Danny James

Tag: hitchhiker

309: Patagonia part 4

No matter now in what city I find myself, when a cold wind is such that it penetrates to the marrow, and scatters the rain into a melee of fine mist-fall visible under a street light, I can’t help but peering up at the brume be lulled smiling into memories den; down the burning corridors of the years winding and strange with yet an air of curiously warm familiarity, as an about-face that points you home after a spell adrift in the world gathering the lessons you needed to have. And I go on though wearily, knowing, towards what light I can see where glowing sits my arrival awaiting, that there is nothing expected of me there and something benign, inviting as a cabin wood-fire, easing as the welcome of a dear friend whose love by absence appreciates to a quality such as decades could not overthrow; images past of cold shining skies and golden smiles that with one look breaches the cocoon that since entombed the heart and with an alchemy of dazzling joviality encircles it. Activation! Roots are agitated. A network, from its periphery to the core engages with a dusty preparatory hum. The spaces flood with a gladdening anaesthesia and that good hibernating heart looking out with puzzled alarm, realising liberty is confirmed and at hand sighs at last a long-smothered rejoicing. The mind out of the static isolates a decibel of laughter saved, the eyes glaze a recollection. A spark catches! Sensitivity swells again, surging an affection spent. Sharp and vivid pictures of captivating scenes and painfully poignant encounters with adorable people, all hauntingly mislaid and lost to the din of fumbling busyness, come rushing now back to me but in fragments of delightfulness burgeoning, and flashes of forgotten insight like a flickering of sunlight through the dusky woods in Autumn. A story emerges out of the stuttering. A frayed slide show of a life lived so far. And it’s a glorious thing being alive and young. Perhaps more so to have been young, when you can finally figure what gift you had, and what you have now. Nature is aware the astounding splendour is, all at once too unbearable and so unfurls it she carefully, so as not to sink the senses unprepared into that seductive lower-most layer of liquid reverie from which the traveller there absorbed might not recover. With the heaping of irreplaceable love and impassable loss revisited, falling resembles flying and visa versa, and tardily will follow the relief that ever the things that took, shook you, and changed you so profoundly even happened at all, and slow to ripen is the emotional stability to stand it. These are the very things that being young, both marvellous and more difficult make: Risk without reservation, for the years ahead are many that you have to get over anything, and the soul here stands at a greater hazard by its own fearing. You leapt more. Antagonized the dangers and considered less the consequences of an etherial trusting of greater things. Divine and battered, by god, by Nature, by whatever you lived! Forget me not.
Once in a lifetime friendships made in an instant and achingly touching moments that tattoo the heart and can never last. Soaring highs and crushing lows, such as you will never entirely overcome, and so you find the percepts a place of safe-keeping for the days when strength is enough. Or you will be twenty or thirty years from here standing in a room wondering why you came there because by some skip in the consciousness, your automation of thought had broken up and you forgot your reasons. Your staring out of the window now, groping in the vacancy trying to place your steps, all of them up to this point, beginning at the last time you were surprised like that, though you’ve woken with a start it seems each morning ever since. Somewhere on the other side of a deep fog where lost things dwell, and scattered like a whisper on the wind, a cry paled at a divide, faint as an angles feather falling on a cloud; an echo of a ghost trying to reach you through the noise. What to do? There is the panic and pandemonium of a siren wailing but you don’t hear a sound. And at nexus of halls are you compelled, drawn like a canary down a hole, down a passage unlit, scared and helpless, in which appears at the far off nethermost middle, at a mere bend perchance in a Labyrinthine weave of memories, a frantic, pleading, limping dot, that recedes the more with your apprehension to approach. You are afraid of course, of what might reflection find, until above all pervades a sudden understanding of a broad and foreboding necessity to resuscitate this failing glimmer in the randomness, the trying pulse of some gravely important and completed sensory brush grasped by the psyche and secured away to the recesses on purpose. Your guardians last attempt.
Just as your daring rises to plenitude and looks your Goliath surmountable, you are about to lunge into the abyss of its jaws when suddenly there is a noiseless flash you can’t compute that engulfs the entire in a white wave, and in the next second your blinking up at a sun so bright and tranquillising as will appear in a dream, and it is the most breathtaking and magnificent vision of effulgence you have ever seen. You swim in the daze and drench of satisfying light beaming out over a glacial wall so mammoth and crystal-blue that can’t the eyes read a cease of its largess, nor the mind fathom a more beguiling allure. All tension melts away in that swoon, all regard for time and presence softly detaches and disperses, for here you are amid the ongoing and unbelievable that is Patagonia. It locks you up in a silence and furious bewilderment. Your smallness and responsibility moves you to tears as well a feeling of overwhelming gratefulness that you and all your disgraces should have happened upon this hallowed place in this coming together of moments perfect, and are not at all dispossessed but essential. While gazing out over the spires of those gargantuan curtains of ice, vast uninhabitable meadows of snow and water suspended, frozen in a pause for all time, glistening in the sun like dunes of diamonds and glass, in your periphery Amy is watching your watch. Smiling with a forlorn tenderness and uttering nothing because cometh the hour you’ll be too soon and forever separated in the world, she would later confess in a letter not sent. You offer no response or acknowledgement of her pensive and doting intrigue but look right on ahead, deeper into anything else as though you didn’t notice and know exactly where you’re headed but you do not, and you are just as adrift as anyone though increasingly here you are warming to the fact if by cruel expense. You don’t know why you did that, but maybe you needed to focus on yourself for a change, than rather what somebody else was focusing in on, about you. Just now a cold snap for which the faculties were not braced whips at your skin and threads the ribs. Fibres twitch involuntarily and immediately are you seized by your own constricting humanness. A glaze of frost is thrust over your nerves sending a biting shudder through your being like the cold steel of blade pushed into the chest; an ominous déjà vu which you have endured with a fright at intervals now and then for centuries. So now you look.

