vunerability

So where to restart again,
(and once again this is fictional and not relevant to anything in particular,
for email recipients you need to actually look at the website)

things return to a semblance of normality, the Christians are back at the station. The sun rises the sun sets, the earth shakes a lot, the sun rises it shakes some more, the waves pummel, the tears flow down our cheeks.

I wonder do we have an internal compass guiding us back to a past known or unbeknown to ourselves?  Is there a part inside us which holds a direction to true home? When we are separated from our home, albeit if generations pass. Is there still an internal song line inside us caucasians taking us back to the route of our origins? Is there a song drawn across the globe calling me back to my roots, is the route back to my home? Does my spirit have a home or will it drift endlessly in this mortal existence that i call my life?

I find my self being pulled and pushed and drawn all over my surrounds searching for a glimpse of a  petrosomatoglyph, could it be that this which i had seen as social cairns could not maybe be the afore mentioned?
The only consistency is the change and time fleeting like wind blowing through my hair, I stand atop a large hill viewing the landscape of my existence.  I listen closely but the songs are confusing, pulling me back to a home (s) that I do not recognize and a home(s) that is not the one that my physical form has ever visited. My dreams and spirits flows through time and space being pulled towards a land on another continent.
Would it be a path it should follow, a journey along the path of my forefathers, to see what?

I stand with the brisk wind howling through my short hair, wind so cold and strong it brings tears to my eyes . The waves of wind creating visual poetry in motion as the boughs of the grasses sway and weave intricate patterns apon the side of the hill. I walk slowly through the forest and with little more than a sense of fascination and awe of the splendour, but I cannot yet call this my home, it happens to be the location that my physical form enhabits. Strangely at peace I walk faster and faster looking to get to the top of the hill, to break out of the forest and seek the air and the space and see the sea in the distance.

what will tomorrow hold for me and you?
I do not think we need to worry, the world continues with or without us,

I stand with my eyes affixed to the north staring to a location at this point unbeknownst to me. All i know is that this is where the roots of my current seedling made roots.  For the time being this is where is call home. More like a bough visciously ripped during a storm, only to be washed a shor ein an unknown land, sprouting and trooting to give a new home to its vicariously transported thoughts and tenants. All I know is that there is an internal song calling me to the origins of it all. Time will tell where the song takes me, what beacons of home I shall find on my journey forwards. There is no knowing what language that song is sung in, all I have to hope is that the internal rhythms guide me along the path that the dreaming totemic animals call me on my path forwards.

To say this is anything but true, is to say anything else is not. Irrespective of the truthfulness or validity of  this outlook.

So where does this take us, through a winding route through the dreams and thoughts of my mind on roads paved with good intentions and loaves of bread. I stand hoping to leave a trail behind for someone to follow as i seek the path or route back to my origins.

The words fall through the spaces in my thoughts rapidly falling swirling and mixing to create strings of meaning about the past future and present. What is the truth of the dreams we dream? even if they are not our own dreams  or words, does that make them any less fantastical. In this day and age of rationality and absolute truth is there any space left for the dreaming of our lives within the confines of our minds, knowing full well that the stark reality of life lies outside, the soft and melodic story that is woven inside my mind, in certain cases I could say my soul. My soul is transported to a land of memories, mingling with words of others, mixing with the tears flowing from the corner of my eyes, running down my angled and aging cheeks into the corners of my mouth illiciting a salty reality which momentarily returns me back to the present. 

where does this fictional story start? Does it start in the dust or the forests under an Acacia tree, an Albizzia an Artocarpus or whichever one and in a really absurd notion that the future is before the past it could even be a Podocarpus totara. There is no knowing where the dream of the lion and multitudes of beetles will take me.  As I walk down the wondrous pathway with Alan on my side, the call of the Tui rings shrill in my ears, carefully i make sure not to break the line of  green ants dreaming of red rocks and beetle fruit and jack fruit and my mind slowly but surely enters the dream plane. Slowly the rhythms combine to push me forwards on this journey we call dream time traveling. Long lines of green ants are silhouetted against the dusty red sky.

For the answer to this you will have to wait and dream the dream with me.

Yes in retro and even introspect the cheese slowly cakes against the side of my mouth, but it is not a reality, neither the words I write nor the experience illicited by them. The life as beautiful as a a tretchikoff stands before us ;-)