Danny James

Tag: Patagonia

389: To the light

A man enters a valley such as this, and at last he is quiet. All of his grandeur immediately and rightly disperses into nothingness. A most natural and healthy state is surely quickened to the light.

Patagonia, 2013 - 2014

Patagonia, 2013 – 2014

348: Patagonia part 5

We were lucky with the weather, as fine days seemed to follow us mostly everywhere we went. Though it was the middle of Summer, the temperatures were as high as 30 to mid 30’s in Santiago, then dropped to around 4 deg Celsius I think, in Ushuaia. The wind could be quite fierce at times and meeting up with rain, it made for very unpleasant trekking conditions. Lots and lots of layers needed sometimes and it was always difficult to predict, changing from one moment to the next. It really is a very special place, and probably one of the better things I have experienced in my life so far.

Patagonia, 2013 - 2014

Patagonia, 2013 – 2014

346: Clashing of aims and atoms

To the mind grateful and content, what is ordinary far exceeds the sensational in radiance and sincerity. The smallest things can catalyse the pivot towards a circuitry of events, a clashing of aims and atoms exciting monumental and irreparable change, flung out across the stars by a mere blink, a breath, and just being.

Grass in Patagonia somewhere, 2013 - 2014

Grass in Patagonia somewhere, 2013 – 2014

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

136: Babel

Two days home, and events are still very much impressing though they have ended. It will be some time until they settle, and stay enough to sort. What seems longest gone is the present in passing, woven with melancholic hints that dissipate only with it and are absent in recollections of the experience. Those moments missed the most are as they leave, for it cannot injure that has surely gone like it does happening where spins the hope of length and only the threat of a loss. This Summers turn seems soon like it never happened; the seasons warmth has already become unfamiliar, and the glaciers hard to picture now. How does one make mindful and ethical progress in the world, without a certain rational detachment?

135: Informed, adapt

On this first day of regular training since returning from abroad, has my poor body confessed the reach of fatigues ascendency; much lighter, and feeling weaker in every regard; an overall poorer case than I have been for some length, for seem all qualities diminished of their former vigour. Sleep has been troubled; steps are lead and my appetite low: I fear I may have incurred a protective reduced rate of metabolic processes. But, fear? What fear at this? The physic is in alarm, and but doing the work of preservation, that I have been rough with the vessel and largely unable of supporting to the best its holy business. Think to be thankful of it, that without thought, parts adjusts to aid though regrettable the direness that initiates thus. In truth, a recess was necessary from training rigours. Prior to the excursion, I had toiled intelligently for many months and relished the reaping, with a cool detachment from the outcomes, and taking a sincere and quiescent pleasure in the process. It was the perfect cognitive position for incubating change and growth, conformable to the more Natural but rarely ventured for crests and corners of human possibility. I thereby attained for this recreative assertion, if I may say with stiffened modesty, perhaps the deepest set and highest level of strength and conditioning than I have ever before enjoyed.
And this transferred well, with small spillover of polished improvement, to many other sides of the health prism: enhanced clarity of thought; temperance of emotional impulse; endurance, indifference, and an ever sustained stratum of high preparedness. To my very soul I felt a winged Olympian, well fed and strong and above all, with a directing mind bent to the wider affairs beyond the corporeal. It is hard to imagine that efficacy now, but it is not unraisable again.

Peppering of remorseful vanity this while threatened, by risking over clearness of reason to indulge the murky sympathies. Where is your self compassion now? Have you forgotten your earlier steel lamenting that which is not lost but merely away, and within your power to draw close again? Are you not more? Fair, you could not expect such intensity of bodily toll for fending so coarsely; sleeping as near to the earth and unguarded against the wildest moods of the elements; climbing and trekking entire daytimes short on food. To maintain here an elevated degree of fitness, such as thrives unindicted at home? No. Besides, what use of it? Indeed as earlier remembered, its development is an end in itself, and one aspect for that. If the Nature of our exercise must be appropriate to a predicted environment, then were not these volatile wildernesses such a court, for a trashing argument of your readiness? Was this also not an opportunity for expression of your designs resiliency? Did you have fun?

You do give up portions when you take to such trails, as having thee, the wilds too, yield its own. That is the health; informed, adapt. To assemble for, and receive all things and events; know them for what they are, and act accordingly; with acceptance and stability. All of life sure is a preparing, and some personal new knowledge has throughout been gained I am confident after all; others views have straight been replaced, and been risen by displacement have other tides within the human compartments. Chiefly important withal, have I found something residing there always in charge amid the changes… lividly individual, refusing, observing. Something quite indomitable.

