Danny James

Tag: rain

525: Flow

Present and open, the exquisite machinery of the experience.
Suspending judgements, all out roads merge inward.
Face turned to the sensory rain.
Wide eyes and soul agape

Flow.

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The span, it provokes as ever. Calls you onward, inward.

O presence and depth, unhesitant further.

Enthral the skin
Drench the mind in peace,
the soul in Ecstasy.

498: The inextinguishable

You are the inextinguishable sun. And it will rain no doubt, and for your magnificent shine that it has weakened may you weep. See your gift is not diminished but altered and evolves a rainbow.

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For a little over a month now Sydney has been swept by an habitual storm fall every Sunday, preferring its visits late in the afternoon. It’s as though the skies have been pent-up all week and delight, as we all do to finally let go. It is always the same; a short stay, a passing temper, worse in appearance than in conduct with a rather benign, even pleasant refreshing Summer afternoon quality. From the heights of my apartment have I full view of oceans from Bondi to Coogee and beyond and the contrasting sections of sky have been quite an inspiration for pause. One half still azure and awash with subtle sunlight, the other overshadowed by a crawl of dark and bulbous smoke that with each meeting so far has prevailed the initial contact but tires quick and disperses having spent itself. It might have made a fine occasion for reading had I energy to surrender at the opportunity. Still there was much in the sky to rest my attention on; the rain fell harder and straighter than previous expulsions, every drop seemingly in parallel direction and equal haste. Then it was gone and all things settled as though rain had not fallen and no agitation had occurred at all.

From Bondi, over Clovelly

From Bondi, over Clovelly

385: Sally in the Winter

I was discovering the advantages and obstacles of increased perception. From posting my meditations high above instead of among the boulevards of twisted metal and scrap industry dreams of the old coughing steel-city. A town that flirts with change like single romantics who give twice as little as consume, and so edge forward in a lonely aching ever-standstill. I can mark back to the long beginning of a great confusion of my making here. As mice and gulls would, by virtue of differing experiences of the same broken suburbia and beyond, entertain dissimilar impressions thereof. I had now a wider measure of insight to inform my decision-making, as well the sobering gravity of a lost illiteracy and a rain of new extravagance could nobody entirely drink.

Save the glassy reflection of headlights on busy wet roads, August nights as I recall, until Winters twilight offered no surprise or bother to the routine of living and my uncontemplated place in life. Gone are those days could never I have fathomed I’d miss, before that intersection of youth and a convinced-of adulthood where the Earths rolling seems to be gathering momentum and increasingly necessary thus are the sunrises you do not heed. When it’s decided that you’ve seen plenty and are utterly bored, but are not of experience enough to realise that this boredom is perhaps the peace of mind you will never again know, and bears an ignorance that once lit soon will burn habitually for years many more. So get on with it then.

The restaurant is in the peak of Friday night flurry, and I am where I most enjoy anything, sunk in the thickest of it. Up to my chin in the dilating depths of joyful letting go, wading and melting seamlessly shoulder to shoulder with whom has needs I must foresee, and craft around them quietly the next ease before the realisation steals upon them they were ever discomforts mark. An environment manager; a scene setting, helmsman of an evenings spectacle of sensory impressions. Outside, the rain drifts across like snow and pretty as it is, I have succeeded not if it withdraws them instead but dial it I must, the pitch and tone of wonderment enough to complement and not entirely distract from the reality which for them I am sewing as I envision it suits any instant in the ongoing connection thereof. A fantastical experience of perfectly woven sensation and meaning. Memory making and humdrum forgetting, – a spin and whirl of hours in an instant drawn, because outside of here will come soon enough and I am keeping the gates of this realm, against which fall away for a few hours all of your otherworldly misgivings, where may you sit unscathed to entertain the simple pleasures of free conversation and marry that with fine soundings and perfect relations. The underbelly network of this warped exposure is a melee of strings, smoke and mirrors stressed, beguiling, bending, and at any moment, threatened to fall apart. To heighten the tension it is turnover time and section heads here must hold as much professional repose-fullness as ever you’ll find to gracefully precisely deceive and flatter, as well tighten the hinges that keep us all together strained which buckling, might see this ship of fools topple over with a gasp and spilling out into the night and cold water over which we are situated. And I am there among it all, hidden in plain sight as intended, keeping order and overseeing the processing of my section unseen and imperturbable, all the while unescaped of her piercing eyes fixed on my every move. The watcher watched, I was done for; fated prey of her sweetest yearnings stewing patiently beneath the noise, and I wasn’t at all to know.

