Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Peregrination station.

Here is my bag, here are my shoes, here is my hat, not baggage, not blues. The image burns now, now that my dream slowly fades, my country house becomes an illusion and all that is gingham slowly turns to dust. The image burns now, roads less travelled by this man, not by man himself. Below, first an ocean then deserts and mountains and cities and stars above. Vacuum sealed I arrive, my soul feels fresh and with thunderbolts above, I light foot it towards the unknown. This may well be what I have been searching for, or perhaps, my search will never end. Just widen and broaden and expand, continent by continent, until I am drawn home.

What knowledge of himself does a man seek when travelling? Is it in his abilities to survive, to slither, chameleon like through cultures, that he will find his measure? Is it purely the joy of waking under new constellations in the deepest part of the night, hearing new sounds, new words, the announcements over the Train Station address system which force him to realise just how far from safety he has come? I remember that alien caterwauling, fifteen years ago, my first night in Japan. Awake in a house by the railway at 3am. I remember the "ding ding dong" and the squelching, scratching torrent of illegible allocution which followed. I held my pillow tight, and abashed, breathed in the familiar smell of my own linen.

Ah, but the morning. So alive! So antithetic, and being so, so overwhelming, so sensationally breathtaking. Good morning, good morning, oyaho gozaimasu. Eyes darting left and right, and on the street my camera catching such inane details as traffic signs, advertisements, policemen, school uniforms. Different smells, and for a boy raised on pulp fiction, I half expected alligators on skewers for breakfast, with a side order of monkey's testicles. HAH! Naivety holds such beauty. Now for a taxi, now for a tour, look at that building, look at that man, those beautiful teenage girls, the trees are foreign, the whole feel of the place hair-raising in its viridity. Contagious, infectious, mephitic, miasmic, I'm captured by everything.

Home is a dream, a stepping stone, a beginning. But walking out that front door holds such promise, there and back again, or perhaps just there. Follow your feet, traipse and stroll and stride toward anywhere, open your eyes your ears your soul your smile and laugh fuckers hehe laugh, take today as an adventure, even in intimate surrounds, have you seen that house, that park, that shop? Whistle, if you can for I cannot, though I favour a skip from time to time, a mad little dash to pass a slovenly stranger, and often I just stretch my arms out wide and whizgiggingly snort at movement itself.

I am Sherlock Holmes, I am Sam Spade, and mysteries are bountiful, outside my front door.

The game is afoot.

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