And kneeling there in the dark by the failing embers with a curious wondering piecing together the shards of recaptured frames of my sweet Patagonian experience can I enjoy the adventure again. All the thrills of moment-to-moment living where the weeks become fortified in legend, with all the significant constellations and heroism of a lifetime thoroughly lived. From being born erratic through the journey of ‘unheavening’ right up to a dispersal composed and sublime, enhanced and hemmed into 23 days like an eon in a snow dome. A solar system within a marble sitting on the ocean floor rolling with the beckon of an undertow. As well there were exams that revealed him, who I was most proud to have become that I had until then not discovered the amounting to were at all possible. To reminded be that still he is not done, nor to be restrained any more in luxury, and too of a time in my life that I think shall ever unsurpassed remain as the very best that I had lived.
When, however cutting and inclement, and no place more so than exists I’m sure, there was always close at hand the warm heart of a friend who two weeks before, you never knew or cared to know existed. Who would offer their only jacket because yours was an inappropriate match for such climates, all the while reminding the group with a stuttered yet indomitable cheer as we traversed terrain and conditions could no supposition have equaled, that somebody else whose birth place or last name you can’t recall had rushed on against the gales to prepare a fire and raise our tents before supper and storm.

Those rare and special people you’ll find dotted across the globe in corners hidden and places hard, like flowers in a cave. Where scarcely known are the comforts that fatigue and drive us further from ourselves and from one another. These very much-mattering, endearing acts of unhesitating consideration you can come to expect on the road from strangers who would rather be family. And as much as I’ve wandered from shore to shore, through valleys low and stark not within lights reach where prevails still a most fascinatingly and animated little civilisation you’ll not find anywhere else that one dare not profane to long step there, – and there’s such a place for us all; among grand and agleam peaks of powerful majesty weeping into lakes of the purest blue that arrest the tiny looker into a sudden compulsion for silent propriety: More than any mountain, the human phenomena of immediate unreproach and dependable tenderness never ceases to fire me to new incentives for compassion and service, always bringing me home a better man, and upon me after the hardest days, bestowing a far better rest than I could have hoped for. To see it, be touched, punctured and set loose by it is a wrath of pleasantness intensely I pray for and to what I know not. Perhaps to the Cosmos which inform with its patterns of seeming disarray and yet precision of order and celestial fairness. If it can pull planets, kill stars and toss fire like missiles across an infinity and still find occasion to mystify us with a drifters faith and the honest goodness of foreign folk, music, love, drunken sunrise pacts with new friends and pretty smiles in passing, surely can it inspire us to consider less ourselves as a disconnected self and more as a part of an order serene, that we may then tirelessly to the work of prospering an entire people to a standard of aversion to such separateness, and encourage by bitter example the kind of society we would all admire, and for which would one tilt to all the winds and blades of a thousand Siberian assaults for. Finding in our unity, a strength not stirred without, we can exhilarate that which sorely requires the present wide world through which we stumble: that is, dissolution of that indifference, that, until recently I had championed for too long and thought to be a trait of the strong, which I know now of course to be untrue.

