Danny James

Tag: Summer

461: Quiet days in Bondi

What of the year’s Summer? The evenings bear an Wintery air. A chill has endured for now a week and quickened us to a fresh esteem for its qualities. Delicious-to-the-eye band of Cumulus appear to sit than rather pass in quietude. Fuller, yet more dazzling and eloquent on their own, in the Suns departure.

403: Banks and Angels

You were cautious this time to restrain the hearts heat and slow the imaginations hurry to dilate the moment o the hearts insisting, but lo; how you were shaken of your plans when strolled thee into your life unapologetically strong and glowing against the evenings lights. But for many-a-days with thoughts spent swelling the past, when enters an angel expressing interest in going with you a-ways promising at last a life serene would you have found far nearer than had forever implied, the haven of your days. How we struggle to receive what we have not practice in giving and despair at the injuries in our Nature, contracting afraid against that loveliness before us we suffer most to behold.

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

376: Wonderfully optimistic man

And he took his torment with a calm of one in maturity and well versed in the stirrings of the heart and human behaviour. Else what could he do, but what he could do? Which he was discovering only as he did. The heaviness of heart when it comes to mind too late, that it has all settled into place and some of the pieces are lost. And so would you never know to come across his path, that glowed subtly like a Summer afternoon, a kind of washed milky glow like a smile withheld but radiating from the heart, that all he wanted was for her words to fill his space again, and her eyes to find him so that he could melt into their orbit and stay there adrift and free, but never again, O lost. The object of his affection and duty was gone and he could not find her. His connection removed, deleted, though remains the circuitry, he fumbled the new reality. Wandered without aim the weary watchmen with no guard to keep and habits of service still strong in him, lacerating each time with the bitterness of their precision. Trudging forward, broken and decommissioned, by old emotions and automation haunted. A wreckage convulsing to the streams of recollective bites and static of memory. Some days worse. And though limped his soul, charged and recoiled in reflex of binary opposing instincts, survived in him still a restless vigour quietly pressing on, devoted as ever to the faith that each hurt is somehow a gain accumulating, and a needed provision for enduring the road few endure, toward mastery. He Went about his day, sacredly and silently, human and whole as could. Made his bed, did well his work. Adopted new routine, and perfected the humdrum attention to details that would add-up. Not to distract but to cultivate a reaquaintence with the things that were truly his, and the habit of durability. A certain authority develops recognising thus what can one control, taking all else with a contemplative distance, and so this way, he managed to salvage his days. Went home to his chamber each night, concentrating his thanksgiving into the sky, stifling who he was before and burying his grief deep into the soil of memory, than rather cast it off to winds of past. He would keep it, always, and would use it in methods of reminder and lesson, uncommon to the defeatist who go nowhere, value nothing good and complain that providence hath not with progress their luxuriousness of inaction graced. And he knew through it all, what survivors know best; that when descends hardship, or fortune rains favour: no grief is final, no joy is everlasting and are both at times satisfying and intolerable and entirely manifest of the mind. Only patience builds the strength, by difficulty and effort revealed. He was getting back day by day, who he might become and it would take as long as it takes.

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

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?

90

My housemate returned last evening from a wandering abroad, whose soothed expression of renewed prosperity has recalled my own souls fondness and suitability for the trekking life that has survived the nights dilution. Thus I am riding a gentler, more aerial tone of humour this morning that threatens to lift me further into elations giddying atmosphere, and if I am not cautious to bethink the lead of my cares and chores, I may very well happily drift with its whim, forever up and clear of any.
Patagonia in the Summer, and the blood is stirring.