A log remembers the trip.
Departure is white, a constant Canadian white, melting.
Yet, in the northern vastness, two breaks emerge - digression and seclusion. In this particular instance, my mind wanders aimlessly in all corners.
The gales of residue doubtingly humour the scenery. The theatrical effect from a Greyhound Bus window could be dispiriting - the white patches of snow resembling a Shakespearean device. Although there are no traces of rust or rot, it could appear to have lost its function.
The landscape and the blank paper preoccupy me at this junction. Everything is white in the mid month of This Time, and everyone on board despises it. White has lost its symbol.
I apologize for such a surge of free thought. Although my perception is filtered with a net of disregard for Freudian concepts, a final analysis may divulge hidden meanings - the text is the wisest of masks.
I have been in this metallic cubicle for almost an hour and all remains white. Occasional houses and run down farms can be discerned. Mostly, there are miles of wooden fence posts - squaring the land.
Presently, a static train appears to my left. The carts are linked together but the caboose is absent. In the middle of an ivory field, the train creates an artistic impression. I can't see it anymore but I am sure it has not moved.
Do the farmer's children play in these alluring carts during the summer? Perhaps, the train simply occupies space...
... and there appears to be endless space in the middle of Nowhere. The occasional treaded-tractor runs across it giving the land a human roar. The sound is clear in my head and I fall asleep to its purr.
I briefly awake to transfer. The close proximity of Somewhere heightens my awareness. Within minutes, I am in the middle of the town. The mist forbids the landscape to share its beauty. Regardless, I am preoccupied with a confectionery store.
I step down from the bus and pierce through the window of the bus depot. A few old men are chatting. Their smiles are welcoming although they have not yet acknowledged my presence. They are unaware of any movement surrounding them.
(They are a cart of old men displaying and contrasting the repercussion of the northern trauma. Their birth is a launch of sorts. However, the completed journey assures no weightlessness. On the other hand, the destination is disappointing. They are completed birds with clipped wings. Nevertheless, through the window they appear content. Adaptation is peculiar.)
A young man proceeds to help me with my bags. As he picks up the largest suitcase, I ask him a few questions. Timid and excited, his words are simple... and a few of them create a particular effect. When asked the difference in population between Nowhere and Somewhere, his reply is, "Oh! Somewhere is a huge place!" ("Really!" I replied. "How many?") With a confident stance, he affirms, "We're four thousand!" Four thousand people betrays the modest community's perspective; and yet, the sincerity with which he replied compels me to dignify his response with a seemingly moved appearance. During this brief exchange of words, a 'small town' stir conjures itself in the pit of my stomach. I look away and, in my peripheral vision, notice a man emerging from his car.
Although his Hispanic attributes dominate, I do not believe he is of Spanish descent. He waves his hand in my direction and the young boy, still carrying the large suitcase, walks with me towards the car. He wishes me good luck in my new endeavors, promising to visit me, at the Lodge, during the next month.
I am now in the middle of Somewhere.
The small man extends his hand welcoming me to the Lodge team - little does he know his hand-shake is tightly grasping a new chapter of my existence - the birth of a new link. Perhaps, it is a caboose.
I embark in the car headed for Somewhere Else.
As the automobile disturbs the silence of the landscape, my initial perception formulates itself. It is one of water. Within the pebbles, goat crossings and mountains, I am filled with water. Approaching the town of Somewhere Else, water accumulates, mostly in the corner of my eyes.
* blame this blog to a lack of sleep (hard to do so when on a bus) ;-)
Yet, in the northern vastness, two breaks emerge - digression and seclusion. In this particular instance, my mind wanders aimlessly in all corners.
The gales of residue doubtingly humour the scenery. The theatrical effect from a Greyhound Bus window could be dispiriting - the white patches of snow resembling a Shakespearean device. Although there are no traces of rust or rot, it could appear to have lost its function.
The landscape and the blank paper preoccupy me at this junction. Everything is white in the mid month of This Time, and everyone on board despises it. White has lost its symbol.
I apologize for such a surge of free thought. Although my perception is filtered with a net of disregard for Freudian concepts, a final analysis may divulge hidden meanings - the text is the wisest of masks.
I have been in this metallic cubicle for almost an hour and all remains white. Occasional houses and run down farms can be discerned. Mostly, there are miles of wooden fence posts - squaring the land.
Presently, a static train appears to my left. The carts are linked together but the caboose is absent. In the middle of an ivory field, the train creates an artistic impression. I can't see it anymore but I am sure it has not moved.
Do the farmer's children play in these alluring carts during the summer? Perhaps, the train simply occupies space...
... and there appears to be endless space in the middle of Nowhere. The occasional treaded-tractor runs across it giving the land a human roar. The sound is clear in my head and I fall asleep to its purr.
I briefly awake to transfer. The close proximity of Somewhere heightens my awareness. Within minutes, I am in the middle of the town. The mist forbids the landscape to share its beauty. Regardless, I am preoccupied with a confectionery store.
I step down from the bus and pierce through the window of the bus depot. A few old men are chatting. Their smiles are welcoming although they have not yet acknowledged my presence. They are unaware of any movement surrounding them.
(They are a cart of old men displaying and contrasting the repercussion of the northern trauma. Their birth is a launch of sorts. However, the completed journey assures no weightlessness. On the other hand, the destination is disappointing. They are completed birds with clipped wings. Nevertheless, through the window they appear content. Adaptation is peculiar.)
A young man proceeds to help me with my bags. As he picks up the largest suitcase, I ask him a few questions. Timid and excited, his words are simple... and a few of them create a particular effect. When asked the difference in population between Nowhere and Somewhere, his reply is, "Oh! Somewhere is a huge place!" ("Really!" I replied. "How many?") With a confident stance, he affirms, "We're four thousand!" Four thousand people betrays the modest community's perspective; and yet, the sincerity with which he replied compels me to dignify his response with a seemingly moved appearance. During this brief exchange of words, a 'small town' stir conjures itself in the pit of my stomach. I look away and, in my peripheral vision, notice a man emerging from his car.
Although his Hispanic attributes dominate, I do not believe he is of Spanish descent. He waves his hand in my direction and the young boy, still carrying the large suitcase, walks with me towards the car. He wishes me good luck in my new endeavors, promising to visit me, at the Lodge, during the next month.
I am now in the middle of Somewhere.
The small man extends his hand welcoming me to the Lodge team - little does he know his hand-shake is tightly grasping a new chapter of my existence - the birth of a new link. Perhaps, it is a caboose.
I embark in the car headed for Somewhere Else.
As the automobile disturbs the silence of the landscape, my initial perception formulates itself. It is one of water. Within the pebbles, goat crossings and mountains, I am filled with water. Approaching the town of Somewhere Else, water accumulates, mostly in the corner of my eyes.
* blame this blog to a lack of sleep (hard to do so when on a bus) ;-)
Total Comments 4
Comments
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you write yourself beautifully.
will come back.
much love,
David.Posted 01-28-2010 at 11:05 PM by Bromanoph 
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Brom, is this the first of my blogs that you read? oh dear heehee!Posted 01-28-2010 at 11:13 PM by Fauve
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Fauve, this is lyrical literary prose which awakens the sleeping soul to see through your eyes. You write your outer world as reflected in your inner world. The symbols you use open the doors of perception to see deeply into the landscape with its myriad facets as impinging on your heart. Simply beautiful.
JohnPosted 01-29-2010 at 10:26 PM by goldenmyst
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glad you grasped
this piece has so many layers
wondering if they can all be perceived.Posted 01-30-2010 at 02:47 PM by Fauve
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