Passing through the tunnel of a curative meditation are you restored. A buoyancy finds again the space beneath your feet, careening within and through you. Things are far gentler than you imagined. There is breadth at last, for all the things that you would feel, and the few things of which reason guides you need think. It is not as much a vacation as we need so much as an hour quiet and sincere with the soul, where your work will become known to you, to be taken up in earnest for all the days of your glorious tenure until it descends upon you to sleep and take your leave.

Danny James blog Patagonia 4 pics

Danny James blog Patagonia 4 pic 2

217: Patagonia part 3 (Amy, somewhere)

Strange it now seems that it bothered me how she would always dawdle behind while there was so much to see, and I’d never notice at the time that she was happy enough just watching me. Heading toward wherever I was, to end a searching in my arms that were never open.

I recall with fondness her poise and determined gait, and private strength of wherewithal that sometimes did take leave of its throne and put to helm a smile acting with not falsehood enough to cover over the deeper melancholy in her world, but a smile anyway. Amy disliked her pronounced calves and yet wore tights, no matter how thoroughly the Patagonian gusts would blow and yet often complained hilariously indignantly and unnecessarily of observed human errors of judgement and the like, long after the affray upon her dignity subsided and the offender, stooped and cloaking his villainy with shame had departed, sullen and regret addled. Amy’s relentlessness was tiring, to many if not all of them, but not to me. And often while they leered at her would I leer at them, more perplexed about them than disliking, for at last here was a little storm of transparency rare as the breathtaking within her berating into correctness or exhaustion a person failing, – that ushers away sun-shower pretensions with her brooding cloudburst veracity.

And I liked her calves too, looking furtively on their contours and contractions during the conquering of an incline. I said as much though little more, and it still seemed to matter immensely. I liked them best when ahead of me they brushed through grass and brambles on a hill-side meadow saturated by cold, dying daylight one December afternoon in some place, the name of which I can’t recall and made no effort to remember, by a highway remote in South America. You get tired of making plans and keeping notes. Abiding schedules and hitching your time and cares to duty and a whereabouts. We just walked, talked nonsense for once and wondered what were in the ovens of all the homes that blinked across the plains under perhaps the most magnificent dispersal of dusk cloud, the likes of which had never the skies before bestowed upon us we awed, in the end resigning to the fact that it was no different from any other as much as we were here with new eyes. Bursting apart with our pent-up hopes and anxieties, like the first Spring flowers through melting snow. Sometimes Amy would quietly look away and slump into a sigh that halted the planets in their cycles and cast suddenly over the hissing prairies of my heart a shadow crawling. Then, she would look back over her shoulder with a smile that betrayed an arrived at relief I knew only too well, and immediately a solitary lance of light shot out across the slopes from a source unknown yet knowing all. The Earth and all things resumed their movements and I could breathe again at ease, that all is indeed well, if she is well.
We were happy here with each other just as incomplete as ever, hidden in an interval of our lives and free to entertain the ecstasies of our wildest wonderings. I’m willing to wager, being years from these events that you will not have known a happiness like waking up face down on your cold tent floor without an air-mat, and with no shirt on in near-zero temperatures, with her cheek on your shoulder-blade and fingers clutching your lat because she loves your back even in her sleep, and her warm flesh against yours is keeping the world holy though she has three-fourths of the tent and all the sleep sack. You can hear the morning campfire and some of the group is awake and huddled around staring. The smell of instant coffee is utterly arresting and who knows what’s for breakfast or when it doesn’t matter. For a moment you forgot to remember that you can’t bear the thought of going home again, to describe so desperately these things that severely matter with people to whom they do not. It doesn’t even cross your mind that one day we would all be gone and that for many years before, we would all be looking back on these days from our separate and lonely corners of the world with a sad impossible longing to hold them all again and do absolutely nothing differently. You are too busy trying to recollect what it was that you were both laughing about so fervently before you fell asleep in each other’s arms with nothing and nowhere to be in the morning.

Somewhere in Patagonia, December 2013

Somewhere in Patagonia, December 2013

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.

123: Those hills

Those hills where rests your often look; let reason sleep awhile, – go there.

