Travel

You've been welcomed into a new land. The invitation you received ages ago finally removed from the refrigerator door where a quiet magnet held it close to you but far from your attention. You brought it with you, just in case, your name engraved in the vellum. In case someone might think you don't belong here. In case you might think you don't belong here.

The border crossing was simple, no formalities. There is an easy, automatic feeling of home here. Well, except for the fact that you don't speak the language and can't read the signs.

Blind here, your hand stretches out, a five-legged spider who knows the lay of land without ever having visited.

Le bilan

You returned your favorite book to the library.

You left your favorite pen on the counter of a music store.

You forgot your favorite shirt in a hotel room in Arizona.

You put away boxes of memories when you left your life.

You gave away your chances when you started doing math.

You wasted your luck when you started being practical.

You own nothing, not even the time you've been given.

The why

Why do I write? I'd give a different answer to that question than to why do I have a blog.

So, JMH and Philippe, I write because I can't not write. The answer is something along the lines of yours JMH - I feel better when I write. Not in a self-psycho-analysis way, just in a constructive, creative way. I take an idea or a sentence or event that I like or don't like at all and work backwards to the beginning of a story or a tale or picture taken with words. It's an exercise I like, a task I enjoy. And I like being able to describe something really specific - experience or event or feeling - in a way that lets someone else read something entirely different and personal into it. Being able to share something that is both open and closed in nature. Something that, in the end, is both mine and yours.

Moments

Prepared to work, even to struggle, this is familiar to you. Prepared to wonder, worry, wish - those too.

You are taken aback, maybe even 2 steps, when a flash of complete satisfaction, despite the missing parts and unsolved equations, is upon you. Incomplete paths and misguided choices mean nothing here, which also surprises you. Their presence is usually so central.

Brief and alone moments, suspicion used to file away the memory of their existence as day dreaming once they were gone.

Now you look for them and wait, will, want. For them to string together, a necklace you will wear.

On the nature of house guests

I will have visitors this week. First friends, both old and new, and then family, both old and new.

Brief visits but that's ok. Being so far away means you take what is offered and feel lucky regardless. And I do.

It will be a slice of home. Not the place home, but the feeling.

In my house, they will be the ones to welcome me home. I love that.

Twisted

For the ease and comfort of everyone involved, let's make this about you. Let's paint the world your favorite color.

Let's make the tales you tell bedtime stories we should all find solace and safety in when we're alone at night. Let's call the excuses you give soulful mantras we could use to find peace when faced with pictures we don't understand. Let's call the compromises you require tithing- a ten per cent levy of ourselves we must give up without question - knowing it's for the good cause - it's your cause - how could it not be?

Let's call the manipulations you execute maneuverings designed for our own good - you're thinking we should be grateful - good idea, we'll try that. Let's call your deceptions magic tricks - we should just enjoy the show, we bought the ticket - how could we not have expected a show?

Let's call your arrogance confidence that makes us feel safe when you're around. Let's call your cowardice kindness - a battle not fought means that no one dies. Or does it?

Darkness

You realize it doesn't come from the night, from the lack of light, or even the heavy clouds. It comes from the places where truth was never allowed. How many of those you've held close. Swirls are just shadows that move in those places; adjustments to illusions you've loved. Or needed.

But on this day, a ridiculously banal day, you can no longer believe in power of that darkness, its comfort, its ability to shield you from every truth you do not want to know.

And so you let it seep in, the truth - not the darkness - there's no need for that anymore. There is nothing you're not willing to see. No, not exactly that. You're not happy about it, it is not a joyful act. But you can now will yourself to do it.

Passages

Path. Channel. Duct. Along, through, over.

From this to that and then to now. And finally, beyond.

Most are landmarked, landscaped, roadsigned and indicated.

And then there are those that you walk through without even realizing you're doing it. You like those the best. You discover yourself to be both more and less than you ever thought you would be. There is no judgment in that balance - it is as neutral as math.

Forevermore

You got it all wrong, didn't you?

Piano played on your skin, no keys to be found. The braille you wrote was seen, not felt. The silent gestures heard, not seen.

Back to the river, you scrape your hand along the bed, dig your fingers in, see what you can pull up.

The cold water feels so good, a memory your palms bring to your surface. Down below you expect to find ground rocks, sand, dirt - you do not. Only smooth stones are left, black, white, and 27 shades in between - shades whose existence you've never admitted.

Your waters will never be muddied again. Freedom feels nothing like you thought it would.