Finding My Way - part 5

Depression can be crippling. It curls round your head, soul, thoughts and ideas, blotting out the light and squeezing the breath from you. Too many have compared it to a beast or daemon consuming you ... devouring your happiness and joy. But I find the comparison a little too 'horror film' and out of touch with reality. For me, it is more based in the world I can see and associate with. I had a friend ages past in the US (which in itself now seems like a separate life) who had this annoying little shit of a dog. It was one of those tiny rats dressed up in canine form, which seemed permanently in heat, yapping at and humping anything that per chance fell within his line of vision. This ball of fur with it's seemingly perpetually petrified penis latched, yet again, onto my shoe one evening during a visit for a beer and to talk music, and so I said to myself: "this can't feel good, rubbing yourself on the treaded sole of my trainers ... you'll give up soon". The horny beast was adamant, though. He went at it with the enthusiasm of an American Idol contestant on meth until he rubbed himself so raw that he bled. But did he dare curb his desires at this what must have been rather uncomfortable result of friction against a rugged surface? No ... all he did was back off for a bit, lick himself clean and bee-line back to my crimson-stained footwear to continue his endeavour no matter the cost.

And this is what depression can be: some days - an insatiable, annoying and relentless bastard that latches on and, without rest, wants nothing more that to fuck you no matter how difficult (or uncomfortable) you make the accomplishment of that dirty deed seem. It gets in the way of your life, and once it gets the slightest whiff of a bad-thought pheromone, the erection pops up, and it runs at you like a satyr at a swingers party. You want nothing more than for it go away ... but the libido is quite vicious, and stopping it is near impossible.

I'll say it again: I do not enjoy feeling this way. I would do nearly anything to remove the twisted, idiotic thoughts and shut down the pointless analysations that run rampant through my ageing grey matter. So, when people say: "think of something else" or "try keeping yourself busy" or "remember you have friends" ... don't you ever consider that I have thought of that? Come now ... if it were that easy, then we would all be ecstatic day in, day out. I'd have perma-grin going on to the point of being stared at as if I were Quasimodo the moment he finds that Esmeralda isn't going to run screaming. The thing is, many people going through depression know there are things to do or people to meet. But please recall what I mentioned of this being relentless. "Yes, my friend. I see you standing just over there, but this damned dog is still boning away at my calf at the moment. I don't really feel up to hobbling over there right now, thanks all the same."

I read an article recently that had a very good comment that put some perspective on the "deep blue funk" and its occasional drastic outcome - suicide: (paraphrasing here) Those feeling the desire to take their own lives are just as afraid to die as anyone else. Many times, it's not that they want to wipe themselves off the face of the Earth, it's more that they just want the continuously dark feeling to go away. It wears you out, you see. And when you are so tired for too long, your mentality for seeing better choices is diminished. You also just reach a breaking point.

What I find amusing when one is feeling suicidal (because it is such a funny time in life) is the reasoning people have to talk you back from the ledge at times. My favourite is the "Think of your friends and family and how taking your life will impact them! Stop being so selfish!" A valid point, BUT ... (1) We do think of everyone in that moment, and many times we wish they were right there in front of us to hold us and make us feel less alone. Not everyone (or anyone at times) can be there all the time you feel that viral load of sadness increasing throughout your circulatory system. THAT is the problem! Very few individuals want to open a vein up when they have good people round making the world a better place. The cat with a plastic bag caught round its neck emotion hits mostly when there is no one there, in the evening when it is too late to go out but too early to sleep, on that rainy afternoon when all you wish for was a sparkle of sun, on the bus going back alone after a visit to your family, or when sitting in an empty cafe that you went to hoping someone, anyone, would be there, but there wasn't. (2) Calling a suicidal person selfish is like consoling Quasimodo (to continue the reference) with: "No, you aren't a hideous-looking freak of nature that God must have shat out after a particularly spicy vindaloo, but would you mind putting this bag over your head so I don't have to set eyes on your vomit-inducing face?" Belittling many a downed soul is not usually the best cure for the cancer (though I will admit reverse psychology can work at times, but on a case by case basis). Also, have you noticed that the line "stop being so selfish" is typically followed by "you need to take some time and focus on yourself and do what makes YOU happy" ... so, don't be selfish, because the best thing for you right now is to be selfish? Hmmmm ....

I'll end this part for now, because I am just running out of creativity at the moment and just want to publish this. It must be stated that I AM OKAY right now at this particular moment, and actually have been for a few days. Not ecstatic or even what you would call particularly happy, but I am not about to go "dancing the Tyburn jig" this evening. This is just a part of my thinking that needs leeching. The more I speak or write, the more the bile subsides. This is progress for me, and the act of even putting pen to paper (or finger to keyboard) is in itself proof that I can focus a little better.

To be continued ... 

Finding My Way - part 4

In my eyes, at this very moment, I see an old, worn out jumper. The collar knitting is mildly stained and darkened from constant contact with the oil and sweat from the head and neck it has encircled over the years, and the cuffs of the sleeves are ragged and pitted with holes. Even the front has quite a few flaws, from cigarette-ember burns to pin-sized punctures from cat claws. And the entire piece is peppered with cat hair, which never seems to dissipate no matter how many washings. But it is not dirty. And it even looks comfortable still. There are just so many loose threads dangling from every stitch, though even this is not the problem. This question is which thread to pull first. Which one can I tug at solely to polish up the tired look of the whole and for it not to seem as though the person who dons this attire is roaming homeless through the alleys? And which one just unravels the entire garment, rendering it nothing more than a future dust cloth?

So, here I stand, glaring down at these tentacles of dangling yarn … wondering which thread of the story to pick at first.

I guess I will begin with this: I don’t enjoy feeling the way I do recently. That needs to be stated up front, because I know first hand a few people that love to dwell in their darkness. Not the Goth thing (or Emo, as it has become) … which is just angst a lot of the time. A way to draw attention and feel noticed, whilst trying to be inconspicuous at the same time. This is wrapping yourself in a mask of sadness for the sake of its beauty and style … and that I can appreciate at times. What I poke at here with the tip of my shoe are those not wishing to help themselves or letting others assist them so as to remain out of the sun, because it is the pity and the focus of others on their mental plight that they use as their drug. It feeds them and makes the suffering worthwhile to a degree. This is not me. I am not seeking pity … I despise it and don’t give it. It’s one reason I left my home in Atlanta. But attention … that is another thing. I am publicly digging up the neighbour’s back yard in hopes that somewhere out there is the buried bone I can gnaw on again as my comforting chew toy. And I want you all to notice me thrashing up the earth, slinging it on windows and soiling the carpet as I traipse through your home. For someone to stare upon me with furrowed brow and say: “aww … poor lad” is no goal of mine. But to throw on some old clothes, grab a shovel and give me a hand out here … that is where the bead at the end of the barrel is trained on.