130: Patagonia part 2

Dec 14 ’13
Comodoro Arturo Merino Benítez International Airport

Greeting Customs officials at Santiago, for their lot in robust manner and expression of disinterestedness, were not found to be so rigorously adherent to formality as promised, and instead the affair of entry proved a quicker, less intrusive experience than had rumour forebode. Although perspiring barely shy of comforts tether, it was an unblemished tone of indifference toward all things external, which met new arrivals in a masterly effect of silent pillar resembling, by the stoical saints of Chile’s border. For this immediate ferocity deficit, found trepidity pent a double expediency from my chest, as the actual docility of the event fell over the scene, bleaching out angst of the unrecognisable.
The funneling slowed, and thus pressing shoulder to shoulder with fellow cargo, the air thickened abruptly, already dense with warmth and wilt. Bon Iver, who I’d rediscovered on my flight home from New Zealand less than a week ago, incrementally swelled into the earpiece, the partner of which removed so as to hear the beckon that I could not translate by the gargoyle perched in a cubicle. Even if perhaps more suited to the sauntering landscape, his songs, in me are salient union of mellow commove and swirls of homesick reverie alluring best to the vagabond nature, who, content in his mortality observes thusly all things in its own transitory. Whose mind gathers flung and obscured peculiarities wherever, thriving but in present mirth and unable to further interpret. Who socialises terrifically with hopeless strangers on hostel rooftops, and who requires such melancholic melodic sedatives to better enjoy his gaps at home, and there recover at whim his travels forages in lonely reminisce.
At last a strange place to lose myself in. To drown that plain life of old in new and exhilarating threats, that seed wider awareness and deeper character, effacing in bloom the former judgements thereof. Time hereupon will be gloriously stretched and occupied with what role, or repose and rapture as fits any moment in its duration bathed. This is where an education can begin; in such exams as making it out of an airport with what I have, in territories unknown and alone. And suddenly all that I do not know is rushing upon me, yet knowing well that at the other end will I be, though exhausted to enthusiasms end grain, better of myself informed if nothing else.
Digestion of the line ahead suddenly frees me from a daydream stare, and with a splayed vista now to my advantage, I take in the percussive heat smouldering off the windows, through which offered a glimpse of the grand Andes I came to marvel, as they held an antiquated prominence, faded behind halation of humidity and blighted air.

There was nothing bothersome in driving around in colures and figure-eights, searching for my hostel that was not located where my map had indicated. Sifting the similarities to other South American suburbs I’d visited kept me busy in absorptive differentiating, collecting and reading over individual traits dispersed in the streets as we passed. There was however, at least from what I could gather but twenty minutes into the crammed activity of the centre, more in concordance than not. Such like grimed cobblestone stone roads banking into broken gutters, simple and unaccoutred housing alternating between modern designs of glass and steel, and bared faced neo-classicistic dilapidation. Graffitied stores with failed coca-cola signs, barred windows to keep secure the spoiled produce spilling over another night; thick power line cables hanging low over bustling mercados, and the unmistakable concert of blaring car horns and Latino-salsa-pop building and paling over again. Then there was the agitating torridity, bearing down in waves of unrelenting swelter, hanging layers of smother over confinement, against which the little air-conditioner could make no assertion.
The taxi driver knew as much English as I spanish, and made every sincere attempt to alight me to my desired harbour, stopping frequently to enquire with other drivers and passers-by as to our place in relation to the destination that nobody seemed to know of, or have ever heard about. Since he and I could only communicate polite trivialities, celebrating near lucky breaks and let-downs by reactive expression, it was a sure merriment of errors, majority of which glaringly mine that I was not so well prepared.
But then, O such is what enjoyment breeds. When the pear falls ripe to your feet before its due picking. You never savour the fruit as much when surprised with it. When much of our lives, and what is commonly fundamental to getting a living, requires routine. There may even be some daring left in thee heart, and an oversight thusly would prove it, wonderfully. There is never fear, come will the worst far from home and friends dear, but instead an everlasting trust in the retributions of the Universe.
My kindly coachman had while assuring profusely once more that we were upon the heels of success, exited the vehicle to accost some friendly English-speaking locals to my window. Travellers too, they were; confidently jovial as only unwashed, nowhere and no one to be, go-a bouts are. They smiled quietly and from the heart. Still my plight was not amusing to them, and I appreciated it, regaining quickly my foothold on whatever of my hopes had wavered, even if unknowingly at first the new energy was not outwardly visible. But fortune fled again, it was not to be. My friends could not aid in the matter, and exhibited a critical woebegone attrition of the fact realised. Myself, I exhaled deeply clandestinely, growing in private deflation, or so had thought a sufficient secrecy. Yet how this was ostensibly clear I do not know, and wonder how it is that I am at times immediately aware of the external reflexive physical testimony manifest of poorer emotional states, and yet bridle the better. In truthful hindsight, my automated response was more a symptom of tiredness than frustration, though perhaps my angels would know it not.
One his halo tipped and appealed honestly tenderly, ”welcome to chile,” and with it, were they dissolved into the same thin air from which they first appeared, – traces of good-will contagion lingering as dust in the atmosphere after, like a jest you’ll understand in time. Wracked, with candid shame, suddenly a review of the soul discovers, that I did not address my divine interveners respectfully as appropriate. Did I to this place, from a glad and luxurious life with me brave bring a frown here? What a nerve, amid such health and wealth of opportunity!

