Danny James

Tag: birds

480

Things!
Burn them, burn them! Make a beautiful
fire! More room in your heart for love,
for the trees! For the birds who own
nothing – the reason they can fly.

Mary Oliver

268: All colours soon fade

The morning begins in a blaze of luminous peach and hot pink swirls like a pooling rain of lava to fall; the light at the edge of the world and there’s not a violence in the air. No fire in the sky or gaping hell unloosed, it’s far too still, too beautiful for it, but a blinding promise of a paradise already here perhaps. And sitting over this vivid glow of reaching holiness, is a guide of perfect puffs of white cloud, arranged in a homeward going it seems, dispersed like stepping-stones of cotton for the angels trailing to a golden trapdoor haven in the sky. It peels open slowly, like a wise and ancient eye knowing all and well as it slips from the darkness milk of a century-long slumber, upon what futile routine will its look rest. This human fumbling, short-lived evaporating everlast of unbearable wonder. Peering over the sizzling lip with a brilliance unheard, our saviour orb of blood orange is roaring to ascendency, where it will sit with explosive resplendence, the very centre and light of things all and not a sound. O relief, ye smiling humble high sun, beacon to the weary confused, nothing is dispossessed of your gentle touch across the Earth, but greeting cheerfully all tears and dew and drying the surface of lack and lament like a mother’s hand. How daily new and utterly heart bewildering. There is nothing, sets right or overcomes me quite. Another chance for a fool.

And less nowadays, in these fine moments that might have been shared, comes strolling thee into my reveries mead… then does. As though within the very nature of the occasions sudden vacancy of memory embedded is a deeper and more adamant remembrance in wait. Instants, bright and fulfilling, riotous with life urge me to enquire what shade and resignation prefers. The contrast emphasis. And we cannot just go along easily, but puncture directly to the heart or hold our own from a safe screaming distance. Telling it is when I cannot sever so quickly the cords of an attachment anymore. Good soul, who found a reason to stay in the first, and last place; none so can ever leave without a trace.
‘Anyway, don’t get too caught up in it now like always, aching over the intricacies of lapping little shore breaks on the beach, or the Coasts Winter mantle of mist and whitewash and what distant winds have hither inspired them. Like a flag in the Summer sea breeze flailing tirelessly resisting the flagpole oppression it needs. Welling tears at melodies that demonstrate your gentler parts, and returning always to the same hard stoic stare of modesty and recovered order, the state from which you will again stray and which you hold most dear.’ Practice, practice, practice. It’s a rehearsal anyway, for the big last dance at midnight and it’s been the eleventh hour for almost a lifetime now. ‘Your mind you can change, and do and will, but the sky not. It is not for you but simply is. The birds, happy enough do they sail on, and you should go with their philosophy awhile, for clear days or not know there are many days, many colours and all colours soon fade.’

125: Patagonia

Dec 14 ’13 – There is a point in the auroral air, when, not arrived to full definition, cloud and sky are one hue dividing gradually, and the hinted at majesty unfolding pours steadily into the patient soul a satisfied resignation. Birds inform of the event by song, and flutter in the blue darkness from branch exuberantly to branch, becoming increasingly silhouette against the burgeoning light of Earths lantern approaching over the bend. The warmth of sun is felt far and wide before it spills over its gold and becomes a fixture in every eye. The clouds too declare it, now glowing pink as burning embers; with night thinning to extinction, – the magnificence inevitable. Commencing a pristine infinity, to enter upon, – an everything ahead of me. It is this in-preparation, I have recently discovered, that fulfils me to the zenith of amends, and when it settles it is time to board an escape pod, and ride the skies to Patagonia please.

115: Gone

Abaft a brooding climb, finally we mount the firmament, which suspends our dot with an affable keep and steadies our careen down the Tasman, settling ahead the finest conditions for flight have I ever encountered. The ocean and upper-wide parapet are an indivisible frontier of immaculate cobalt, that, were it not for one vivid and far-flung ivory thread, all ships and birds would negotiate the same strange territory (1).