Adding to the explanation of my form of attention seeking - I am a ham for the spotlight. I happily admit to that. I have been on stage, on TV, on the radio, in front of crowds, large and small, all to feed that hunger and be seen ... and appreciated. And believe me when I say I would much prefer you all to be viewing my photos, hearing me sing or even just reading some sarcastic comments I have on travel or a witticism I have spewed forth on the humorous nature of mankind. Making you laugh, or shocking you, or just providing you with a bit of entertainment for a spell is the powdery line of finely cut coke I’d rather be snorting through a hundred dollar bill off a silver tray. As it is, though, this hit of writing is my methadone. A substitute for all the other, more joyful or poignant words I cannot seem to form at this moment in time.

To be continued...

Too Little Too Late

I will admit to being sporadic when it comes to writing, but generally, when I start an idea, I run with it until I finish. It has to be completed. Yet I am having the most difficult of times even starting this one. "Then why write?" you ask. Because I feel I have to. A good friend of mine (and thank fuck for good friends recently ... more on that later) recently stated that they just needed to put pen to paper and vomit out all the bile inside. What follows is my case of the verbal exorcism of devils that needs to escape and run free over a page or screen for others to pick apart, listen to, find comparison with or just have a laugh at (because as tragic or pathetic as parts may seem, it all really boils down to just one life ... mine ... and the insignificance it plays in the grand scheme of things).

It all started with a "you're a great guy, but ..." almost four years ago. Let's go back, shall we? I was once a married man with a young daughter, house, well-paid job and 4 cats. Sounds ideological, right (except to you dog people)? Let us dig into the details a bit. I was once entwined with a woman of stunning beauty and limitless intelligence, who was also that greatest gift you could wish for ... my friend. But I began to ignore her because of a job in a travel agency that kept me on the road 6 out of 12 months a year. She sat at home with our child, raising her whilst I convinced myself that the job was about all the money I brought in and contributed. I didn't like the town we lived in, but the house was a grand idea ... and needed work. So I rationalised ... the time away was for the cash to make things better. I completely ignored the damage I was doing by not being there during the most important parts of my young child's life and the strain it was inflicting upon my wife, who was learning the hard way how to be a lone parent. Over time, when my daughter began to communicate and not just be a crying bag of flesh that kept us up at nights, I began to see the joy in her more than I had. Yes, that is a crappy thing to say, but it was the truth. So, as my head started to finally come round to wanting to be home more with my now talkative, interactive daughter, I found that my wife no longer wanted to be talkative or interactive. By running around the globe trying to skirt my responsibilities, I may have found a way to come to terms with the stress of being a new, slightly reluctant, father ... but I had broken apart the reason for all of this world in the process. My best friend, lover, wife, mother of my child had been left alone for far too long to deal with all the daily issues (which, I must say, are a hell of a lot harder to handle than any job in the world) without any help from me, and she reverted to her own means and sank inside herself. I was shut out, and I couldn't find a way back in. I was never where I was needed ... when I was needed. I did love, I did care, I did what I could to make amends, but my actions (or lack of) stirred up another ghost from the past of my wife ... that of a long-standing depression that reared its ugly head and came back with a vengeance. And there was no way I could fix it ... Yes, we had other issues, and I can say that I am not to blame for how the depression of my wife cut through our relations like a scythe in the fields, but I was the one who summoned that daemon back into her soul at a time when she had no strength left to fight. To close this point, even though she knew her depression was paramount, in a spark of kindness, and I hope in the sight of me attempting my hardest to save all that was possibly left, she said to me: "Ian, you are a great guy and a good man, but I just can't right now." And so began my time in exile. It was too late ... I was too late. I could have, and quite possibly would have, become such a better person given half the chance, but there was absolutely nothing I could do to help her struggle with the feelings and turmoil inside her. And even being round her was just a reminder of all the darkness piled up inside. So I had to go ... for the sake of my child, for the space my wife needed away from me to find herself again, for my own sanity.

Finding My Way - part 3

Youth ... it's a funny thing. Some people yearn for those days of old when life was much less complicated and when the brows were less furrowed from the stress of responsibility and the need to exist in a money-hungry world. Other folks recall their glory days and the way it "used to be". On the other side of the coin, there are also those that are more than happy to have seen the arse-end of their decade or two of trying to discover who they were to be, whether that be due to morally incompetent decisions or from the tortures of not fitting in with the "it" crowd in school. For the most part, I am a potpourri of all of the above. I do wholeheartedly wish I shouldered a backpack much earlier in life, but the lessons learned through the choices I made in lieu of going abroad have had their place. Some days I miss a handful of friends from the high school days and their impact on my life (may you rest in peace, Susan), but there is no chance in hell I would ever wish to repeat my teen years. I had some fun then, no doubt ... but once was enough! There is one aspect I do miss, though ... I'd hock a liver to the black market organ trade to have a spine that didn't crackle like a bag of corn chips every time I stretch or bend down to pick something up. Getting older truly is a pain!

To claim that I am in the peak of physical condition would be a stretch, but I have aged relatively well, if I do say so myself. Being blessed with a decent metabolism that didn't really start slowing until I was 35 has kept me from the curse of many others in proximity to my age that also enjoy the magical brew of combining hops and grains into liquid goodness ... the dreaded beer gut. I do have to make a bit more of an effort these days to keep the love handles at bay, but most days I would not be ashamed to shed my shirt in public ... at least physique wise ... though when it comes to my pasty white (nay, alabaster) complexion, you best avert your eyes in bright sunlight as the glare may just burn your retinas out. So, even though my gut doesn't stretch to the point where I would only be able to see my willy via a complex arrangement of funhouse mirrors and strategic positioning, there are other issues: The down side of becoming more learned at certain technical trades or any other profession that requires you to be parked for hours in front of a desk is that you have to really be mindful of your back and posture.

After moving to Czech Republic, teaching became my bread-making activity for a few years, and one thing that teaching requires you to do is move about. It's a theatre stage up there in front of your captive audience when disseminating the virtues of grammatically correct English, and you have to keep up a certain momentum ... back and forth to the blackboard ... through the students to hear them better or see what they have written (or to sneak in that subtle glance down the low-cut top of the busty brunette three seats back as you stand over her desk to ensure she understands the assignment in the workbook) ... and you must also animate yourself by using as much body language as humanly possible to get your point across. I didn't speak the slightest hint of Czech in those first few months, so how else was I supposed to explain things? There are moments when you must howl like a monkey, gesture like an angry New York Italian or contort your frame and hands into unholy forms that the Cirque du Soleil would be jealous of just to make yourself understood.

