Wonderland

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There’s no room for doubt, said the solid, stone house. Let’s reflect on that, stared the window pane. I’m no longer pristine, mumbled the wall at her feet. The lamp tilted her head then spoke in a tone that was somewhat lighter than the old, plastered sheet. You’re somewhere between, not ceiling or floor. It could be worse, groaned the stain on the door.

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Transformation

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When is enough?

What is everything?

Who am I?

Do you remember that there are no answers?

We ask questions and open the void.

Elemental

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I am a wild creature, she breathed through every pore. Do you know how to fly, Inquired the endless sky? Of course I do, she replied, not making a move. Then where are your wings, demanded the coarse wood beneath her arse. I don’t need them today, was all that she said. So you’re stuck, laughed the branches prodding her gently. The wind was listless. No rain tried to fall. But the shadows had an interesting perspective. They took the form of whatever they lay on and when the sun turned, left no trace at all.

Nothing is Black and White

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There was comfort in the shadows, an illusion of solidity under her feet. The trees hung back and let her contemplate the sensation of freedom. It was everything she wanted in that moment, black and white in clarity. But the air on her skin reminded her of touch. There was no doubt that she was connected on every level to the universe, but was that enough?

The River Knows

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The village is a walk through ferns, following a goat track. I heard the goat herder’s wild animal cries at sunrise and the passing sounds of bells, bleats and hoofs sure-footed on stone. But I have no desire to go to the village. Instead I go to the waterfall to wash the city from my body and remember the sweet caress of the sun.

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.

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.