A Mountain's Chime (The Lake Isle of Innisfree by WB Yeats)

     Nights spent on the mountain. Vivid memories of such times. Cold hands, perfect snow, and strange conversation with good people. 

    The mountain jingles its chimes in the darkest hours of the night.
 That is when we hear it, the same sound great men have written about in their poems, and now we are looking their poetic license in the eyes. Here we are a couple of broke 20 year olds strung out on skiing, carbohydrates and cheap beer. Bearing witness to the same inspiration that sparked flames in Yeats fingers back in the year 1890.


      Peace does come dropping slow. One snowflake at a time in these hills. Though we may be too few in our years to really grasp this notion, still we caught a glimpse of it. The external pressure of a conventional way of life could never mute the mountain's chime. The same chime that fell from Yeat's pen. I can hear it still, in my “heart's core”.  

Under a Dancing Sky

     The mystery of life should never be taken lightly. It's often far too simple to get lost in life’s grandeur. This is where the stem of our misconception about this “life” business lays. In it's brilliance. When you search aurora borealis on the Internet, you’ll find scientific explanations from people in white lab coats. They’re getting paid more than adequate wages to lay down pretentious explanations of things you can never begin to understand behind a computer screen. The scientific conclusion will never do the phenomenon justice. There is no substitution to that feeling of humility. The shiver up your spine as you stand there mouth open, in awe of colours you’ve never seen moving in rhythmic flutters no dancer could emulate. Making you feel immeasurably small in the grand scheme of what the great forces of old are stirring up. Yes indeed. There’s more at work here than scientific conclusions and mathematical experiments. It's an easy belief to dispute until you’ve stood under a dancing sky. 


   Happiness is a hard thing to lock down. It's one of life’s abstract concepts that seems to puzzle the vast majority of our society. It’s of common belief to be something one could obtain through outward consumption. We see it too often. People pissing in the wind trying to get a strangle hold on joy. Purchasing materialistic objects, stretching the idea of happiness to it's extremities. Just one sharp pull away from the breaking point.
    It’s only when you remove yourself, looking at the injustice of those actions that you conclude: Happiness is an immense energy. Which we all have the ability to pull from. Injecting it into our own lives as we choose. It's a choice, simple as that may seem. It can be a hard choice to make when faced with lust, greed & indulgence but it's a choice none the less. Whether we choose to make it or not. Thats up to us.

Todays Intention

  The glowing embers of the day. The last burst of effort a day gives us to make of it something spectacular. Melting the sun's softest rays then spreading them out like good intention. Leading us to believe that this day cared. It wanted you to admire something, if only for a little while. And that little while was something so benevolent, so pure. It's hard to watch it melt away. To watch it seep through the cracks of time. It's hard to understand that after its gone a piece of that has melted into you as well. The pureness of light. The benevolence of the day.  

The Music of a Moment

  There’s a place I go to in my mind when I listen to music that is extremely calming. It’s in this place of calm that for moments at a time I slip away from thought. Allowing myself to hear every sound, and feel every note as if they were a tangible substance. As I feel the music all else fades to grey, and nothing else seems to matter. 

   Occasionally life hands me a moment that presents itself like a song. The sun sinks behind the hills, the air turns cold, and the stars peer through the dark veil of evening. I slip out of this moment, and into a calming place in my mind. I hear nothing except the crackling of a campfire in the still evening air, and watch the glowing embers spiral upwards as they burn into the sky, seamlessly becoming the stars twinkling above my head. Its here I pause in order to get a mental grasp on this moment where, briefly, I visited that place of musical calmness.

The Food Chain

   It's a popular superstition among the human race that we have eliminated ourselves from the food chain. Its easy to buy in to such an ideology if you have never stood face to face with a wild animal. Having a creature look at you, trying to figure if you’re worth a fight. There is an inevitable fear from such an encounter. Injecting you with your primitive fight or flight instinct, initially covering your body with the chill of goose skin and a cold sweat. Then, suddenly you’re filled with a barbaric bravery to fight this creature. Standing your ground with a guttural rage. Hurling vicious language and verbal nonsense its way. This is usually when the animal lets out a huff, turning away. That's where you come to the humiliating conclusion.
     Not only are you most certainly in the food chain. You're at the bottom of its barrel. This is not what you will relate back to your friends as you bring back a tall tale of indecent bravery against wild odds. Thus perpetuating our collective falsehood. One in which we have overcome a great conundrum. Placing ourselves on top of mother natures pecking order. 



Mt.Tametea's View

  Lost in translation of a love that’s already halfway out the door. He sits with mountains towering over the ocean. The trail behind is rocky. The one ahead is blurred and unclear. Tired of living two pages into yesterday’s book he inhale’s a deep breath of right now. Subconsciously pointing his gaze towards where he’d like to end up. He rests his eyes on the view in an attempt to burn it into memory. Hoping to hold on to this moment for as long that his mental grasp will allow.  


    As he stands, and places a foot onto the trail of uncertainty. He plans to revisit this perched moment. Where he sat over the mountains, and gazed out to the sea. Where if only for an instant, he saw the past as it sunk below the horizon.  

