On exactly this night one year ago, I found myself in Oaxaca Juarez, central Mexico, wandering the streets like a tramp, in awe and revelry of the spectacles I saw there during the ‘Dias de Los Muertos’ rituals. Numerous illuminated altars in infrared light of multi-colored candles, each symbolic of a different energy. The images of the saints being offered food, libations, and prayer. A hurry of indigenous energy down dim streets, the cacophony of Mariachi and mountain folk music beat out on marimbas, strings, and bells. Being there, drunk on dark sublime, a bit confused, poor, excited, also wondering where I might sleep that night. Now one year later, I sit here, writing this journal, carefully stoking my fire, passively listening to some romantic music, and reflecting on the space in between. The countries I have opened my eyes to, the languages sung to my receiving ears in cultures unlike my own, the women’s hearts I have kept and loss, the love I have felt, and the depths I have sunk to seeking a way back above the sinking tide. It’s not important that we try to force experience or event into these anniversarial times, but more-so that we can recognize past life happenings as moments in time to find out where we are, where we are going, and where we have been.
Soon I will leave this cabin, and it will be yet another home that was once… then was. All somatic memory of place being transferred into a slightly altered reality of the new and novel, of the here and now. I am yet a lonely child, ignorant of the future, as we all are, scrambling to prepare for the unknown and planning for what we see on the horizon. There are especial features of prolonged solitude brought on by living in a semi-cut off cabin. The swallowing long hours of contemplation, and mental pools that try every idle hour to yoke the unconscious to the conscious. The way the weather affects the working of the mind, and the chromo-therapy of the forest with its ruddish colors, fading hues of fall, and floating feeling of sleep in complete dark without little light pollution. The smell of wood smoke and ash always lingers and my solar lights mark the boundaries of my porch. My skin starts to make its own oils and there is no need for constant bathing, it takes on the scent of pine sap, earth, smoke, and my own natural pheromones. You have time for simple things, and it is simple things that make me happy. The squaw and fleeting presence of a blue jay, the sunspots that cuts through the clouds, good music in my ears, an hour with a book, the warmth of the fire, and the view over the pond.
Currently I am reading Albert Hoffman’s LSD: My Problem Child, and Timothy Leary’s Exo-psychology, and an e-book on Lucid Dreaming by Dr. Laberge, and just finished reading the famed Yage Letters by Allen Ginsberg and William S. Boroughs. My private time seems to be very heady oriented, I am a bookish person, though I consciously remember to keep a balance by taking walks through the forest, observing forms, patterns, sensually experiencing the ambient sounds of nature, or the music in my cabin, and taking pleasure in enjoying good food. Routine is highly important in a domestic lifestyle, of which I have been choosing to live deliberately to accomplish the steps for my ulterior missions in life. Living intently, and modifying this lifestyle to serve me, in routine, I find an efficiency, and a grounding serenity that takes pressure off the mind.
Sometimes I wonder who reads this and where? What is going through their minds, maybe having empathy from shared life experiences, or indifference, or want to know how to reach out somehow. I encourage those who feel that way to do so. I have always loved exchanging letters, patiently waiting for the next dose of communication to come in from a potential new friend. Has anyone else tried to find these points of reflections? I suppose the most obvious would be coming of age, each year recognizing personal growth, but what about personal days of some particular imprinting. For me, traveling through Mexico, with barely a peso to my name, with no destination, no particular plan, and open to try new things was a humbling and deepening of my own subjective reality and evolving spirit. Now I find relative comfort in a shelter of my own, albeit temporarily, a familiar culture, a mission and a sense of responsibility, and I ponder, if it is worth it. Trading adventure and experience, for a sense of security and comfort. Full employment for full enjoyment. Sometimes, this is needed to re-root, and ground ourselves to our own identity, and place, but there must always be a balance. I like the idea of taking micro-adventures, whether for pleasure or for skill acquisition, thus having a stable shelter makes sense to come back to, at least for now. I continue to add wood to the flames, and think it all over again.