By what I estimate to be journeys middle, and gladly redeemed of concern for accuracy in my projection of this days age, – the Sky and Earths bound is clear and imminent now. A rolling tumult of ashen brumal vapours pour in below, and delineates our vessels place in this wide realm between the vast under and above, and through effortlessly we soar.

Confirmed for 12:33pm – how I hadn’t asked.

Descending beneath the shroud in approach of our station, manifest appears the ample sea again, nearer than before that every ripple and indentation by Nature’s heavenly waft inscribed, – her living moving signature, from this vantage an exquisite precision of pixelation no man of this globe in all his possible ingenuity has mastered. The rough nooks and tiny tidemarks, the mere thousand-fold details in this bedlam are exactly shaped and even-spaced, such as imply a smoothness overall. Pulling this pattern from the particulars, becomes everything clear and thorough. The Suns showering grace is by mist-cover waned of its full majestic and small breakthroughs herald the clamour, like faded fog lights searching lone and in vain and though unable to break the sea bed, on what surface the couriers of light crash, spill carriage of gorgeous jewels (2). How a clear sky would bedazzle the eyes with visions of fantastic wealth. But this is not the domain of Earths golden orb, this is Aotearoa – ‘land of the long white cloud.’

I am four pages abused and not grounded yet. My thoughts are soaring, whirling heretic fireflies, and flailing I mean to jar every one of them, pale and ablaze just the same. Jotting down all apprehensions as they occur, however incomplete and nonsensical, faster than can reasons dust settle, clean of inauthenticity grown from some tainted soil in me fed by cheap incentives raining. Simplicity and immediacy is key, and tends portray the wisest outcome. For death is at hand, drawing every instant closer my heels, and long while I am writing is breath, no matter the kind or power. Some rather are astonished gasps, others a cough or wheezing any one aspect of the respiratory collective can induce by a moments perfunctory slip. O give me clean air, that I may expel my fumes and make parity with being.

The sun would have fallen on my musing, stepping down after the oceans brook from its lofty seat, had I not steered my look out again. Shoals and inlets increase, then I am unsure of the proper terms for these quiet natural developments, when I can name and navigate man-constructed bayous and disorderly boulevards without relation or concern. Methinks, for too long I have made my home in the city, and try soon enough to rectify this once and forever.
The border lands over where we enter are not the same as those from which we departed, nor as before that I remember them. Auckland’s edges are a rounded and boldly primordial to strength and apparently among the last by men breached, where the frayed and rampant outline of Sydney’s shredded shores resemble by comparison, an ever-polished town wincing free and kicked adrift of its despised histories evidence. It is little wonder to me, having exchanged considerable time in both whether similar aspects can be observed in a place as those of its inhabitants, or not.

Evening – close enough to schedule am shown to the hostel every bit the same as recollections depicted, I am not reported several minutes but to leave my belongings and wring what daylight remains, strolling this memorable hillside hamlet, for six years to my longing attached. I held to the outskirts, clear of the city centre which, however charming held no interest or value to me, preferring to have instead the smoke and pine layered slopes in the far prominence inside seeings ambit. I am struck with how startled I am by luxury of sky. Notwithstanding its permanence, Nelson’s corner thereof can occupy the greater share in ones field of vision unimpeded, and such grandeur displayed is always great source of immaterial tonicity to me. How little of all the first time I appreciated, that extends now a most genial invitation, to relish in qualities attractive to wise enjoyments pursuit. Gladdened withal, for where I have been, that so much the more is before me now.

When at last, a generations amount of study in one day exhausts the eyelids duties, I retire to the household that will be for five nights hereafter my home. – And it seems, that like the last time I was on the road, between some other drab and increasingly short interval of regular living, I am most awakened and secure now, falling once more into that place from which I shall never want to leave.

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