What I am trying to say here is that teaching English never offered me the chance to sit that much in the five years I could, literally, stand it. After what seemed like an eternity of attempting to remove myself from that life of repetition, boredom and the punishment of being stuck with the inevitable class of non-caring teens who constantly sat texting on their phones more and more often, as the mobile phone rose in accessibility and lowered in price, instead of giving the slightest of shits about being taught English by a native, I took a stab at proofreading and correcting texts. It was a natural progression, and from my English composition background and the constant harassment by students to give them a hand (for free, of course) with something they were working on, I felt I already had enough talent in this field ... and I also felt I should just as well get paid for it! This wasn't any more exciting or fulfilling, but it did get me away from the vacant-eyed zombie audience who only seemed to take the course because their parents required them to be, in all essence, babysat for another hour or so till they returned home from work. This could also be said for the business clients I was instructing, too. It was at this phase of my existence that my once over-active metabolism decided to bail on me. Life was now in a chair in front of a computer screen, and I was no longer on-stage executing live-action performance art. I was definitely ecstatic to no longer have to stare into to a sea of lifeless, non-caring eyes, but honestly, I believe I have shrunk about three centimetres over the years sitting before that four-legged particleboard beast of burden created solely to support a screen of flickering LEDs and a slab of plastic squares imprinted with numbers, archaic symbols and the letters of multi-lingual alphabets. Where once I had stood proud, a giver of language with my head in the air, there now hunched a creature twisted into something akin to Igor perching over the monstrous cadaver lying upon his master's table. Ok, ok ... I exaggerate, but it sure as hell feels that way some days. It is almost to the point where if I don't take a few moments before bed each night stretching, downward dogging, cat-cowing or hiring the Spanish Inquisition to strap me to a rack, then the next morning more-or-less means I need to be rolled out from under the sheets and gently propped upright by a system of ropes and pulleys. Remember the scene in Batman: The Dark Knight Rises after Bruce gets the ever-loving crap kicked out of him by Bane? That entire prison / back therapy segment is based on my true life story, don't you know? But I do twist and stretch when I have the correct mindset, and that does help a lot.

The newest curse of time came about just recently, much to my dismay. In preparation for the upcoming hike, a few of the local lads and I made the effort to get out on a gorgeous Saturday and do a leisurely 25 km walk from Olomouc to the town of Litovel (aka the Venice of Czech Republic ... or more importantly for my friends and I, the home of the Litovel brewery ... yes, one of the goals was to do a healthy walk concluded with drinking beer ... eh, we are only human). The landscape was flat, the paths paved in many parts and the speed comfortable. For some reason, I chose not to wear the boots I would be taking to Turkey, but instead donned my standard, worn out trekking trainers with the rapidly diminishing sole. Hey, I never said I was a glimmering beacon of unwavering intelligence. The journey was made in just over 4.5 hours as we were in no rush and a few happy snaps from the digital lens took place, but a creeping, growing, gnawing pang of "hey, that's not right" began to rise from the middle arch of my right foot as we entered Litovel. Rapidly, the sharp pain increased, and within a span of 15 minutes went from "Ok, this I can just walk out, because my feet aren't used to the distance" to "Cut it off!! Give me a hacksaw now, just make the pain go away! Anyone with a piranha? Please! Just let me stick my foot into a piranha tank and let them make quick work of it!" I went from jolly hiker to hobbling old fart in a span of 300 metres. "What the holy fuck-nuggets just happened?" I thought (really ... that's how I speak to myself when stunned by a situation). It couldn't have been a fracture or bruise from stamping down hard on a particularly pointy stone, because I recalled no such occurrence that day or any day previously. And I hadn't been round tap dancing elephants nor been afflicted with the stigmata either. Luckily we were at our destination, and the rest, food and beer would be well enjoyed ... but ... after our lunch break (hosted by a lovely woman who seemed extremely giddy with having non-locals back in her restaurant and town after a long winter), we stood to leave, and I nearly needed my other four travelling companions to carry me to the brewery, the pain was so bad. No matter the torture, I was determined to see it through, so stumble along I did to our final objective, where it turned out we were 15 minutes earlier than opening time for the brewery's on-site pub. Drat!!

A bit of a side note: A few in our motley crew, including myself, had been to the Litovel brewery before; once in the summer for two of us, and then to their open brewery yearly celebrations for the remainder of us. Each of those time, Litovel has blessed us with either unique batches of beer goodness available only at their headquarters or at least a variety of their brands within the pub. This is what we were questing for on our excursion there that day. But doomed to disappointment we were, for not a single, flavourful variant of liquid bread was to be found aside from the standard available at any bar or shop throughout the country. After perching in front of the gates to the facilities and appearing as desperate as heroin junkies outside a clinic, we soon discovered it had all been for naught. Double drat!!

The day was still sunny and warm, and we made the best out of our situation by settling upon the lawn before the pub clinking our glasses together in celebration for a splendid time and drinking our nice, cool, though standard, pints, and we enjoyed a humorous conversation of past deeds and perverse jokes as we waited for the bus to return to Olomouc, but we all, in our own way, came to realise something, though most only admitted it in the days to come: After a winter of being relatively idle, we may have overdone it just a smidgeon. We all pretended to put on a brave face, and though my abused feet suffered more that the others and was a source of amusement as I was forced to stumble along accompanying every step with verbal outcries of "ow, ow, ow", everyone else eventually dropped a slight hint making reference to their aching hips or knees or feet. Three of the five in our gang have youth on their side and were only affected by the past few months of cold and lack of impetus to do too much physically. Myself and one other had the years behind us. Three years ago, I was hiking paths in Petra, Jordan, hopping castle stones in Syria and zigzagging along trails in the Caucasus without the slightest of aches ... but that was three years ago, and my ageing limbs just don't automatically function in that "get up and go" manner like they used to before. All in all, I know I need some training before this walk through Turkey, and that was the main reasoning behind our outing from Olomouc to Litovel, but my youthful thoughts (and failed judgement call on wearing better shoes) forgot to take into consideration the maturity of my body, and we pushed it further than what it was accustomed to. My actions at times portray me as the immortal Peter Pan, but I am learning the painful way that this is far from the truth. I refuse to give up, slow to a crawl or don a tweed blazer and spend my afternoons in the park feeding the pigeons and playing draughts, but I do need to respect my increasing number of years and realise that there are certain adjustments to my life that have to be accounted for. This discovery is along the same shelf of realisation as how my many moons have altered the way alcohol affects me presently: I can still drink like a rockstar ... I just sure as hell don't recover the next day like one!