When finally arrived at the Happy House Hostel, on Moneda Street in Santiago’s downtown area, the largeness of it I found unique of what I have hitherto been practiced of in shared accommodation. Resembling rather a settlement period school-for-the-arts, with the impatient glare of an aged European administrative locale, rigidly functional and obscured thusly of its distinctness, enjoining directly to the adjacent building with hardly conspicuous divisions betwixt. Were it not for a small sign on the doors impressed into a cavity, the Happy House may have sat unnoticed. The room allocated, first on the right with double doors was a grand and spacious one, dressed in suitably vintage attire. As high as wide, and unnecessarily wide and Epicurean slanted rather, for a single person of an attempting Epictetian uprightness. One very large and inviting bed, two smaller opposite, I am unsure of the sizes. Numerous cupboards and drawers of ample carriage for an armies store, a writing-table hemmed by two cushion embroidered chairs, – that I liked quickly very much; several window rests under arched floor to nigh-ceiling windows with fold-shutter eyelids and dark heavy drapes to choke out surviving light. Plenty there was but nothing new, which was consoling somewhat. Came further appease upon entering the connected washroom, which displayed to me the precise amount of lack of contemporary embellishment, and a below basal efficacy I can be grateful for. With the shades sealed and bed-lamp struck, the room fell into an auburn shroud with sporadic tints of tawny refraction and hidden summer heartache; resembling where might an outlaw take pause in concealment until a dash to the border presents a worthwhile chance at a last hope in heaven. Perfect too, imagination supposed, for the addled poet with a penchant for the privacy of cancelled daylight, who can immerse the hours with but the wondrous outflows of his divine substance, and yet be not only preserved, but risen to a health past ordinary bounds.
I would need to make do, with my undramatic and beautiful life as it is, here on the ground.

I sprawled a city map across the coffee table possessing the rooms midmost, in mock scrutiny and listless concern for the trajectory of my impending walk. I panned above myself, withdrawing up in a circular figure receding, a gazing ghost portending the ebb and flow of the undertow, looking over somebody still very much alive and unsure of it. Taking the tide, I headed out-of-doors and right, walking around the block at first, then expanded my perimeter in proportion to my knowledge of the Brasil neighbourhood and beyond. Marked my points of interest passing through, attained my bearings and positional interests until lay the night its blanket and I made for home looking up through gleaming holes in its fabric. Preceding our fair suns collapse, of the first and dearer things I strolling saw against the burning metropolis form was a convene of young lovers two. In front of a ruined cathedral they embraced, happy passed of partings grim sentence, stealing in a braid down avenues I would not go, with none but a rose pressed between them, and every share of Elysium inside.

Needing repairs I lapsed at last into bed awaiting sweet slumbers progress, that soft rejuvenate of Nature, to close my eyes and submerge the consciousness softly into a far away lull of sympathetic vacancy. Came instead an absurd and separating anguish, descended and saturating a despair that could comfortably neither mirth nor calm budding penetrate. My poor eyes stayed open, of an end their watch deprived by the stirrings of my mind. I knew however it could not last, having been pressed this way before. The discomfort would not deeply permeate, nor invest root in the soul, – it was merely the quickness of the days rich experiences. An overbearing flood of new sensory delights, in the multitudes, every nerve moved to unfathomable rapture. The sounds, the images and impressions all swiftly, gloriously at once with momentous gravity outpacing perception processing. You can only let it rain so, when it does; be settled amid, allow the fall and observe the commotion come to rest; for reason to metabolize the information and form the proper judgements, so the soul can transcend its lamentations, and find again its peace.

The Happy House Hostel, Santiago Chile, 2013

The Happy House Hostel, Santiago Chile, 2013

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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.

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