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.
June 14, 2012 § 4 Comments
As distance grows and desires reassemble, daylight begins a waltz.
Tucked amidst the clouds, decades of books lie scattered, as soft jazz calls out to the rain. We search through more than ourselves as fading paper reminds us of journeys we’ve taken only with our minds. In memory of who we were and who we sought to be, we gather wet soil and mould another becoming day. To remember that our lives are but fleeting, and that tomorrow will bring more rain.
Tomorrow, there will be.
May 10, 2012 § 6 Comments
Five months ago, the night was torn asunder with the moon afresh and eclipsed. Everyone sat waiting for the shadow to pass, for the daunting time the moon was not at its fullest. They seemed to be waiting for it to be more present, in order to be so themselves. Nobody ate, nobody smiled; the world seemed abstruse. I climbed up further, above the stationed street lights, above the mystical clouds, above my home, to search for it. Some watched it on the television; it had made the news that night. I soon ran back down and called out to the children, convincing them to pull away from the screen and see it firsthand. Nervous, they joined me as we ran to greet the night. A girl of nine couldn’t believe her eyes. What surprised her was that it was real, even in this small little town. That the important people that broadcast the news right into her home cared about something she was witness to; that a town that far too often escaped their gaze was, in fact, a part of their world.
January 15, 2012 § 2 Comments
My upbringing delved into the possibility of words and worlds of scientific meaning. Logic lay in most corners of my knowledge and the solace it provided was a temporary comfort. Mystery novels; probably the primary culprits. Soon, the use of the mind to understand, to comprehend before creating became essential to thinking, wondering and questioning. Every life is a story, and every story can be mapped out, presented as a flow chart and clinically treated. Our stories are cluttered with logic. Cause-effect relations huddle round every corner waiting to be discovered and treated with an excited, scientific mind. We believe it unfailingly possible to comprehend the lives we choose. We believe we understand ourselves and forget that our existence is mere, and yet infinitely beyond our minds.
Slowly, foolishness creeps in with each morning, as the mind stirs and we roar into the sunrise and the eye of another mystery.