All You Can Do is Do.

There are some questions you just can never answer. Some things that just stick, adhere to your skin, cling to your eyes and ears and brain, seeping deep within you, slipping fingers into the cracks and seams; rivulets of thought or trauma or strength or less-named things. Though, I guess all of those could be bunched under the heading of "less-named things". It's all veiled. Covered from our eyes and kept away; to obtain any knowledge of those things it takes your own hand, your own will, your own willingness to reach forward and draw that veil aside. The world is blank, when it comes down to it, but it's not bleak; it's emptiness is akin to that of canvas not the dark, uninhabited space of a vacuum. That canvas is a veil, stretched over with the less-named things, covering what lies underneath. The space beneath that blankness is a pool, an inkwell and life is simply the art of finger painting, the strokes of penmanship, the scratches of chisels. However you go about puncturing that veil is up to you; you choose to write or paint or carve your life, your surroundings, your perception of your very existence in the way that you find most fluid, most organic.

A little over a month ago I left home, flew halfway across the world and placed myself in an alien place... a little over a month ago I left my girlfriend of, now, five months alone for a span of four... a little over a month ago, I tore myself away from any place I held as sacred or warming or healing, from the woman I have come to think of as my home, to live alone here in Auckland... a little over a month ago I first read the words of Jack Kerouac, first grasped the spontaneity and blankness of the world, first realized that some things you can never answer, some things don't need to be answered and some things can never leave you... some things become you.

At the top of a mountain in the Northlands, a Maori woman named B told me of the mountains and rivers and valleys around us, about her families ownership of that space, of their connection in blood and genealogy to the very land they live in. They call those spots, those points of sacredness, "Wairua" (or spirit, quintessence) sites, places of quiet contemplation and connection. Up at the top of that mountain just below its peak, it's point of "tapu", of sacredness, I felt the peace of "Ohakiri", of that sacred mountain. Those mountains are always in the mind of the people who live beneath them. They see them every day, live in their shade, and those places become engrained in their psyche, become a part of them. So when they turn away from the looming shapes of their past, of their heritage, of their home, they dream them always.

I grew up on the Delaware; the river a constant in my life. It's grey-blue tail curving past the deep browns of the shore line; the pines, the oaks and the maples mapping out my childhood in cycles of lush foliage and bare skeletal Fall. That place, that river, has always been in my mind, in my writing. Following the river of my youth came a city, low and capped with heavy, crimson clouds, pendulous overhead; a place of brownstones and pockets of quirk and oddity. Baltimore, Bodymore, became my new home, inhabited the role of mentor and tutor during a time of blank self-searching. And now a new "wairua" spot occupies me, a place, a person, who has been with me since before my waking memory. Her name, oddly enough, matches her meaning. I left that place, both of those places, where I had pulled back the veil, pierced it and let the water beneath it pour out. I left them both for a spot where no well has been tapped.

But a thing I've learned over my journey; those spots come with you. They cling to you like those questions you can never answer; they adhere to your spirit, your mind, your physical form. Forever I will be "Delaware born-and-bred; Baltimore forged; and electrified by Edan". I come from somewhere, we all do, write about it, know your origins, those of your life and those of your "less-named lives", past, present, future or imagined. Know your origins.

Those places press on you, into and what comes of it, well that's the mystery; whether you live a life of misery and shame; a life of invigorated creative joy; of silent searching; all of your paths do not stem from where you emerge from. Those are choices you make in the end. Those homes you have, the enliven your choices, give them fuel and strength. In the end, all you can do is do.

There is one thing I can say in all surety though, of those three places that mark my life as what it is, the woman I have found in the last five months usurps all other memories. She inhabits them. Inhabits me. And I can say without any shred of "embarrassment" that she has been with me since before I was born. Before I was even transmigrated to this form. There are some things you can never answer, never comprehend... and then there are those you can.

Six Word Autobiography

Perusing some of the more venerable "Dharma Blogs" out there, I came across a brief post, calling to us to write a six word autobiography... so here mine is: 

I collect shells now;

under sun.

