Danny James

Tag: winter

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.

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.

380

And at last over the hill peered forth the smiling sun, to warm the bedrock of blank expression with its yellow touch. Under a glaze of Winter pearls the sleeping Spring buds stir, and the Earth prepares to welcome new life, fresh hope and young joy, to play, free and unhindered among the florets drenched in gold.

Hamilton Island, 2008?

Hamilton Island, 2008?

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.

363: Fled

All the trees at once had cast off their wild leaves setting them to the East, to flee and toss, joyously giddy along the palm of Natures gentle breath. Spun at the twilight down a crescent strange and lovely, consolidated in collective, security of unity in getaways spontaneous, conceived none the thought of looking back.

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If I should wince from hint of the mechanical in life, am I not still under some influence of automation?

335

How simply a cold breeze unexpected, can impel the senses and freshen the debt. Exact and rarely received with accord.

321

It has been a strangely pleasant Winter this year with very little of the usual Polar qualities experienced as in earlier Seasons. As though not content with her reputation for cold has Nature adopted a more affable temperament. And from a light rail bound for Newcastle, enjoying the features of an afternoon entify into evening, and a city incrementally disappear under backcountry, I caught the pierce of a mans reflection illuminated in the window by carriage lights against a background night. Had he a look of a course wondering. A tournament was occurring behind the eyes, to which he committed his durance. He was avoiding people, and grew uncomfortable as they near for it perturbed his wrestle for balance though there seemed no malice in his attitude, as much as he liked the distance so as to maintain for them a strained compassion, while he was rather struggling with his own awkwardness, and working hard to bury an habitual belligerence. I too should like to be like that Winter that can change myself to the contrast of what has of my Nature become. How some would be perfectly what they seem and alone, rather than revealed and loved.

Danny James blog Train

314

It’s a Sunday afternoon you could be, and apparently should be doing something outside and more agreeable and instead the day is carrying on without your involvement this time because it’s been too many since you’ve been able to open your book. You’ve been busy. All week in fact and probably actually for longer than that, having forgotten the choices you used to have, and the feelings that a human gets to feel whose life is enriched and balanced by the guiding implorations of his own Nature. Can’t accustom to modes of recreation. Can’t seem to adapt without having a process to immerse in, or remember what things you do that are for your own souls recovery, and you now despise having to designate a gap to read, to write, to do anything of the things you enjoy when so much of this life is partitioned, allocated and dispersed already. Being has become exhausting and static, and you, jaded, trudging forward into grooves of chore and an obligation to just take part and be quiet, have somehow invited these dull perspectives by expending so much attempting to live in their opposition. Then, too many options was always the problem in the first place so you burned all your bridges to remove some of that noise, to be able to move forward unhindered, to somewhere or anywhere and not be stopped with indecision.
The day pales, wanes of its light and opportunity, and you let it. It is but a day towards other days the same and you are so tired, that the feeling as you drift into sleep is so exhilarating, you are charged to a more intense and fatiguing wakefulness. It depletes as much as gives, to be always wringing out what juice holds life. The pressure can be immense that you lay upon yourself, to contribute than rather detract in this world. To be always climbing, and calculating a climb, never having or making arrangements of an arrival anywhere, and withal missing the sunshine on a hill and the way birds seem to hang, suspended in the path of its golden rain, under rule of some primordial wisdom. Might well it be out there for all you know, finally the era for which you have been all this time labouring, when fortunes cycle has rounded, veering unto your position, and, for better or worse, you have arrived at the confidence that presently it simply can not matter. You don’t want or need to participate in everything so much as observe, and recover in quietude a wholeness of self, left behind. Tend there, soul and honour this gift. Sometimes, the drafts, or whatever mundane task needs doing needs for now to stay undone. Ever something will be undone, for all things can’t all at once accomplished be. Quit considering all the things considerable for once and accept the chance to sit and just listen to your beating heart and the flow of air coursing your lungs, escaping and blending with the atmosphere, with the melodies and pulsing of your entire being and a throbbing Universal aliveness that will incite tears in the eyes, sourced from the deepest wells of pure and rushing emotion dammed up since youth, and every bit a significant element of the human experience.

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He who uses well his time and enjoys his work, sees little value in vacation.

A man, in this sense, can save his day with a walk.