can never find peace if we only wish it unto ourselves; that all that I am certain of rests within this moment, ready to perch upon a distant echo and dance out of reach. I know so much less than I did a year ago, but the intensity and joy of each day are all I wish to pursue.
And 2013? I can only anticipate.
July 17, 2012 § 6 Comments
“Think of our life in nature, – daily to be shown matter, to come in contact with it, – rocks, trees, wind on our cheeks! The solid earth! The actual world! The common sense! Contact! Contact! Who are we? Where are we?”
Henry David Thoreau
Travelling backwards, from one sea to another, we carry so much of ourselves with us. There is nothing distinct, simple or stable about these lands we traverse. The city that raised and sheltered me is as unknown and misunderstood as any new landscape I might discover. And whilst home has less to do with familiarity, it is becoming to separate myself from a familiar in order to redefine meaning.
I know myself better now, but understand me far less. For once and always, the blissful delight and unknowing of the present is all that is worth revelling in.
May 23, 2012 § 11 Comments
I wish I could give you the sound of the sea, not sealed inside a shell. The grand power with which it conducts its frothing waves that struggle to burst forth all at once, but are victims of melody. The silence you hear when it holds its breath in anticipation of lightly toeing the sand, the only moment when it is mere and vulnerable. The sounds that it permits the wind to carry, and those that it keeps close, drawing you nearer. The heaving of the tides, the spilling of the waves onto lands littered with crab-holes that travel deep into places you cannot traverse without holding tightly to the roots of palms. The same sea that through eyes of many, travels to plains that become deserts, that become mountains, that hold snow that greets clouds who dust it through skies bereft of rain that has already fallen on your outstretched hand; I take it in mine.
December 20, 2011 § Leave a comment
The sun sets differently at different elevations.
Being amidst the evergreens and the sounds they carry through themselves is reminiscent of another kind of plenty; where cockroaches ramble and early mornings are far less of a struggle; where coconut trees catch root and the water they present is refreshing; where the sun gently nudges you into the shade of a jackfruit tree for an afternoon.
Tea and the cackle of a hornbill remain and remind you of a country of gaur, as you roam a country of elephants.