122

Commonly after a spell abroad, I return to find the usual irritations of home have in my absence been polished to the plenitude of their quality, proving me thus a man of poor judgement. The greater share of dust is always laid over the intellect.

121: What I came for

Extravagance of air and light today fetched me early from indoors, and no way knowing or caring where, would I follow so long as were sun and breeze proliferate. Being my final day in Nelson, instead of thus choking for want of natural restoratives, agonising the golden hours decrease under airport ceilings, I went some time afoot along the brow of Nelson’s lesser ventured neighbourhoods to draw my tonic. They appreciate a quiescent and leafy verdure, whom reside their cottages at the gardened feet of the hills which smile down at them and permit every bit of sunshine saturate that can. The escalation too is cordially progressive, and lures from the road many an ambler wearied with the flatness to immerse the senses awhile. I saw myself, three walkers at the least, suddenly stuttered in their way over inner reasoning succumb to the promise of cool escape therein among the reeds. Detouring into one of many pockets of shade, there lies a niceness often missed and never regretted once enjoyed, where the freshest state will seek its repose, and awaken a pleasure in being alive again it might not have known was slumbering.

Rows of hanging trees lean off to one side of a track, and dip their curtains into ebullient brooks providing an extensive tunnelled wonderland for whom may saunter along the fringe of that Eden. It befalls all aspirants a passage slow and blessed, for the eye darting, trying cannot rest on every confection, and the mind… laced with the soothing scent of summer flowers seeping in, sinks into a docility resembling what drapes the access of dreaming.

There isn’t a treasure else in the world could spread before me I would more alluring deem, and scant left in traditional busyness or responsibility to bribe me here from tending to my affairs. There is no shame in a divergence, of rational self-interest. Your very maintenance compels it. All the world will uphold its meddling be assured. Seize a duration and abduct your space, let the crowd where they will. Few roads or shoulders collide where a man’s primary enterprising steals inward, making his own acquaintance, and getting to know his needs. To spend some breath getting a better air. It is above all requirements, the principle requisite to living a useful and satisfying life; to obtain by sentient intention a precise and unhindered self report. It is from this which one gains strength, by which are all virtues bred. And thank foresight thus, that my chance for recess was not squandered, for in one deranged interim from a knot have I slipped and made through the fence like a bandit won. Yet it need not have been so well-engineered, having found whom for I wagered to discover, all the while dwelling in the privacy of honest council, and I am eager with that mans clarity to see in a short while, and in the very nick of all the while too, my longed for Patagonia.

Nelson, New Zealand 2013

Nelson, New Zealand 2013

119: Wet the day

”Ye province of revolutions lure; preserving heights where ecstasy brews,
Of relic agreements furious homecoming, riding hymns of deep-set change,
Savage and sweeping the entire.
Instincts bowed to primal charms palpable loom.”

As though with impatience pregnant at the oppression, the sun rushed from a corner early and determined, finding differently few or none with which to compete for a place overhead. The sky was again its own and so ascended, shone bold and brilliant, furnishing the hill-face with aspects of a double occupancy, that every rock, brush, and marking, by light grand and unguarded were now endowed with a companion in its own shade. And how they approach unsought, as a-walking do thoughts, the finer corollaries of pardoned observation. Tuning to this auspicious transmission, a clever reckoning happened into the meadows of free thought, placidly and perfect like a far-come Monarch butterfly pervading beyond the babel of hominine format, draping a hush over static and putting peace in the province.
Came thus; that, by not repressing a single Atom of our individual strangeness for any one in this World, can we raise, not the least our essential befitting selves but too, our worth the while fellows in this marvel-brimmed World to a more robust and appropriate elevation, to melodic sameness. Each but by earnestly being, is to all as giving sunshine.

With these heartening concepts behind me, my brow wearing rays warm and radiant that gladdened all the trails ahead, I expected to delight in many a walk across the region, or willing, one alone and stretching out unto the bend of sunset, — such I would choose, unhurried and pointed nowhere in particular save whims soft instruct:

Calm ye going, traveler. Who hurry need, unoften arrive in full.

A generous and attractive span here breathes, and away from tiresome obligations at home, the hours abundant and drawn, I saw no logical reason to rush upon my haven in the stacks, but instead, like better to savour the notion.  To be exempt of qualifying or preparedness, and for the meantime, to harken the rolling milieu.

