On bright stars in dark nights.

Charlene vagabonding 1 Comment

2013 was year where my desire to go walkabout with possessions in a bundle at the end of a stick – or a couple of bags in my case – came true. I’ve been on it for a year and a week today, but rather than some far flung locale, I’m writing this post from my childhood home. Home is something that seems to punctuate journeys though, so perhaps there is no better place.

What I miss

Charlene journal 3 Comments

Enormous highways to forever. The feel of a powerful vehicle responding to my touch. A dry salt wind from deserts truncated by the ocean. Walking, where it is life and love and the very breath of these things, unstoppable for the sheer force of forward impulse. Not dulled by the hobbles of practical function. Unclouded vision for a perfect shard of light filtering through the dead monoliths of a concrete jungle, to illuminate a single flower on a stem. Solitude. Waking to the impossible fire of life, as more than a schizophrenic deception. The memory of a world not this strange gilded hamster-cage of a country, where there is only duty and unspoken rituals impossible to decipher. The silent reproach for the fallen, summoned from depths of hollow …