Keeping it real

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It’s true, cities are not places for wild goats. It’s difficult to reflect amongst the chaos of a human built landscape, unless it’s on our generation of narcissists. This is not personal. Who hasn’t taken a gratuitous selfie once in a while? I’m right in there, fudging the edges with art in my heart. You know me, I adore a good self-portrait, usually without clothes.

Now that I have a backpack instead of a room and a bank account that dives gracefully toward the abyss, I’ve crossed borders and fallen in love with a number of foreign places. All on the cheap. Hitch-hiking. Sleeping in my tent. Washing under greek waterfalls or in post-soviet sauna houses. Wherever I find myself, there are people with smartphones. We Insta and Facebook, Gab, Google+, MySpace, LinkedIn, Pinterest, Reddit, Tumblr, Twitter, Viber, VK, WeChat, Weibo, WhatsApp, Wikia, Snapchat and YouTube. Sometimes we even email friends who are detoxing from social media overload. Then we write blogs.

Yesterday I went to The Winter Place of Peter the Great. Yes, I’m in St Petersburg where people rarely smile, unless they are really happy. That can be infuriating but somehow, in a world of manufactured happiness and political turmoil, perhaps it is a good thing.

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The Squeeze

 

I’m about to squeeze this hulk between solid stone buildings that have withstood two world wars and four hundred years of seasonal change, love and laughter in the Aveyron. I’m not the first. This is the through road between wheat fields on high and the ancient moulins along the river that ground the grain to fine flour for the communal bread ovens. Tractors, horses, wagons, and more recently cars and the occasional truck have traversed this route. Today I’m driving the old Mercedes.

I’ve been in Europe for six months now. Hitching my way around France and Greece, meeting the strange, the interesting and the humorous along my way. Striding with backpack or pedalling the tiny trails that connect villages. I don’t drive cars. I’m on the wrong side of the road, the wrong side of the car, and I’m trying to brake with my right foot on the pedal. Sure I have been granted a temporary French permit to drive, but do I really want to exchange a life of adventurous travel for the easy option? I will decide after I have safely parked the car on the wild and wintery hill-top back at my friend’s house.

 

 

Delirious Sky

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It is a delicious moment,

Delirious sky.

The sun burning deeply,

Her skin starts to fry.

She gathers her senses,

Surrounded by life.

When death beckons shyly,

She submits to his knife.

It’s only a metaphor,

We grow and we die,

And laugh at the Present,

The Goddess on High.

Dreaming

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She sat by the river,

Dreaming.

Singing to water birds,

And frogs in the slime.

Distant places alive in her mind.

It’s not so hard, called the grasses wild,

You’re rooted to earth,

This isn’t your fault.

It’s a breathing, crumbling, uplifting result.

Her thoughts began shifting,

She rustled her leaves.

Wind carried her desires,

And soon there was peace.

The elements colluded,

Earth, water, air and fire.

She picked up her roots,

And flew to the sky.

The Art of Nothing

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There is nothing to say, she laughs. The door swung on it’s hinges, uncertain whether to open or close. The window, wide-eyed, allowed the light to enter, but only with a certain discretion. Cicadas screamed. Over-ripe figs fell to the ground. The walls bared their souls. And the day passed away.