Fair environs blur,
Puzzled Nature steps aside.
Her decorous items never were,
In the strivers narrowed eye.

The modern tramp I’ve noted, high and low enjoys an unduly comfortable passage, taking whence one hastens as much in luggage and familiar ideas as can carried be, lest should any measure of itinerary come upon suspense. How far does one really go, that brings as much in homely poise? — How deep, with expectations?
One fellow, like many others with whom I’d exchanged interests addressing personal history and methods of migration, had before his present embark, adapted for every detail and apparently necessary habit would gentle his way. He has since stumbled amiss and folded up his bliss by threat of likely disruptions, among them poor weather and slow transportations! Each calamity is the first and personal; instead of disclosing, confusing alternate and equal routes. Of certitude, they say it fools itself certainly, and proportionately. It is as though none are aware of how operates the world, and find only what can be procured from it before considering all that is given freely and abundant.

Perhaps then, it is revelations tension expressed on their faces, and I notice inasmuch I’ve been possessed before. Arriving at the current bursting Utopia to find after all, not displeasure’s ease, nor passions paid as ’twere imagined but instead, the very same disparaged self as departed first. And discovering too late, how little of anything a relocation actually better makes, can exhaust finally the enduring truant into a sullen pause; whose great peace and stability has been always tied to commotive mobility, which when seized, puts solidarity to dismantlement, upon stood an identity now thoroughly reaped.
I have witnessed, slump ye suffered, stunned into an unexcitable stare for days, sometimes many weeks when, were it not for a wounded intellect would you have the vigour to rejoice on the sun-loved promenade you have missed for so long.

Ah, it swells an effect ample and dear, the plainest sense, the simplest brand of travel to me. Quiets and readies unlike any, and retains the while whom cooperates knows, a present levity withal.

I’ve seen too some things; wondrously unexplainable things;

I have nameless shores breached,
Span of a thousand chasms leaped
Of skies edge within fractions reached,
and sun, so much golden overcome heaped.

These subtleties, actualities of magic are, and it cannot past pitch of belief be, that it were an investment somewhere I am maintained so as to see; as they are and not as I would them be. I am glad, a whole and reticent gladness that I scaled yonder hem where once, it seemed for the fog there was nothing left to discover after. And I wish, with all of me that bears any particle of capacity for wishing; would rise, whomever it is within thy ownership the skill of crafting miracles, — whom holds the tools for spinning wild invocations into chemical matter and form, that embellish the sphere on which we make our wander-some way;

Wield thy artistry, is my request.

Let them see.

Eke out thy lights last, ye guiding beacon to oceans lost; reviver of memories done, deliver most necessarily now. We take up the pace and order in our heads, and are many scrambling, yet from hereafter high vistas I have seen, there is room at the end, — as well soundest recess. Though each their own speed and line adopt we all arrive eventually the same beach that greets all the tides and seas of our lifetime.
Yield the map, and fix no plan to the ripening. Oft where no path goes, the way bestows, and by ways rough bolstered are the better attributes of human nature. Beware some safety, that it blocks the impressions and perils that advise we are weakest where we hold to our strengths. Be trained in transition; for spontaneity prepare, and with these qualities the human experience cannot but pour reward. Go then into the world. Go where a different Sun rains on a scenery you never could conceive. Where smiles in vain are brighter than yours, because there indeed are places where people with far less than you or I, would not for anything that can we offer trade places. Invite the ruin of verity. Be cleft, and decimated utterly, and when you can be tipped out no further, turn around and start over. Another pass will unfurl a new world still. How appealing then, would seem the coastline of your Ithaca. After its dazzling Shoal-breaks negotiating, delighting in the first touch of sand at your feet, — how it blends the mud we bring.

Do you see wanderer? Everything comes round. We travel wide in circles, going ever nowhere but home again.

However I entreat the conversation and positively take part, frequently I go away from it with less enthusiasm to ration for intercourse along the trail than before. I don’t much understand the prevalent manner of excursion, nor can I relate with whom espouse the mode, seems stale and cowardly wanton to me. While Nature fair is renewal and simplicity, and man is kin to Nature, so am I these things, or trying, therefore providing well for my family, as provides for me.