To be continued ...

Finding My Way - part 2

I despise buying airline tickets ... a month in advance ... on-line. Inevitably, the online registration process for reservation adds yet another load of crap to my inbox. News of new airline routes, summer sales, changes in regulations, reminders of the fact that "Hey, look where we fly, but you probably don't have the time or funds to go to when we discount our prices!" Bastards. Also, filling out the online reservation is paramount to applying for medical coverage or joining the Freemasons. The barrage of questions is one turnoff (Do you want insurance? Do you need to check any luggage? Do you wish to rent a car at your destination? Do you like films about gladiators?), and the code-like formatting that some of your details has to be in invariably never goes right the first 3 or 4 times (please enter a contact number; country code followed by a space, then change the font, make the first 3 digits in Roman numeral, double space, put your computer on standby for exactly 3.47 minutes, come back and enter 3 more digits in Arabic, get bled by leaches and complete the number afterwards ... and then it still gives you an extremely vague warning: "One of the fields has not been correctly filled. Please check the 27 places designated with a red asterisk"). After you finally decrypt the Da Vinci Code and click confirm, the server always crashes, leading you to go to your banking details and pray that you didn't get billed for the first erroneous booking before starting the entire 3-hour process once again. After all this, there is Murphy's Law. No matter when you search for or buy a ticket, there was or will be a better deal that pisses you off to no end. You look up prices one day, think "hey, that's not so bad, but I'll confirm tomorrow", come back the next day to see that the cost has doubled ... or ... you find a deal, buy the ticket and, two days later, the airline amazingly drops a "once in a lifetime deal" to the exact destination you want to go. Bastards! Obviously, there is also the concern that any time you reserve something a month or more in advance, a situation will arise and change your entire plans. Sickness, death in the family, job offer, Russian invasion (or US invasion for that matter), raging case of crabs ... you know, typical stuff ... life! I am parting with cash, so I am already stressed. Why does the process need to be made haemorrhoid inducing as well?

So, the flight tickets for the trek have been purchased. Our route will take us from Olomouc to Budapest by train for the first day, then off on the low-cost, purple and pink Hungarian Wizz Air to Istanbul the next. With only three weeks to attempt as much of 509 km as possible along the Lycian Way by foot, I doubt we will take even one night in Istanbul upon arrival. Depending on the final decision for our starting point (Hisarcandir in the east or Ölüdeniz in the west), we may as well just get off the plane and hop a bus so as to get right into the thick of it. This is not to say I wouldn't mind some time in Constantinople ... I mean, Istanbul (thank you, They Might Be Giants, for that song, which not only stays in your head forever, but was probably more information than we were taught under US scholastic curriculum), but one day is no justice to give a city with so much to offer. I would prefer to miss it all together than plant a flag to stake my claim of visitation status after a 12-hour sojourn. Overnights locked in a hostel and layovers at airports do not count as having the ability to tick another place off my list of countries or cities traversed, though I will state that I "have passed through" if given the chance.

Alas, the gateway to the East will have to wait till another day ... but I am not embarking on this excursion to slink about large cities filled with people, cafés, museums and wi-fi spots. I am going to breathe once again and to remember the days when my father used to take my sister and I up to the North Georgia mountains to get away from all the encroaching materialism of home ownership and monotonous weekends filled with lawn mowing, car washing and TV watching ... and to escape reality for a brief blink of the eyes.

To be continued ... 

Finding My Way - part 1

Oh, to still have all my hair!
Prague ca. 1999

I'm a wee bit scared. Anxiety attacks at night, even. After a few months of daydreaming and mulling things over, a good friend of mine, Mitch, has finally talked me into doing a long-distance hike. He has experience at these things, which I am grateful for, and I am well in need of a chance to disconnect from the Internet, TV, computer ... and just life. Unplug. Not spiritually ... just to remember the outdoors ... and to travel again. It has been a long, dry spell (or wet spell, as things are in reality in Central Europe during winter). That is not what keeps me from a restful sleep, though. Far from it. It's not the 509 km that the upcoming trek entails. This is the Lycian Way in Turkey! Planned out in 1999 and now a well-marked trail for both the hearty and those that get their luggage shipped daily from refuge to refuge by bus whilst they meander unencumbered with local guides. It's not the wild camping that we plan to do or even the possibility of scorpions stinging me in the nards as I crouch for a wilderness poo. This route has the possibility for accommodation, food and water throughout 85 % of its length along the Mediterranean coastline. What churns the blood through my veins with a pressure bordering on the same degree as to require Scotty from Star Trek to scream: "She canny take ne more, Captain! She's gonny blow!!" are the ramifications of the daily grind when I return ... or, should I say, the damage that the grind could do to me whilst I am away. I may be removing myself from the machine, but the pistons and gears will stay in perpetual motion no matter what I may do.

You see, I, like many others, am self-employed; doing what I have to do to get by in this life abroad. I could have done the office life ... the 9-5 ... I had that before. But there was always something missing, and I never knew about that until I wandered beyond the confines of the US of A and stayed at my first non-YHA hostel back in 1995. The Inverness Student Hotel in Inverness, Scotland was that defining moment, for better of for worse, that altered the fabric of space and time for me (ok ... it wasn't that religious of an experience, but it did start the process of opening my eyes to a larger world). Here were people enjoying the life of a transient. No one place to call home; no four walls of a cubicle to ensnare them. Those working at the hostel were Australian or Canadian; people who had left behind the comfort of their families and bed and the opportunity to earn a decent wage with health care and social security for a low-paying, temporary job on the move. This is what interested me! How do they do this? Why? And then, as the years went by, and as the stupid mistakes I made taught me a lesson or two piled up, I found something else of interest: people were damned interesting! I loved the sights, tastes and tough-love embrace of Scotland, and in those first few years, Ireland, Germany, France and Holland kept my enthusiasm as erect as a porn star being delicately tended to by a skilled 'fluffer' ... but ... I couldn't get enough of the mass of interesting live bodies that filled all these landscapes and architectural structures never seen before in the likes of East Coast America. Here were people that were only as distantly removed as the individual states in America, but from one border to the next, they had completely contrasting lives, food, drink, buildings and outlooks. At that time, before the EURO came into force, every country had their own currency ... and as for languages, well, Czech is not German ... for fuck's sake, some people would say that Scottish isn't even listed as being remotely English (especially at a West Highland pub after a few drinks)! In the US, we Southerners may speak a bit slower than our northern brothers, but it is close enough to be understood a majority of the time. Our big difference is supermarkets ... Piggly Wiggly in the South, Wegmans in the North. Outside of this and the speed and manner of which we say the same words ... not much else that is that major. I was in awe of Europe and this new, wider world I had entered, and I wanted nothing more than to stay and see ... to experience more. So I adapted, became a chameleon ... a jack of all trades. There was no other choice. I watched other North American travellers scurrying about with their daddy's credit card and their idea of: "Hey, my Eurail Pass put me into Berlin one night and then out to Paris the next. That's two 'countries' I have explored!" Australians were slightly better, though, being able to work legally in the UK for a certain amount of time and getting the chance to get involved in the culture to a larger degree, but I did notice an alarmingly large portion of them moving to places like Edinburgh and then surrounding themselves with other Australians at Aussie pubs watching Aussie cricket or rugby matches every chance they could get or having friends post them care packages of Tim Tams and Vegemite (which I fell in love with and stole every chance I could get ... nothing beats a morning breakfast of toasted bread covered in butter and salty yeast spread, followed by a coffee slurped through a melting chocolate biscuit). They moved countries, but not their surroundings. Of course this is a major generalisation, and there are some grand exceptions to the rule, but you will notice this more often than you care to.

