... this journey of ours.

“It is photography itself that creates the illusion of innocence. Its ironies of frozen narrative lend to its subjects an apparent unawareness that they will change or die. It is the future they are innocent of. Fifty years on we look at them with the godly knowledge of how they turned out after all - who they married, the date of their death - with no thought for who will one day be holding photographs of us.”
― Ian McEwan, Black Dogs

As we hurry toward our respective train cars, fearing missed connections and the delays that accompany them, we make ourselves intentionally, if subconsciously unaware of our destination; that is to say that we refuse to recognise that our trip must end.

The important bit is that we don’t numb ourselves to the entirety of it, this journey of ours.

No, we cannot help that the train tracks end.

No, we cannot know when they will.

No, we cannot change that.

We can change our urgencies.

Be urgent to enjoy the scent of the air.

Be urgent to enjoy the momentary caress of a breeze under a summer sun.

Be urgent to lose oneself entirely to a lover’s hands or the promise of lovers’ devices.

Do not concern yourself with maintaining your wholeness – it is through our brokenness that we feel the world; it is in our shattered states that the world commits us to memory. It is the cracks in our being that make us who and what we are. It is in our crooked limbs and minds that our souls take form.

Do not live vicariously. Live profoundly. Live so that, when this train jumps the tracks, you aren’t met with the terror of mortality, but the promise of a realistic immortality.

Adonais

xx

Let's try this again.

“When she was strong enough, she went out one early morning and buried the wedding-dress decently under the apple-tree. Her breast felt hollow, as if it were her heart she had buried; but she could move and speak, still.” – Angela Carter, The Magic Toyshop

It’s truly been a lifetime since I’ve written anything longer than three sentences. There’s one. Two. And now we’re done.

Lost

It’s a death of the soul.

As I sit here, perched above the lights and sounds of a tiny farm-town as it settles down

into the night, I let go. The first wave

is a tender hand, painting with wet fingertips

across the canvas of a cheek –

my breath hitches as it turns, for I

know the wave that approaches now,

can feel it in the recesses of my

quivering essence.

Drowning is feeling the life pressed out of you.

Ten million hands pressing against every inch of you, exhausting your will first, your life second.

They don’t press hard – that would incite fight.

They gently tuck you between their sheets, and

whisper you into the night.

The second wave is upon us,

wait, upon me, as I recall that I am alone,

and it threatens to capsize us

or me or

whatever there is left.

I’ve fought myself out of fight, I think. So I sit above this sleepy would-be city and watch myself drown.

The Origin of Art

At the beginning of time, there was an enchanted forest. Through this forest ran a river that shimmered with all of the colours and hidden hues of the world. At the heart of the forest, the river fell in thick sheets; a waterfall that rose to the heavens fed it endlessly. The river snaked through the forest, feeding the trees- the trees stretched into the sky and hummed with a nearly electric life.

Every night, as the stars peeked out upon the forest, all of the creatures of the world would gather about the base of the falls, for from behind the wall of water came a most lyrical voice.

This voice spun stories and near tangible tales, explaining and entertaining with rhyme and riddle- the creatures of the world were enthralled. Each night, the voice whittled something anew, speaking of worlds the creatures had never known.

The creatures wanted greatly to meet the voice. They wanted to know the source of it as well as it seemed to know them. To this end, the creatures of the world began to plan.

It was arranged that the birds of the forest would carry the beavers into the heavens to find and block the source of the falls. As the birds and their cargo departed, the rest of the forest gathered about the base of the falls, silently waiting for the cascade to cease.

As the water haltingly stopped, the creatures crept forward, craning to see into the dark cave beyond. What came stumbling out was unlike anything any of them had ever imagined. The two legged creature stumbled forward, a limb raised to shield his eyes. The beauty of the forest struck the man dumb, his alluring voice failing him for the first time.

Over time, he regained his voice and began to resume his musings. The creatures of the world took turns guiding him about the magnificent forest, teaching him what they could about the way of their world. Still, every night the man would gather the creatures and entertain them with his stories.

Unnoticed by the jointly entranced creatures that sat and strode alongside it, the river began to dry. As the last dregs of its water disappeared, communication between the creatures and each other, as well as the man, became increasingly difficult. Soon, the magic of the forest had faded into nothing, and the man was left alone in an empty forest.

He began to walk, and as he walked, he listened to the birds’ lamenting songs; he faintly recalled the dark, endless edges of his cave and the stories that he spun the faceless voices through the falls. With a soft tread and a softer breath, he sang back to the birds. He began to recount and re-create the beauty he had so briefly known- the birds listened intently, and repeated his melodies back to him.

To this day, man, still walking, seeks the colours that have fled from the world- through paint, song, dance and prose he pulls them momentarily back into existence for all the creatures of the world to know once again.

Hello, Summer.