So long as you do not interfere will they come, the rightful thoughts you should be having. That might have gone ahead in dreamy reconnaissance, and from them urged must create than rather be escaped, the new and uncomfortable world as celestial currents foretells. To my surprise just as my study to people were drawn away from the hills, so did I direct my first walk today to the town and its inhabitants I first hoped to avoid, where I found immediately, archetypes of the kindly traveller-being I should like to become, thriving, where I was expecting if any, few. As cheerfully destitute and mingling by compare as to show mine a quest lavish and conceited, and that I had not barely begun to frivol away the details that hold a man back from an honestly civilised life.

What is a traveler without some discrimination to be washed of after all?

Afternoon – Few are the days remaining the sun and I will each other salute from our points. Every breath dares curfew, blowing past the lips like do children from the porch laughing into the prairie twilight. Regrettably, we young begin collecting reasonableness and going indoors at the setting of sun, resigned early and fearful of the fates. I am persuaded that, the moment in my boyhood when I walked away from my friends in the garden and quit being surprised by treasures unearthed in Summer dirt, did I permit the gradual deterioration of a certain and necessary joy, and paid severely for the privilege of true impoverishment. In adolescence, my hopes were societal, far out of proportion to either’s reparation, and at 31 they are the hills to which I retreat and commune with solitude, gathering health where no society dwells, and redeeming innocence in wildness.

O I must where I will and my intuition tells me, make haste thither. There can be little of consequence where I stake my peace now, but verily awaits a grave result whom does not heed his deeper call, rippling small erasure the world over beginning with his own.

All the principle materials that interlace the fabric of exquisite days are accomplished presently, and eternally. The treetops, elated and fussing observed first, a marvellous stirring descended. In all things a dilating intrigue penetrated. My rivers hummed with its felicity, the chorus of ancient tides returning. Pines and Cedars bend in wise homage, much as avidly the green-apple shoots and blades at their base rave and flutter, like excited streamers in a hurricane. A rolling rumour of a wild arousal moves across the land, as touches blessing; a sunk religious recognition swelling underfoot. The deeper this sweet Nirvana allows mine infringe, growing in confidence and open a wellbeing everlasting springs. Tremendous spiritual values were evidently at gamble.

Abashed of the richness, I wanted briefly a harbour from it and so, into a pocket stole, — foliated thick with bristling flags of jade, a portal beheld, to a strange dimension of dusty venation winding skyward to the measured centre of New Zealand. Probing the design of this protected underbelly, where, though few lances of sun beam insert that reach the floor, — subsists a subtle and flourished unity, though separate seeming from the outer state, as unsparing its own sense of glee for living, or relevance to the Whole. When most you think yourself absorbed to amends for the testimony, having accrued ample curious blisses; peels back the roof, shade recedes at once and explodes the sky with sunshine and effulgence suffuse as astounds the blinking eye.

And how gloriously uncomplicated is living!

I saw the day stretch far into a living light, and I fell, optimistic into a long ease, setting my cares upon a cloud, and reclining in the grass to watch them drift serene along the choir of pacific zephyrs. The air is mild as any I have breathed. A blazing gold ignites the miles many distant of crowding highlands refreshingly green as will fantasy conjure, and furrows looping that vanish under valleys bear a remarkably magnetic configuration of sound and colour diverse and piercing as keeps the plenty pilgrim curved in contemplations who enter.

My faith, I place in the well-aimed potency of humankind, therefore Nature. A universal advantage realised, when the individual acquires an understanding of their own logical intuitions, untroubled of desire and opinion, and makes it an  enduring function, to carry out that responsibility of adherence, for the crescent of one’s life. I soar within evidenced constraints, in which have I a salvation, and enough for life on Earth. In spite of this, I saw a bother of sorts today, the explanation thereof, situate in domains exceeding my interpretative reach. From a straw pile I removed an ashen cast stone glaringly contrast, approximately palm sized. Heaving it mightily into an ambit under spell of brash impulse, I marked its imperial ascension unto the orbits whither angels tread, to abruptly melt from sight and be escaped of this world, into another. I could fix no location to its descent against the azure, or detect the slightest decibel of audible evidence of impact. It was certain irregularity, and I stood a moment mystified hosting and dismissing a number of humorous justifications within the timeframe of a blink. I was too immersed still in a gentle sedation by exhaustive contentment and volumes of mending mountain air, to traverse the labyrinth of clarity’s grail. There is to be found as well, recall, a wealth of lucidity, in not needing to know some things.
The most preferred of my inspirited erroneous conclusions, opposed to putting my mood to solemnity, retained me awhile in a storm-less verve; imagining it was my much missed friend, hid in the perennial shade of his mortal due, had a divine hand in the stones eclipse, reaching out remote of his bounds for that prohibited prize, as he was wont to do and surely would, if were he still. Defiant and impressive as a day break star, and equitably short-lived as only one falls.
When at myself a loss, and ventured after the fringe of an interval into the quiet grove of idle reverie, I sometimes visit with thee, in the dale of memories past. My approach at times hesitated, examining his mood in secret by cloak of Evergreen, suspecting out of his eye a moments hint of distress. Relief, lo! I am confessed, and it flees, where sadness goes when friends convene; or I was not so well concealed as I thought, I never know. For he greets me always convivial, my friend, loathed that I should ever leave uncheered.