If I wanted to learn something more than just the prices of beer and where to go for an overly-taken photo, I needed to stay in a country longer than one night surrounded by other travellers staking their claim to a new country via a vomit-inducing hangover or sexual conquest due to lack of inhibitions because the world back home would never know of your 'summer of love'. This is not to say I did not enjoy a night out with kindred spirits nor to say that I did not try my best to score with the flirtatiously drunken university girl (whom I usually lost out to a Scotsman for, with his damned "Alrigh, luv ... you look fookin' gorgeous, you do", spoken in a broad Glaswegian accent. The underpants just melted off many a slightly tipsy Canadian or American lassie with that 'oh, so romantic' line, for some reason). The question remained: How to stay in Europe longer than my rapidly decreasing credit card limit and limited stay US passport would allow me? Scrubbing toilets and making beds at hostels in exchange for a bunk in the staff quarters and some food helped staunch the bleeding of cash, but I was still nowhere near knowing what made the locals tick (or mutter, or whinge and moan). Then, whilst hitching through Germany and coming to the end of my funds, I ran into a fellow Yank, who suggested we make a last weekend in Prague before succumbing to the real world of jobs and finances once more. Luck would have it that the hostel in Prague needed bed-makers for the next two weeks ... so my weekend was extended in a new country. Something magical happened next. Germany was a struggle for me. I enjoyed the sights and meeting some new friends, but the language has never been for me. Not only is "Ich liebe dich" just the complete opposite of sensual (apologies to all my German-speaking friends), but staunch German regulations had no place for a transient American looking for "black work" and getting paid "under the table". But after I was in Czech Republic a few days, people noticed I could pronounce this new-to-me Slavic language without sounding atrociously like most Hollywood actors portraying the stereotypical, evil Soviet killer (Da, Ameerican capitoolist peeg ... pree-pair to dye. Ok, comrades ... shoot heem!). And the history was so unlike anything I had ever even remotely heard about in our Mississippi high school history classes, which usually amounted to one brief week of studying about the Nazi blitz into Poland and the Soviets taking control, after good ol' Uncle Sam saved the day, of course, and wanting to destroy our democratic way of life ... that was as close to Central Europe as it ever got for us! It was heroin for me ... and I wanted more. My drug buddy came in the form of an Australian girl working at the hostel with me; she had discovered a connection in the form of the Czech Republic's desperation for native speakers of English ... and even better for them if they didn't care about earning anything more than cheap wine and potent plum brandy. As I was constantly (and still am) without cash anyway, and as I discovered I didn't have to do this new profession only in Prague, I became a teacher of English conversation to kids in a small city in the east of the country called Uherské Hradiště. Though it took me over a month just to learn how to say the name of my new abode, I was granted a working visa and was left in charge of the language skills of budding minds ... with a profession I had no clue about, save that I used to get decent marks in English in my school days. But I was in ... and a new path had presented itself.

To be continued ... 

Clouds

Where I reside at present has a tendency to remain grey, dark and cold for the lengthy winter months, but there is still magic to be found in some hidden nook or cranny down a back alley. This can lead many a soul into the shadow, aching for warmth and light to lift their pale spirits. But that isn’t really the cause of a chill I feel surging though my veins and heart. It’s me … just me.

In another existence (one of many) long ago, where the sun shone brighter and the temperature was higher, I fell down a dark hole that nearly crippled me. Sadly, I already knew that I had put myself there, too. I watched on as that crevasse approached, and I ran straight towards it … never steering away, knowing I had plenty of chances and opportunities to prevent everything that was about to occur. But I didn’t. I revved up the engine, so fuelled on dishonesty, a sense of entitlement and laziness, and I charged ahead, anticipating the crash … and waiting for the pity that everyone, whether they truly felt it or not, would pour upon my “broken” bones lying at the bottom of the well. And it came … in torrential floods.

But something had changed … it didn’t work anymore. The attention didn’t substitute the hurt. It may have bandaged the wound, but it didn’t reset the fractures. So I ran, limping and lame, to another shore to get away from those pitying eyes that looked at me with helplessness or advice I would not and could not take. And in that escape, I felt better for a short time, until I found that I missed that look. I was addicted, a heroin junkie to sympathy. Eventually, the hunt began again for that fix of those “oh, poor you” glances, and I told my sad tale repeatedly to a new audience who ate it up, hungry for someone’s demise, licking at the taste of another person’s sorrow like grease on their fingers. And if they were not after a bite, then I ignored them, called them disillusioned. But in all actuality, they wanted nothing to do with me. They saw the ruse of me pitching my childish fit on the floor, pathetically waiting for someone to focus on me … and for most people, it is just a trait they wish to ignore and get away from. But one person did not, and I am forever grateful to him for his words. He listened to my sob story, letting me stand on that stage, bathing in the limelight of depressed arrogance … and he simply blurted out with a laugh and called me an idiot.

After years and years of milking that cow for all it was worth, the bitterest taste you can imagine, I understood then that I was an idiot, and it was time to stop. Not stop the attention, because I love that, and it can be a helpful, healing friend and companion, but I had to change its nature. Where was I the most joyous and fulfilled? On the stage playing in bands; in front of the microphone on the radio; there in the gaze of the camera eye; in front of a collection of fellow travellers sharing a moment, and as topping on the cake, a laugh. It was time to cease feeding a beast, a monster, a vampire of self-depreciation. I found my substitute, a different drug. Something less harmful to shoot in my veins that made me function and give something back instead on leeching off others.

But the old never really dies. That creature hides well, lurks under the stairs or beneath the bed. Weakened, but not defeated, it still manages to sink a claw, razor sharp, back into my wrist from time to time, as it is doing right now at this moment I am writing. I know what this is. It is all too familiar.

