All posts filed under: Travel

Wanderlust

the starlight motel.

i drive straight lines hundreds of miles in an attempt to steer my way through this mojave in my mind. it’s just me, lifeless space, silver dust, and freight trains. what a strange state to be in, my desert days. i find faith in burnt coffee, crossroad cities, hidden springs and the starlight motel. faith, draped in fraying prayer flags under the shadow of some towering saguaro, at the base of thunder mountain. it pours, like desert rain. i bury all doubt under twisting pinyon, and juniper, and tread pine needle shrines with bare feet. Advertisements

constellations

heartbreak, and the pacific coast highway. patches of scattered wildflowers, rolling gradually into norwegian arctic coral beaches, sun-bleached bright white against crystal coves of the clearest turquoise. aching knees, too many airplanes, and a rented bicycle. all of these things brought me to this brief patch of autumn, these last few weeks of a september, misty low and tumbling grey. similarly to the changing seasons, my thoughts move more gently now, lulled by the shifting of light and by the flickering candle-glow of memories and contemplation. i am wrapped in constellations, in the constellations of him, my old winter’s friend who, for years now, has in shining armour, leapt to my defense.

manot (the magnitude of this magic)

    it’s 4am, august 17th, 2016. i’m wide eyed awake, and again, raising mountains in my mind – they’re the kind of peaks that can’t be climbed, and i just can’t figure it out, how to go about housing these flustered thoughts, each amplified by the low and heavy night, it’s bottomless, almost, dense with a silence so thick it threatens tangibility. i can almost reach out and with trembling fingers touch it. the night drips like ink, deep indigo spilling all over me, near-suffocating. can i be frighteningly honest? i’m struggling. soon, though. soon, sheets of sunrise will pour angularly, slanted and staggered through the painted pale blue shutters, and the thrown-wide-open windows , of this little limestone cottage, all covered in ivy, honeysuckle, and wandering fruit vines. how many hundred summers have these sun-bleached farm and manor houses seen? and, soon, the dappled gold gentle warmth of another late summer morning will set my skin aglow, turn my hair to straw, and the bedroom, with it’s net canopy and creaking oak floorboards, …