Make of it what you will, and I'll do the same. Ain't that true.

Objects

I am consistently told, by my family, by friends, by "wise elders" and trusted advisors, to make the most out of my experience here, during my travels. A multitude of voices shout to me, "See everything! Do everything! Be everything!", whether these voices be palpable or merely phantoms, they plague me constantly. My eye falls on every action I take, every place I go, every choice I make and each and every second that ticks by, weighing them, testing them against this call to ceaseless movement. In my room, I'll sit, reading a book, listening to a track or two, gluing my eyes to the computer screen in some mindless fashion or just reflecting and writing... no moment like that is silent for me. Guilt and pressure from all sides; my own choices seem suspect, sinister, ungrateful to all those who "got me here"... why?

Why must experience be all-encompassed by movement? Be unstoppable exploration and endless flux? There is a place for reflection and stasis in travel; it allows you to gaze around at the world that will be your "home" for the time being. To look upon the buildings, the vistas, the skyline and nature about you. When I stopped and looked around me, I noticed something I hadn't before; objects. When you travel, leap from crash-pad to hostel, or from a day spent as lightning on a hike or drive to a quick nap in a bed alien to you, you miss the hidden things around you. You miss the alleyways drenched in graffiti, in personal tags and story lines; the minor vandalism in the nooks of the city.

I find myself wandering about my city, now that I sit in a stasis, my eyes fixed to the bricks, pavement, plywood fencing, mailboxes, lampposts, every column of municipal bunting and public buildings, scouring them for marks. I stalk those roads in search of graffiti, stencils, murals, posters, flyers, the blemishes of counterculture, of youthful revolt, of simple advertisement or whim. They notate the skin of the city like so many birthmarks, flaking off to be replaced with a new set in a month or two. It's these transient things that you miss when you travel at break-neck speed, head out and above, focused on that next "experience", because those unique marks last only for a short while. They aren't meant to be immortal-- in Hip-Hop culture, the "tag" is meant to be a sudden burst of display, a splash of color and form sprayed across a wall; it's about pride in the creation. It's about the transience of being, of expression. It's about that first kick that tag or mural gives the viewer, that unadulterated sensation of "newness" and of vibrancy. So each and every one of those marks holds that very same thing for me, so I capture it in writing (verse, prose or fragmented phrasing) or in photo or in my own memory, smearing the sights into a blend of color and remembered sensation. I mix them into a poultice and apply it to my mind, let it sit, let it simmer and then set.

I've taken plenty of pictures of trees and landscape, sky-scenes and sunsets, and now, to punctuate my "photo-journal" with quirk and oddity is freeing. So I take pictures of strange inanimate shit. So I snatch my photos, whatever I find fixed to the city's surface... what isn't fixed to it, if it strikes some odd chord within me, I take it from the perch-- posters exclaiming some underground concert, advertisements for weeks old exhibitions, half-adhered stickers, anything that catches my eye. I unclasp my penknife or pause beside it, my fingers scrabbling eagerly for a loose corner, scraping the refuse off the wall, rolling it up and stuffing it into my backpack or slipping it between the pages of a book...

What do I do with these pieces of the city? There is a space above my bed, empty, plain, white cinderblock; I collect all of these scraps and esoterica to spread a collage across, a shard of the city... a patchwork window of streets and alleys, an abstract tear in that blank space. A cut of color in the white-wash of my little cave; I want the wall to be blasted, pressured inward, toward a fissure in some thin, in-between reality... a vein of vivid imagination. A porthole into that semi-coherent, imagined essence.

Objects as the essence of experience; little shards of life hanging from your neck or wrist, clasped about a finger, in the non-face of a torn knee of a pair of jeans, in the sown (or sewn) ink of a tattoo, the glare of sunlight on metal, the musk of wood or chemical tang of plastic. Sensation in each mote of gathered item. They can most definitely encapsulate the world of experience as well as any bought or chosen trip. After all, what are memories anyway? Owned things; collections of snap-shots and quips and meaningful images, all boxed away within the mind. But a thing, that's just a tiny physical reminder of a place or person or sentiment. A decanter of sound, touch, smell, taste, sight; they are open to past experiences, to be placed in a sort of reminder-mode, to be filled with the memories and nostalgia. They can be attuned to current happenings or be prepped for a future event.