373

Once in a while expose your bones to cold weather, and take with a break-away suddenness, a walk into the Winter morning to exhilarate your torpid nerves before you perpend yourself out of the experience. Let lead for once the thrill of sensation. The speed of touch and affect over bracing. Bracing means a gap of preparations, and I am calling for an instance free of the constructions and mental entanglements we’ve spun to hold on and make it through what’s yet to arrive and may never, and so make it rather difficult to just. Let. Go.
And exist. Right where you are, as you are and not between points or making ground. Connected and attuned. We’re too oft in our heads and not enough in the pulse. We read terrain and trajectory of obstacles like puddles and misremember the lawless joy of our childhoods when kicking Autumn leaves and standing in the grass with no shoes on our feet was as natural as smiling, and we’ve forgotten too; that smiling can in fact precede the feeling it represents.

I went out so this morning near as blank and perfect as when I was born, as the last of the blue-dark sky paled and revealed to me a restlessness in the horizon toward which I went unguarded and presenting the senses bare to the rush of impressions all. You forget, how an Arctic air can quicken the spirits, and silence the mind. You forget.

It helps if there is little sun, or none to spoil the honest intimacy with its bursts of cosy cheerfulness, but above all, be absorbed, and let that be all then. Depart from your schedule with zeal into an engagement with your surroundings and open entirely to the emotional resonance with which the Universe reaches you. Receive the scene and its vastness for what it is. Embrace the rain of innervation. Permit the air to bite your lungs and tighten your flesh. Your muscles to contract and shudder, and to shake your speculating loose of taking root. A keen awareness will awaken, dilate, and throb in you, coursing your halls, weaving and electrifying, threading you back into a supernal fold, to which you belong. You are an organic being. Not simply the sum of the things that you’ve done, will do or concentrate on. It is not so much what you feel that counts, but what you think about how you feel, when you do.

364: March

By a failure in the middle or some componential devastation, the chords precisely though struck, warp their resonation in vague and sombre swerves and lovely arcs unreliable like a firework and paint your face with flame licked fascination! And she dances still, unperturbed. In happy chains, O graceful prisoner in a dateless sentence, tied in tones which loop and sway hypnotistic imperfections ascending a strange marvellousness and an imperial insight into the world like a dream the world needs and cannot enter but by consent of celestial law. By energies grim and secret, pruning patterns as would instruct by disaster. What wasn’t expected or supposed to but had to happen. The heavens know not else but to rain down relief on the rest, for unique and outrageous though, – by crashes shaped and of leftovers put together, can no dark thus in Her reside. There is no limp in Her song like would Her bent pirouette depict, but survived She dances on and on an entirety of sewn misshapen fragments out of an order broken. Of love and stitches, and smiles mightier than tears. No scathing, no catastrophes. A knotting of lost opposites flourished in bind. Orphanage of a thriven. O colourful distortion, perfect disharmony, a stamina in fault is found, beautiful accidents meant to be.

Music BoX Ballerina

music box Broken ballerina

music box dancer

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

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Even if one cannot interpret the worthwhile qualities inherent in wet weather, it is still a good rain nonetheless, that reminds of the more companionable and traversable moods of the elements, and heightens the gladness when visited by once more. Nature bestows that one prepares for, and can thus be found in all Her temperaments an appreciation and value, if one looks.

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