Over the last four months, I have:

-fallen entirely out of touch with four dozen people

-written a handful of songs, a single blog and… not much else

-gained unwanted weight

-made a movie

-lost every ounce of momentum I spent 2011 building up

-things I am less ready to admit to.

So, I can’t exactly say that I haven’t accomplished anything inconsequential; as anyone with philosophical tendencies would quickly point out, all things have consequences. 

Nor can I say that the things I have managed have been entirely unnecessary or superfluous- on the contrary, some of the less enjoyable moments have probably been the most necessary accomplishments of my recent life.

What I can say is this:

Some massive changes are on the horizon, and I’m finally digging up the wherewithal to chase them down.

I’ve learned a few things through my hibernation/despondency. The most important: fair few people will play fireman when you set their bridge aflame; those people are the ones worth fighting to keep.

Viens?

Adonais

I'm officially fired.

Because, honestly? I have the worst track record in the world when it comes to blogging. Well, aside from a particular red-head I know.

However, I'm stumbling across the actual reason for keeping a blog- keeping the people who care informed on the happenings in my life; it's too easy, anymore, to forget who knows what. So. Reason one.

Reason two? Whenever I do hold myself to writing, more gets done. It's like magic: the more that I can convince myself must be done, the more I seem to find the wherewithal to accomplish.

This is only my second post in 2012. It's April.



Now, for those of you unaware:

1. We have just recently wrapped a film that I had the pleasure of writing the screenplay for. I also got to play both as an assistant director and an actor, so this project was especially fun.

2. I've finally taken to recording low-quality versions of songs that I've been writing/had written, and you can find them on Soundcloud.



Both for current and future reference, you will be able to find links to any projects I am involved with to the right, under the header labelled thusly.


Now that we've cleared that up, it's time to go make some adventures that I can report back on!

Viens avec moi?

xx Adonais

My last post was in November?!?!

[expletive]. A sorry excuse for a writer, eh? There's little sense in trying to encapsulate four months in a single blog post, so- let's just pretend that the lapse never happened. Okay? Okay. I'm wanting to re-structure the blogging, anyway, so....

I guess we'll see where it goes from here.

I don't have much in the way of creative juices left for the day- but I thought I'd share the song I wrote this morning. {I'm still not recording, as I have yet to best those ghosts, so here's to imagination and you using yours!}

If only

G / Cmin / G/ Cmin

There is a sunrise waiting/

Just past the far horizon/

I grow so sick of faking;/

It’s time to move along//

Will you wait for me to/

Swim on out to you?/

You’re drifting in the bay/

Caressed by ocean, blue.//

We sail away, if only/

In our dreams/

We sail away, if only/

If only, if only, if only, if only//

The northern wastes are frozen/

And so with weathered souls/

We take to trekking slowly/

Through each wall of snow//

It doesn’t matter that we/

Cannot see our destinies;/

They pull like gravity/

They drop us to our knees.//

We sail away, if only/

In our dreams;/

We sail away, if only/

If only, if only, if only, if only.//

Put the kettle on, and/

We’ll find refuge/

In each other’s arms/

As I kiss you…//

We sail away if only/

In our dreams;/

We sail away, if only/

If only….//

Viens avec moi?

xx 

|widdershins|

“I’ll come back. We’ll finish this.”

They both knew she wouldn’t.

“Go. You’re late,” he whispered.

(day two hundred and eighty-seven)

Word of the Day: widdershins

-in a left-handed, wrong or contrary direction;

counterclockwise.

Song of the Day

As the weather takes a turn for the bitter nip and bite of winter, my musical taste retreats to where it feels most at home. Acoustic, folksy tunes with home on every breath- there’s something distinctly winter to them, I think. The Be Good Tanyas, a group I’ve admittedly never listened to in my life before today, is fantastically worthy of the share- enjoy.

Tea, tobacco and toska. That’s my morning. And a list the size of Timbuktu. It’s been another rash of weeks since I’ve blogged, and know that in a small, particular way, I hate myself for it. It’s going to become a daily thing again, I’m certain of it.

I read a status update requesting fashion immediate fashion advice: Scarves on men? This reads (to me) as a no-brainer; a strong, resounding YES. But of course scarves belong on men. The gender neutral accessory often looks best on the male figure, if paired correctly. I’ll share my response to the gentleman’s query, as well: “I’m wearing one with my cotton, combat styled jacket, layered or not.” The look is a half classic, half modern staple. Men, the trick to wearing a scarf is quite simple- wrap it loosely about your neck and forget about it; it’s most often the fidgeting and tailoring of the look that ruins it. Note: keeping the scarves lighter makes for easier pairing and layering. Try something like this.

I’m starting a second blog. –pause for collective sigh-

I know. Because I’m sooo good at writing on this one, right?

This new one is geared a touch differently. It’s a food blog. Because I love to cook, and generate a number of unique recipes and the like, I thought it might be a good way to share my culinary insights. I’ll post more as I get it together, I’m sure.

Viens avec moi?

xx