There are conditions and occurrences that won’t wishing repair, or mountains mend. At times neither will the hills return, or skies give back, and faithless is he who interprets anything but perfection, from the chaos of natural ordinance.

Inventing and misperceiving coincidence… perchance merely I was looking the other way; missed frequent, looking for something sensational.

The insight we need, is but wrest from time and labour exchanged, and rarely at an age or mood of our choosing. It is ever biding the seasons circuit in the high ridges your toiled return. Wherein thy callow exuberance from the swale saw mockery in the shadow of great spires, climb thee now, unsupported and intent on prudent resource, and a part in the sun. When you will appear at last, bearing face to the heavens, a firm step and tried constitution, and the dependable properties as one fit to be called a good man resolved to service, will it then acquaint thee; an outlook revering, and to be revered.

I took my departure from the woods, along the way luxuriating in the little enchantments of Maitai’s animated riverbanks towards the street of Nile, which name I liked very much. Fine wisps of cloud fanned precisely from a pivot after this realm, and smeared into arcs with the roll of Earth. With happy sighs did cordial winds still comb, and dressed the spritely daydream, a coronal glow. Timber tops remarked the electricity in softened theatrics, teasing out light in shards, and I became conscious here hangs year-round, a vivid chemistry of Spring-like energy. No cricket or bird withheld its song, and if it did it was absent from this place, where Daffodils and dust rain horizontally and gleaming in the sun, collect on the roadside like frost and cotton. Thinking to the these parachuting wishes wasted, I passing observed a black stone, obvious as charcoal in the snow, that concerted in appearances of that I had earlier lost. But for eyelids fallen heavy with sleep-lust, had I sense to entertain imagination further, I might have believed about it some fanciful things.

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Nelson, New Zealand 2013

Nelson, New Zealand 2013

117: A day like any other

A shower broke overnight and has left a blanket of beaded gleam and Yellow Ginger flower across the face of things we used to sit on. The air, a capricious haze of coasting spray, adrift of fountains heavenly, carries along its light essence a most cleanly and gratifying fragrance as sinks the worries into a whelming and delicate evanesce.
Wonder may one what far off golden and glorious estate whence this lavish lees springs, – but all the reachable world at our toe tips is an open and bounteous garden in which to plunge the care riddled senses.

And how like me to receive this lap of blessings today, that with Her focused crayon signature, Nature in coy and animated loveliness offers.

How expensive the wisdom bejewels the merest events in our lives.

Who over my rudders reigns, I have gratitude for in spades, for where I think I am going appears a rather worthy destination, and would assuredly not, but for how I came; and he whom from the clay knot, by labours edge carved will be; may just be shaped in likeness of a decent fellow.

Looking on the world with travellers eyes (1), my dear aims sheer and impossibility befalls a frightful share, but soon after I’m glad, subsides. I have had some rehearsal through the years, cultivating the habit of disagreement, – believing in amazing things that seem encouragements to avoid, have no reasonable fitting place in possibilities orbit. There is not for much of my spent light I can relay with clearness and ongoing validity, but since I began calling more often on that little ember of wonderment, – flickers desperate in the recesses, giving it strength day by day, I’ll tell you, and for certain this; that though we can not disagree many may devastations approach us along the way; though we can not disagree, heavy is the task and long the course to bear it, that will most come to bear alone throughout, – and they carry best in solitude who will often sad and fearful prove; though we can not disagree, after all that, a great and final defeat lies waiting, and without repent will close all things forever, to end the story will few ever read. Yet for this plentiful and miserly lack, still, my friend disagree we MUST, and by the pale lamplight of unfettered and seeming illogical denial, try; through every single unthinkable step in our going, by our own hearts and whole, unaided of any or star, else perish in place, cold and mourning.