We all have the ability to assist others and dish out course upon course of savoury advice, so proud in our preparation and presentation of these helpful meals that we lay on the table of others in need; but when it comes to nourishing ourselves, it’s pot-noodle and a tin of beans. If we see another fall, we may not wish to know why they fell, but we will offer a hand to at least get them off the ground to carry themselves again; but when we slip and no one sees, it is the most difficult thing to drag yourself from the muck or even cry out for a rope, because we secretly want that suffering. If nothing goes as planned and we propagate that, then we prove to ourselves that lack of worth, and at that point we see why we are nothing, The reason is there. And that daemon inside has to be fed.

For many years I have been building others up, supporting the weight of another, calling upon all the gods of alchemy to transform others’ lead to gold. I don’t always get the combination in just the right measurements, because this is an exact art, and one day that concoction may be just the balance of sweet and sour, whilst other days it is bitter and foul. You need to have the mixture of the two: just enough heart to show care, a dash of sarcasm to make the other see the stupidity in their actions, a pinch of a smile so they open their eyes to the utter silliness of their doubt, a small drop of cruelty to wake them up, and that final splash of concern that shows you understand and care, but that you and no one else wants to listen to the same thing day in and out. I have to admit to getting it wrong at times. Mixed well, I have brightened a heart; but I have a shaky hand and have ruined many a day with just too much addition of sarcasm. And I have also been known to substitute heart and care with cruelty, becoming sloppy and lazy … and selfish. After lending a hand with the best of intentions, human nature unfortunately springs forth on occasion and demands something back. “I want what I feel I deserve! I helped you, now where is my reward? The princess has been saved from the dragon, and the kingdom should be mine!” That thought is there in most of us, whether warranted or not. Even if we botch the job a little, we still want what is ours. But we tend to forget, just as with any contract, if the request is not filled to the letter, then everything is forfeit.

Somewhere along the line, I lost heart. I couldn’t keep up with making those batches of temporary cures of another, and I got lazy again. I was no longer aiming to create that perfect mixture and be the best I could be, but all that I was whipping up was a pallid formula that eventually became unacceptable.

Cutting corners has let that old phantom regain strength and whittle me down. My belief in others and myself has crumbled and eroded, and this mostly because I have stopped trusting in my own ideas and have relied to heavily on others that I blinded myself to not seeing they were of no use and would only add to the decline. And with this, I have been looking for that sickening pity, searching under those dank stones in the mud for it, knowing full well that it does absolutely nothing but make me feel worse and stagnate. That unfulfilling feast so easy to prepare in plenty, but which leaves you hollow, starving and ill. And I am too weak to turn away from the table and refuse another serving.

So, here I am, with one more breath from the part of me that was with a smile on his face, remembering who I was in those days of determination and unsinkable spontaneity. I write not for the attention from the story itself, but for the sake of writing. I used to have travel as my muse and inspiration, and without that, I put pen to paper less … but I need to write. I need to express something … even if it is this. I have to extract it from my head in some way. I am also asking for something. I am asking for assistance. I am searching for that boost once again. Confidence in my abilities, work that I enjoy and put my soul inside … being in the spotlight. I have had all of this at one time before, and I miss them as one would that long-lost lover. Eager for are the days of not living hand-to-mouth, struggling to spend time with the ones you love because through circumstances of your own doing and others, you have a mound of debt that never seems to dissipate, strangling your every move. A day without rain.

And what I truly need is that carefree friend from my past, wherever he may be, and if he is even still a part of this world, to call me an idiot again, reminding me of how much of a joke this life is.

Liberation: 27 January 1945

In Commemoration of the Anniversary of the Liberation of Auschwitz: 27 January 1945

There is no need for the beasts of fantasy or the demons from hell when the horrors of mankind are already beyond comprehension.

I resided in Kraków, Poland for nearly seven years before I made an trip to the former Nazi German concentration and extermination camp of Auschwitz-Birkenau only 60 km away. Connections between the Polish city and the Museum are frequent and tour companies have specialised in this excursion for years. This was not the situation holding me back. I knew the basics of the history of World War II, I had seen the multiple films of the subject, and it was a visit that I did wish to make in my life after hearing from a myriad of peers who had been there of the profound effect it had upon them. I believe I was just afraid to see it all first hand … to personally view this area of unimaginable wrongdoing. It took a visit from a family member to finally persuade me drive out to the city of Oświęcim for the day.

Having heard of the vastness of the Birkenau camp, we had decided to begin there, as I knew it would take up the majority of time. I was only expecting this time to be measured in the distances covered on foot. What I soon found out upon arrival through that infamous gate, its heart pierced through by the railway line so often portrayed in films, was that the hours you spend there are not consumed by the expanse of land, so unfathomably vast, that you traverse, but by every minute that is drawn out at length with the thoughts and emotions seeping in from everywhere. The barbed-wired fences, the threatening watchtowers, the countless remains of barracks that housed thousands upon thousands of people considered by the Nazis as impure and deplorable. And as you make your way further in, the unimaginable crematoriums and adjoining facilities with all the terrors they entailed. These images, these sites and these feelings, they all make you think; but the question that returns again and again is not why. People throughout time have despised others and wanted them destroyed for whatever their self-justified reasons. The question that remains in this place, and others like it, is how. How could any supposedly civilised person do what they did here to another living soul? Not only to prisoners of war, but to the elderly, to women and mothers … and to children.

Everything was so much to take in, and you ache inside. But it is a room filled with photos that brought all that grief and sorrow cascading down at last. These pictures of individuals, families, newly born children, couples just wed were far more potent than the piles of shoes and stacks of utensils … more intense than the furnaces and empty canisters of gas. Here were the faces of the countless victims, no longer just the unseen ghosts of the previous owners of suitcases and clothing stripped away in humiliation. These were now the mothers, fathers, lovers and neighbours that someone knew. This was their former selves, their lives, their faces staring back at you from behind frames of glass. These were the people whose ash is now a part of the soil of this camp and whose blood was shed for a lunatic and his perverse ideals. Here were people.

When you make your way to the camp of Auschwitz proper, you immediately realise: Birkenau is as it remains so that the entire concept of what went on here solidifies itself in your mind and comes into clarity. Auschwitz, with its sign resonating their words around the globe, is the educational segment. This does not make it any less powerful, but with its bookshop, cafeteria, film hall and exhibitions, this is the Museum proper. I do not say this to belittle the suffering that occurred here, for it was insurmountable, but the smaller area here had the air of administration and the elements of a prison. Birkenau was only death and sorrow … and you could feel it to your bones.

