… what shall we ever do?
and just like that, the way to the north has been paved.
fuelled by jazz gig i went to last thursday eve (in-your-face-beat-up metal jazz), the little blocks fell into place, no gaps- hyper-real tetris game.
chasing after a feeling over and over and over again, in obsessive manner, decisions simply take shape. it was made already, somewhere, long ago, now catalyzed.
i build a collage. i build a ship. i build a door for my cage. confluence.
each time i travel, there's something to find. sometimes, with people. sometimes, alone.
but always in flux of confluence. tossing self out of the 32nd floor concrete nest, i always find something. something that was waiting for me- for how long, i may never know.
at the local gear shop, kind salesperson who was helping brought up the idea of solace in desert. his was the mojave desert. mine, volcanic steam vent desert of kerlingarfjoll. and now, to ice desert.
the desert is a place of solace, because it is not barren.
in absence, one may see what one has been seeking.
on top of ben nevis, i recognized the weight of the world.
on edge of the coral reef, i sunk, world disappearing into black.
on rocks of finisterre, i saw alone.
on climbs of cascades, i drank alive.
on boiling mud of kerlingarfjoll, i ate elation.
on bright hills of mont rouge, i devoured adoration.
on crosby beach, i swam love.
on okinagan valley, i paused death of brother.
everywhere i went, there it was. solace.
…winter kept us warm, covering
earth in forgetful snow, feeding…
(5-6, t.s.eliot, the waste land)
to the depth of the winter-
perhaps the trajectory was set long ago, even before my time.
like many before me, i follow the call,
in the night silence, my heart sings,
of the songs that i do not know yet.
what shall i see
what shall i find
what shall i sing
… we think of the key, each in his prison,
thinking of the key, each confirms a prison,
only at nightfall, ethereal rumours…
(413-415, t.s.eliot, the waste land)
to sleep. to silence. tomorrow.