“…and what will you do for your birthday, it is raining out?” So enquired The American Girl.
“But see, I mean to let it rain,” I began. “I will watch it here awhile. I may also read a little, release my chaffing curiosities into the sky, to soar whither and perch on what they will. But certainly no more than that. It will be a day like any other, spent with love, in lovely things. Could what be more estimable?”

Somehow an invisible hook into place had glided all the during I spoke, and heaving lifted carefully, achingly supple lip flesh, – those sweet borders, desires plum and rest, through ye passed the most alluring discourse tonight, – into a precisely disarming smile, and that same meticulous breath, broke one rampant star of its cluster, exploding into the sky of her galaxy eyes. Leaning in utterly, American girl doused me in a terrible and instantaneous scare, breaching irreverently a long prepared order for such charmed address, then at last ashamed of my inflexibility, and feebly inauthentic in this pleasant and crystal souls luminous presence who sees no peril in the wings and acts on all her hearts ideas, bearing only the finest of rarefied human qualities, I have never seen folded as neat nor slipped into so cordial and inviting a form. Longing to bury myself in her warmth and snowing berry scent, shaken fresh with the stir of hands sliding softly forward to me, over her brown able thighs and hitch suddenly the smothering seduction at the shimmering smooth knee-surface, in lip biting coolness, palpably craved.

“I feared at first, your course impression,” with a fingers faint whisper along the surface of my bare, densely illustrated arm, overjoyed follicles and nerves to alien tenderness quicken. “But you smile like a sunlight through the tree tops, and the rain goes away.”

Abruptly a chasm in Nature.

Before this, I was busy minding my own life, when The Savagely Beautiful South American Girl locked tight my attention, perhaps by caring cruelly so little for any. A hair-trigger ensnarement of my faculties at first sight and sweet native note rolled from her dainty pink aerialist tongue, an ease and lean limbed finesse of lustful sorcery, reserved for fables endured of men formerly stoutly in content fallen to an amorous lot, still looking up on impact. Such a cleverly slender, fascination crafted here, flush of luxuriously chaste auburn silk immaculately curved to cleaving leopard eyes, far away escaped pitch of black with pearl of homely hazel swirls, into fall all secrets.
Invisible aisles glided with gazzelle-acuity, poised and wild, sofa bound flurried elegance, behold eyes a dancers apparition, graces the Earth but touches never, – choir of capable contours in fluid going and whirling awe of jet mane with backhand bright green tips brushing a waist for comfortable careful hands and being held high within, but this one her own bounds leaps, uncatchable.

I did however once corral a look, and the victory of it was so profound and terrifying I knew not with it what to do, – that consciously ambling while with, had lost the physical clutch, to the journal apparent in which, no doubts abound, that written about me, much less is penned than of thee, in mine.

I was managing my distresses and arriving begrudgingly at the rightful conclusions, when for the first time appeared The American Girl; sat herself in front of me, convivial and strong, pouring immediately sheen and convalesce. When she left, pulled me close and held as tightly as would embed deeper all the protective gems of well wishing were room enough to leave in the soil of me, for safe carriage all the rest of my days. I don’t recall being ever embraced so thoroughly fondly, and sunk aggressively into her precious tear salted nape my fervor warmed cheek, loving thoughts folded perfectly and hidden under the earlobe, like secrets you couldn’t say, naked in letters to read later, the long sad reminiscing ride home.

I held her hard, burying back in private, some of those gems she could not afford to give but gave darling the same. Dizzying scene, and perfume of skin zest and Summer mountain dirt whence I should have been, where vistas make angels eye lashes cease to flicker that now flutter against my brow, and crashing hips manoeuvre for closer grooves alerting early chemistries, teaming wanting tendencies. I invented thus a jest flew like a cool stream in the tropical heat, so she bellowed a laugh, sounded of a smile dancing like no somenabitch anywhere was watching, but startled heaven did look and sighed ’twere not so nice up there.

It turns out I like the people down here sometimes after all, and carry dear in my chest, a satchel of keepsake kisses with me throughout the world. Hitchhiker farewells are the worst, the warmest, and sincerest, making more temperate the cold hello of regular folk.

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