I wear three cords around my neck and a fourth and fifth on my wrist; one a gift, the rest picked up in various locales (Pennsylvania, Auckland or the Northlands), but each has absorbed some meaning, some memory, which I stores, to be accessed with a simple touch or glance. A rough carven bone infinity loop; a smoothed shaft of ancient Kauri wood; a tarnished loop of silver; a worn yak bone mala; a thread-bare bracelet of flax. Symbols of personal meaning, their cores, their essences, only attainable through my own lens. I will that meaning with a flexing of the mind, a tuning into some deeper thread, some necessary thread, tapping into comfort and love. Flushing my body with serenity. And on my skin, two "brands", two marks of my own... the tree and the semi-colon... connection and deep-rooted strength. Ink sown across my skin. Little islands of history, burning bright and hot whenever I look into them. Some judge. Some question why? Some scoff at their permanence; but when my thoughts grow old and shriveled, those marks will remain, like some bent corner of a page of some worn book.

"... sometimes his gifts were old beat-up things but they had the charm of usefulness and sadness of his giving."

Lessons

A single rain-soaked day, six successive vineyard stops, nearly a bottle of wine and three beers downed in the course of four or five hours can conjure a strange state of being- not quite transcendence, not quite a daze. Waiheke Island, though a key player in the day, did not matter much in the grand scheme of things... though to be honest, does the setting really attribute much at all? Yes the beauty and grandeur of it all is breath-taking, awe-inspiring and any number of other hackneyed phrases, but looking at it deeper down, what is it except an emptiness? This Dharma Blogger does not mean this pessimistically, no on the contrary, I mean this honestly, triumphantly almost: what is emptiness other than a space to fill in? How can wine-guzzling with a bunch of Danish, German, Australian, Canadian and quiet Cambodian students mean much of anything unless the right force (of will or whatever) is applied in the proper places. Now I could spend the post regaling you with detailed recollections of each hour, each stop, each and every vista or wine glass, but no. What exactly would you draw from that? What more than a cardboard placard? Or a bullet-list of itinerary points? What today was, really, can be summed up in a few pretentious sentences:

White haze cutting across the bow of vision and vista; a ferry ride, a bus, six vineyards- the scent of pepper, citrus fruit, salmon mousse and bubbling fat. Warmth behind the eyes (sadness burning off?), soft pressure of rain on uncloaked skin. No sight behind any of the four horizons- East, West, South, North- just green, grey and midday white...

I understand the appeal of painting the world in coherence; I can see the benefit of long, full description... but in the end why? Just because you can understand or perceive, is that enough to join in and participate? No. Abstraction often fills in more than could be said flat out. Because in abstraction there is room for ourselves; broad strokes leave white space for an artists signature, that is what I believe and try to practice. That is in no way a justification for the quality of my work or life experiences, no, if what I write or do is crap, it's crap. If what I write or do is great, then it is great. You fill that in, I do not. Perhaps today can be crafted in even more sparse terms:

Drunk on the island. Mussel shells and noon drizzle. Babel speak. Something missing.

What do I leave for you? What do I tell or show? Very little; some concrete details paint a scene for you- you see a rain, perhaps a beach, water (most definitely), foreign languages and less physically, an absence. It's funny, I meant to write today about wisdom, "zen" knowledge, the lessons of will...  but in the end thought is just running watercolor. Find what cynicism, beauty or hope you will in a statement like that, I don't even know which it holds. Perhaps this is just me coming down off a relatively long day of drinking and eating heavily. Or maybe this is one of those dark, dire moods that ail so many. Or perhaps (and this feels most likely) I just need to paint this post in a certain blank way. I thought to quote some great philosopher. To leave you with a slice of wisdom and metaphysical thought. But, how would that fit a post like this? How would some sort of existential question fall in place here? It wouldn't.