Burning Emotions

    There are particular instances where it's hard to establish where a photo was taken. Maybe this is because the location of a photo is not what's important. At times in life it feels like I'm on the backside of a long, strange trip. It may seem like it's been a week or several days... regardless, Im stretched out thin, weak and weary. Trying to get a grasp on a loose memory of my last meal. That's when it hits me. Like a bright flash on fresh eyes. Life grabs me and spits me through a sort of vein of clarity. Washed out on the other side I arrive at a moment that is fading away. In an attempt to make sense of it. I reach and grab at burning emotions to put in my back pocket. Later attempting to vaguely describe my experience with writing, knowing it will never do what slipped through my fingers justice. I release the attempt of trying to do so. I put the words back in my pocket and pray that the next time my hands are sufficient. 

Lasting Places

    Nature has always had a way of injecting me with the pathos of its current mindset. I have never truly arrived anywhere that hasn’t greatly influenced my disposition. Some mornings when I wake, I can feel the clouds pulling my eyelids out of place. Making my head feel solid as stone. Maybe this is due to things entirely in my control or maybe this is a fluttering memory of a place I’ve been, the people I was there with and the way that location affected my psyche. 

The Point

      Strange things, are what humans fill the waking hours of their days with. It has long been a troubling concept to me. The discomfort born of an idle day.
I often I find myself filling the endless void with activities that seem desirable in retrospect. Its while indulging in these activities that I begin to question: where is the point in this endeavour? For me the beginning of any adventure never offers any point. Only a fool would believe there is a point to setting off into the woods for several days.
      Finding the point requires a special patience. Like that of an author establishing the meaning in a novel. The point surfaces along the way. In the cold nights, in the soaked to the bone rainy days, and in the bottom of the bottle being passed around the campfire… the point of an adventure always lies in the strangest places. It isn’t always an easy thing to locate or understand. Initially, it may not be understood at all.        

     Nevertheless the point is out there waiting. All it takes is one stride in the right direction an a stroke of luck to find it.    



   Home: the longing to belong to somewhere. A true human ideal, fundamental to our genetic make up. Its something we all deeply crave, a place to call home. What does home look like? Maybe it's an appropriate assumption that to most its a multi level building fully furnished, walls painted viridian with floors draped in lush carpeting. Which is fine, as long as you have a grasp on the notion that home isn’t something you can buy for $20 a gallon at your local home depot. It’s a feeling. A deep agreement with comfort. A belief that I belong here, wherever “here” may be for the time being. 

The Art of Comunication

  Much of human communication goes without words. 90% of it to be precise, which is a very interesting concept. There is only one plausible explanation to this theory: all of life’s greatest things go unspoken. Language is simply an inept platform to relate to one another on a spiritual plane. That glisten in another person's eye as they smile at you with their soul could never truly be articulated with any sentence.

    While our brains may relate to one another on a very literal function, our souls communicate in a more abstract way. In theory it sounds complex to communicate on such terms, but it's an innate trait instilled in us from the very beginning. Language was simply created to bridge that gap between moments of deep understanding.

Doubtful Stars

    At the stroke of midnight my restless mind becomes enveloped in a veil of darkness. Shrouded by a blanket of stars I dream of a galaxy my own planet seems to be drowning in. As it struggles for breath it incites a plethora of conclusions. Every sentient being casts a reflection and these reflections float in such immense opulence. In the shadows of these conclusions I feel incalculably small and largely inadequate. Drawing up doubt, which creates questions. Questions to which answers linger amongst the outermost stars. Where our spirits echo through eternity and into the furthest reaches of time. Where no matter how much I reach, the answers slip through my fingers. Where I'm unable to get a grasp onto an assurance that these stars will fall into my lap and that the ethics of this subconscious space and time will reside in my waking integrity. So, as the evening fades and I arrive at the stroke of morning, I'm shrouded in a veneer of light. Unable to dream of the things I did at midnight my mind falls silent, and I begin to sleep.   

Life's Ebb and Flow

     At times I wish my life moved like running water. Fluid and smooth, with an ease of motion. When confronted with disturbance, finding the path of least resistance. Simplifying controversy with tranquility. What a beautiful fantasy far from my own reality. My process of living is a bumpy ride. Like an old beat up car with poor suspension. I seldom arrive at any train of thought smoothly, often coming to stand stills in dark dead alleyways. Trying to maze my way through jumbled words and instances that trouble me. Humouring myself along the way with leisurely bounds in movement, which is where I usually end up stumbling upon a conclusion that was staring me in the eyes all along. Shattering that initial foreign concept of life. 

        Life shouldn’t flow like water. It must have sharp turns and dead ends, glorious highs and tremendous lows. These things make our human experience whole. Yes, of course, the losses are just as crucial as the wins. Often difficult to recognize this train of thought. Especially when life's losses are more prominent than it's wins. Yet surely those wins will come. Just a couple more bumps in the old beat up car and we’ll get there. That sun spot. Where, like an old dog, the wins lay waiting.    

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