As a tour leader for a company years later, I brought a group for their visit to the Memorial Site. I gave them the basic history on our journey to the Museum, but upon reaching the entrance to both camps, I found that I could not enter. I gave care of my lot to one of the phenomenal guides who knows so much more about this place and who has the strength to lead visitors through this area repeatedly for many months at a time. I had seen this dark spot on the Earth once, and my mind will forever have that experience etched upon it. I took away in my thoughts what the purpose of preserving this camp is for … to always hold in memory those who perished here, those that liberated the camp and those that survived, so that their story is never forgotten and so that no one will ever repeat these atrocities ever again.

You can read more and support the work of the Auschwitz-Birkenau State Museum here.

6

Six years ago today, my daughter was born in Kraków, Poland to a tired American father and an even more worn out Polish mother. By standards, it was not a lengthy labour, but, that being said, this little spark of life needed a bit of a prod to make her let loose the safety of her mother’s womb and breathe the warm air of a room full of strangers talking emphatically about their recent holidays whilst the more familiar voices of her parents where caught up in muffled screams or, speaking more personally, the idiotic “wow, cool” of her father as he glanced on in amazement with camera in one hand and his wife’s hand in the other. Within the space of what seemed like a second, I severed the cord that had connected her for so long to her mother, listened on as the cries escaped her lips as this new experience of lungs no longer filled with liquid opened up and watched on as this gore-coated being was placed on her mothers chest next to her rapidly beating heart. Understandable, but still strange in my mind, was the fact that this moment of shock and amazement was over in a flash as the doctors lead my daughter and I away to clean the child of blood and mucous and run through all the usual tests a newborn must face whilst my wife lay back after all her exertion and had the remains of childbirth drawn from her and was given a moment to let her body heal after all the strain and pain. I, on the other hand, was graced with a moment that stays with me every day of my life … after my child was weighed, measured and given the thumbs up from the health department, I was allowed a moment alone with this little girl who was only now shedding her chameleon purple shade of birth to the soft pink that would be needed to fit into this new world. She was wrapped up tightly to imitate the confines and warmth that she was so used to, and she cried with the new sounds now escaping with each breath. Shortly after the nurses left the room to give me this time of bonding, the screams lessened until they ceased altogether as I held her as close as I dared for fear of breaking her. I spoke, I hummed, I gleamed … and my eyes filled with tears. It seemed to me that after all the turmoil and crowds that ushered her into the world, this moment of peace, with a familiar voice she must have recognised through the muffled wall of her mother’s belly, was a welcome respite. I was never quite sure of having a child, but I knew how much it meant for my wife, and I knew there was no one else in the world I would have wanted to discover this territory with, so I put my fears aside and even came to look forward to the day the daughter I had hoped for and received would come into my life … look forward to the days when I would be called “daddy” and the days I would be there for her first steps to her first day at school to her wedding and to her children that may come one day. And as I held her there, I made a promise that I would always be there, that I would always protect her and that I would always, without question, love her with a part of me that I never knew I had in me.

Six years have now passed since then, and in that time, I have stumbled, fallen and risen to my feet on multiple times. I have struggled with this new responsibility at times, and I have lost sight of many things I should have never taken my eye off. I can see that now after being smacked back into reality, but things have changed … some for good, and some for bad. I can be stupid and a complete idiot at times as well as selfless and brilliant for brief moments; I was too careless to hold my marriage together, but after too long of bottling anger and blaming others, I have let go, learned that I have to take a lot of the blame for what went wrong and consider myself lucky that the mother of my child and I can finally speak civilly to each other and continue to raise our daughter, though maybe not together, at least in agreement and with two homes full of love and care; me and money are never constant companions, but I am still inventive and fearless and always find a way to survive and care for those I am responsible for; some days I find myself on top of the world, whilst other days I sink into self-destruction and drink or smoke myself into oblivion; I am proud of many things I have done, but I also hate myself for not being more … not being what I know I could be.

But throughout these conflicts of emotions in this roller-coaster of a life, I try to be there for my daughter as much as a father separated from his family can be, I do all I can to protect her and teach her the best I can so that she sees the world in a humorous, though cautious, light … and I will always love her no matter what she has done or no matter how upset or frustrated I become with something she, as a child learning the ropes, does, whether intentional or not. She is my girl; she is the greatest of gifts the world and, more importantly, her mother has ever bestowed upon me. She grounds me and keeps me responsible, but at the same time she keeps me silly and imagining the impossible. She is my daughter … I am her father … and that is something that I will give my life (and keep my life) to preserve. She is a light I could never imagine myself being without.

Today may be her birthday, but I seem to be the one happiest with this present that I receive and which grows and becomes something more year after year.

Thailand, Laos and Cambodia - Arrival

Growing up in the South can be taxing on the human body when it comes to the heat and humidity. Southern Georgia was bad, but nowhere near as sweltering as the hot, sticky hell of Mississippi in summer, where I had the punishment of spending my high school and short-lived university years. Breaking into a sweat as soon as you step out of a nice, cool shower is disconcerting, along with the feel of your clothing as it turns into cling-film, the atrocious wet stains under your dripping armpits and the sensation of your nether regions, packed oh-so snug into your pants and trousers, now taking on the role of a steam room. Though I do constantly whinge about this discomfort, I consider myself familiar with the feeling of having sweat glazed flesh (and not the sultry type one associates with the glistening bodies of models posing seductively on a beach or in porn magazines … not that I would know about that), but nothing could have prepared me for the sauna-like jungle climate of Thailand, Laos and Cambodia. Maybe this was because I had distanced myself from the warmer climes for a few years prior to this excursion, and the three years I had lived in Scotland must have definitely lowered my tolerance.

As I stepped out of the airport in Bangkok (a place which fools the unsuspecting visitor with an air-conditioned terminal), I was hit with a blast of hot air so intense that I almost broke down in tears with the realisation of what I had got myself into, though I’m quite sure the tears would have evaporated immediately if I had cried. This was hot … stuffy … uncomfortable … and just plain annoying. I quickly shed as many clothes as possible (and legally permissible) and nearly threw away my rucksack as I could not stand it in such close proximity to my back, covering any place on my being where fresh air could get at and cool me off. And then I got on the bus going into the city. At that point, surrounded by individuals radiating body heat and sucking up the available air that didn’t seem to move around but just hung there, I sunk into a melting lump of flesh on a seat and panted like the dogs on porches I had seen so often in the South; dogs that looked up at passing cars and kids on bicycles and seemed to say, “Screw that. I ain’t gonna give chase. It’s too damn hot, boy!”

