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Today I purchased freedom, a feeling become tangible in the form of a no-return boarding pass. The simplest of token holding the deepest of implication. Adventure, the enthralling disorientation and the bewildering social eccentricities.

Camp free of die hard

One day, Bruce Willis went camping.
The day was night and the night was bright,
alight with fire fed by desire,
but really desire was beer.
He drank all of it, which was a lot.
It was wild, a thing of beauty,
Even if a little blurry.
Then after a recurring warning
from a pubescent watchman,
into the woods he went a-wanderin,
can't let the terrorists win.
At some point someone got lost,
by a stream his ankle bust.
So he dialed for help, or so he thought.
Out of two numbers, he called help's mom...
She relinquished sleep, but not confusion.
In the end, all party from the party
healthily wound up home.
One day Bruce Willis went camping,
but really it was four youths...
The next day the landlord did not see the hilarity,
in a terms&agreement signed yours truly:
Bruce Willis.

              The Tent.

A matinee of morning memories

A childhood memory surfaces from the vague drowsiness. An image pours in as the mind defies the eyes,  still closed, baiting slumber. The September morning is lightly fogged, the wind content to stay dormant for as long as the sun won't force it to rouse, its only movements seen in the occasional rustle of leaves on the curtain of boreal forest, as if groaning on a lazy morrow... The other senses conform to this view. With each of those whispers the forest sends this way, a hint of pine is expressed. This scented air gently tiding in from the ajar window feels so moist the dew can almost be tasted. Slow and sporadic waves resound as occasional cars rolling by on the distant road, a soothing misapprehension issued from the stillness of the land, an acoustic reserved for the early birds. They too can be heard, chirping intermittently, somewhat indolent so few they number.

I bask in the memory, sleep can wait...

( ( ((Echoes from the heart)) ) )

Eerie stillness, the quiet of contemplation.
Such sadness, this certainty:
Through corporeal demise, the ethereal will cease.
Two ends at odds over an implied limitation.
However raging of an out-pour,
The dictum can never fully express,
What is innately an infinite feeling.
A tranquil one calculating, apprehensive, its veracity.
A restless other advocating, passionate, valiant obstinacy.

As it is voiced ever so softly,

The three words echo powerfully.

Live, Love, Laugh...

Under a cloud asking to share your umbrella

It kept coming, the dream, and I kept running, afraid. I wasn't alone in this, footprints all around, by the hundreds, their stride suggesting the same frantic flight. A general confusion, the sole discernible pattern, a lack of pursuit, the peril only figment. A societal plight, this unwillingness to fight. To share the deepest of secret, admit to the darkest of struggles would purge the fright, bring shine and a rainbow to the valley. There's so much more beauty in intimacy than in concealment.
Why not brave etiquette?

My thoughts in a nutshell

Every day, all day, I dream. These are of a wide spectrum of themes that qualify from mundane all the way to exceptional in their nature. Always have I been so disposed, a youthful naivete which allowed me to travel the world over within the confines of my mind, such a fertile ground where romance and adventure flourished. But as I aged, I have shed some of this attribute, ever so slightly after each trial I found myself confronted with. A mixture of hope and cynicism currently seems to be my defining character, the germans will have a word for it I am sure. Now hardly able to commit to feelings I hold, I wince as I entrust the scantest portion of my heart, this reluctance causing the very parting I seek to avoid pain from without fail. Also, the lack of faith I entertain towards the probability of my earthly pursuits makes reaching the location of various panoramas I wish to behold seemingly unfeasible, so I procrastinate instead. Is awareness of it all sufficient to restore the full potential of hope, let it unbalance favorably the scale so that I witness the world again from the roving perspective that I so love?

Ho, Ho, Ho, Seasoned greetings!

The spirit of Christmas, long have I sneered at the thought in this cynical state of mind built by so many experiences lived or witnessed. Until recently, a flawed perception remained to be rectified: Accepting a gift entails reciprocity.
Never as toddlers are you ever expected to do any more than tear apart with gusto some colorful paper and greet with jubilation what it formerly wrapped, but move on to middle school and you are introduced to the act of the gift exchange where you can only receive a gift so long as you volunteer an item of a pre-established value. In no way was this compulsory, for the Jehovah's witnesses and other sensitive (not to be confused with 'sensible') minorities would sue the school until they owned its total worth to the last chalk. However, you were excluded from it all, whereby robbing you from the notion that gift-giving is an entirely selfless act. The early stages of life not affording me the luxury of experience, I went through the motions like everybody else, following through with this back and forth movement of gifts without a fail. I could fault no one for subscribing to this particular dance, since to give is a noble act itself and usually rewards consequently with a sense of satisfaction when greeted favorably. My reserve lied with the unease that I felt whenever I noticed that this or that party provided me with a more generous contribution or worse, many to the one I offered, then would set in a level of guilt that would have to be handled with the promptest of balance settling.
Middle school is long since over, new concepts have worn their way in, chief among them is the realisation that not all gifts are material. Embracing a humbler life up above in the mountains of British-Columbia was instrumental for it to come about, having befriended many a good person, whom despite being bereft of all things deemed essential by most, would make it a point to offer you hospitality if meeting ends looked a dubious matter, to the point of sharing the last cold beers to be found in their homestead until the coming payday could provide any chance for more.
Carrying this notion back as I repatriated, a trip to the grocery store in the weeks preceding the holiday period presented me with the opportunity to show kindness to a stranger, as I inched my way along to the sole register processing the exasperated costumers. As I witness weariness overcome this elderly lady after she has her card declined thrice, the man ahead merely standing, as if portraying my old self, I overtook him to hand my own to the teller who eagerly accepted and swipe it before any protest could be put up, the visible features of relief for having one less issue to deal with on her distinguishable from the otherwise vacuous look she normally maintains. My initial annoyance at further delay after an already prolonged queuing had been put to rest as the content her purchases caught my eye when curiosity had caused me to stretch my neck, everything a basic necessity, the exception to this a bottle of pop from a substandard generic brand. It got to me. I knew not her story, however the thought that I was enabling an addict in a downward spiral of abuse was far-fetched with this pitiful image being depicted in front of me. An unfortunate soul having used up her meager income to provide delight to grandchildren of hers by way of trinkets and toys was the more likely reality. Initially uneasy, the lady offered countless expressions of gratitude mixed with apologies as I completed my own transaction. I did not perceive this little act to be of monumental consequence, since a mere twenty-one dollars had no noticeable impact on my budget, but by the response engendered seemed so disproportionate that I effectively grasped this simple fact: the value of generosity can only be fully appreciated by its recipient.
With wisdom acquired I could commence a Christmas in the midst of my family, where each year a plethora of presents are presented, the current one not escaping the custom and compose with it. Having only just extirpated myself from the debt I was in from a life of travels, I was sorrowfully unable to contribute any offerings towards parents and siblings. My plea not to be bountifully awarded, for fear of disappointing for my lack of reciprocity, was blatantly ignored. The packages I was handed, when unwrapped, turned out to be items fit for my bohemian lifestyle. Books, to the number of seven, enjoyable and easily discardable after usage, a camelback bag, ideal for undertaking hikes in the everlasting quest for fresh powder, and a spice rack full with sixteen spices and herbs, trivial enough for most, but my dad procured me this for he had noticed how spartan my cooking had become lately, with the tacit acknowledgement that it was possible for me to pass it on and avoid the waste I abhors once I was ready to depart for new horizons. I was thrilled. That pleased them and they cared little of the fact I had nothing for them in return.


Maybe they are wiser, for they mastered it, the normalcy of it all in such situations, but I am learning, if slowly.
After all, it takes a lifetime to build a character...