Now, as much as I hate the heat, I despise air-conditioning to a similar degree. It’s just so unnatural. Feels fake, if you know what I mean. Fans, ceiling or otherwise, are the way to go in my book. And Bangkok was filled with them! Every shop, hostel, bar, restaurant had them … but they just didn’t seem to work unless you found that magical sweet-spot just in front or right below the fan … and those points of paradise were always already taken by a punter who got there and perched before you could. It made you hate your fellow traveller, really.

The locals were immune, and plenty of times, I saw Thai girls all dressed up in denim jackets hopping on their scooters to head off for an afternoon or night out. Jackets, I tell you! They had two or three layers of clothing on, and I was contemplating how uncouth it would seem of me to strip naked and start shoving copious amounts of ice into or onto every part of my body. In the end, I just sat there amazed, wiping my dripping brow, telling myself to just get used to it and drinking cold beverages that seemed to just come right back out of me through the pores of my skin. I longed for their tolerance; I envied their dry skin; and I gawked at the police wearing their skin-tight long sleeves and trousers.

Now, it is said that many men come travelling to Bangkok for the beautiful Asian women and the legendary ‘ping-pong’ shows (a truly amazing, and humorous, sight!). Some of these men come without any evil intentions and just a head full of curiosity, some come for conquest and the chance to add another notch to the proverbial bedpost … and some come because they are just sick bastards. But whatever thoughts there were in my mind of a sexual nature were always quashed by the thought of: “Even if I wasn’t so uncomfortably hot that the idea of another person’s skin against my own didn’t repulsed me, what Thai beauty in her right mind would look at a panting and perspiring pasty white Caucasian boy looking like the recurring bedraggled stranded-on-a-desert-island character at the beginning of Monty Python’s Flying Circus that steps out of the ocean in shredded garments to say ‘It’s …’ just before the theme song starts up?” The malaria pills that you are advised to take also killed any remaining desires (even the desire to live) that I had, too, but more about that vile medication later.

Anyway, I had arrived, and despite my discomfort, I was thrilled to be out of either North America or Europe for the first time in my life. I so wanted to see this culture and experience the tastes, sights and smells. Ever since my youth, I had been a fan of spicy foods, and here I was … in the land of the flaming tongue and burning gut! I was already sweating beyond measure, so why not just dive in, right? The history, religion, colours and terrain were all so tempting, but, to be completely honest, this was not the sole reason I was here. I was here for a much more idiotic reason … I was here because my ex-girlfriend invited me. The plan was to be in Southeast Asia for a month, and this decision based partly on emotion (with a strong dose of crotch thrown in for good measure) would grant me one extraordinary week of highs followed by a week of feeling as though I had spiralled into depths of hell.

Flicker and Glow

She fascinates me, this Slavic beauty. What draws me into her landlocked embrace? The cities, towns and villages that she adorns like jewellery? The peaks and crevasses of her body, so much more free of the multitude of random, misplaced scars and tattoos that seem to endlessly encompass her northern sister? The combination of the two, more likely than not. Czech was my introduction to Central Europe; my first real lover after Scotland and I had broken up in a gnashing of teeth and spitting of obscenities. We two were not a perfect match at first, but what young man on the rebound treats the replacement well or appreciates the kindness he is shown? I was greedy and wanted “to sit upon two chairs”, as someone once told me. I did not appreciate everything she had to offer, and I abused the compassion she tried her hardest to show me. I was young … stupid … fickle … so I left her for another, always wanting and expecting and taking more. And I did receive more … in a completely different way than I planned for … and in a way that was so much more fulfilling than I could have ever contemplated. Whist I was entwined within the clutches of my magnificent white eagle, a lingering thought would still occasionally steal me away across the border like an unfaithful husband to bed my Czech mistress once, maybe twice a year. I did not shroud or attempt to hide my infidelity, and I would even be willingly permitted to meet our neighbour. With mutual trust in the strength of our commitment, I would always happily return home to the bed I had made … but her scent would be upon my flesh and her taste would linger upon my tongue. Now, that once blazing Polish fire dwindles and has removed her warmth from my bones, and as we attempt to amicably sift through the ashes and come to terms with the seeds we had sown together, I am coming to discover that the kind, gentle ember I left in the hearth ages past is still glowing and is more warm and beautiful than I remembered … and my feelings for her run much deeper than I once thought. I only pray she still feels as deeply for me and finds me as attractive and irresistible as I do her.

The Waters of Life

December of last year brought about a lot of turmoil in my life, and the waves and ripples are still lapping against the shores … but I am not one to dwell on the negative for too long, and I do have to give thanks to the fates when moments of bliss drop into my lap. Along with all the crap I have had to wade through this year, beautiful moments arose that glistened like cat’s eyes in the dark, murky sludge and have kept me on my feet, clambering towards more solid ground. When surrounded with lies as thick as locusts on holiday in biblical fields of revelation, a small yet cosy drinking establishment allowed me to stretch my wings beneath the earth and hold my head in the clouds for a time as I displayed my love of facial forms. That same brick-encased evening, there was even a duo of angels from white lands permitting me to strum my four-stringed harp and growl before the congregation about the lack of sunshine or the impending arrival of a Ford-driving Christ. And even as ice cold eyes stared blankly at me for days on end with their lifelessness, another unknown ethereal form stood trustingly before me one bright day … shining in the morning, smiling into the light of the afternoon and teasing me in the evening … an entire day all within the span of two hours resonating with the sounds of laughter. These days I have traded a hostile environment for a hostel one, and I walk along avenues covered in the spectacular colours of autumn or stroll the cobbled streets and lanes of a painting come to life; I watch numbered forms swiftly glide over ice as crowds of onlookers chant and scream; where I lay my head is now my home, even though I never seem to keep it upon the same pillow for more than 3 or 4 nights in a row; the company I keep are transient figures that I occasionally create lasting bonds with or, more likely than not, let slip away into the impenetrable fog of the morning … and all of this is near perfect … and far superior to the cold shadow of the ghosts that had for so long haunted my waking hours and sleepless nights. But even this new lens through which I glance through needs the addition of a finely aged 5-year old spirit to make it all swim into glorious focus. There is nothing that completes a day more than the time I am allotted every so often to savour that magnificent drink of life, and every sip I take keeps my head spinning in such a way that nothing can drag me down from the high I feel at those moments. I readily admit that it is a powerfully strong addiction, but one that I am more than willing to nurture or even give my life to keep. And I dare say that the majority of you will permit me to keep a firm hold of this one vice.

Through the Fog

Taking a break right now ... not really because I want to, but because my head is a bit fuzzy right now. It has been a hell of a year, and loads of changes are in progress. I think all for the better. Back when I can have more clarity.