“Her soft brown hair is as long as the Canadian highway”

This is rewritten from memory of an entry that was mistakenly lost Monday night. Much will likely fall into the cracks, but alas I must still learn to save everything often.

I’m towelling dry after a bath with an ink-spotted towel. The inking happened because I forgot a pen in the pocket of a pair of pants I wore before doing laundry last. If fate had woven a different thread, perhaps that ink would have instead bled out onto a page as words and loosed thoughts that were growing wildly in my mind. Blue globs sunk into the lighter blue towel and showed up on those few cloths light enough for it not to blend in. There’s no ink on me now, however. My skin is cleansed of sweat and dust from a day of work and hours of walking; my mind is cleaner than it has been for weeks.

I often find that my mental journeying needs the fall of my feet to create real movement. Something must match the shifting landscapes my tangled thoughts grow wild within or I can become stagnant. A closed place or somewhere I’ve been too long can leave me stagnant if I’m not careful. I’d neglected extended walking for a while, so my mind was overgrown. I had a lot to move through when I stepped out of my door Friday night.
I made my way along the sidewalks and toward Point Pleasant Park, the one place in this city where I have the most ghosts and most often find solace. The age, quiet, natural grace and resilience of that park have always made it perfect for reflection and something about it draws me to it to create important memories. That’s how the ghosts come to be; some of my fondest memories are tied to that park. The first girl I was truly in love with and I were on the bordering coast of the park to capture sunset images one December evening, I visited the park and hunted salamanders with my friend Cerra, I spent many days there in contemplation, and over a month ago I shared that sacred place with Susana.
When I reached the park I moved to the coast and walked along the rocks. Life directions, convictions, love and romance have all been on my mind lately. They always seem to be, especially love and romance, but I’ve been questioning each extensively. There’s no better place to match that mental state than the beach I walked. The fitful waves, the unsteadying rocks, the looming cliffs, the resolute trees, the gentle breeze and the drift wood all felt like a reflection of some element of my struggle.
As I walked along I untangled the toughts I could, leaving threads to wrap around the rocks in my wake. Soon I turned from the shore and was beneath a tree I once dreamily branch-watched and later shared pleasant moments. I have a deep peace and love for the beauty that tree sheltered and created, so I passed it with a smile and a quiet, slightly wistful breath.
Later, after paying my respect to a familiar tower, I felt compelled to walk into the unfrequented paths that wind through the trees and bushes of the park. My mind was a greater tangle than the open paths and roads could offer proxy for. I needed deeper sight and thought I’d find it somewhere I’d not been before. I came at first to a ruined brick wall I’d not seen before and gave it an offering of crouched time, a deep settling of something wild. This was an unknown place but not deeply enough unknown for my thoughts.
I walked at length through thorns, over hills, around obsticles and became as lost as I could. There’s something vital to finding answers in becoming lost. Labyrinths are deeply ingrained with our condition. My thread-trail of thoughts was my gift from Ariadne and my Minotaur was an unknown. I don’t know if I slew it or left having never stumbled upon it. When I’d wound my way back to a road I felt lighter, at least, so something of value transpired.
As I left the park I spotted a streetlamp. My love for those is no secret. I find there to be a great beauty and comfort in those lights, something like a lighthouse’s beacon or, from afar, grounded stars. Though I’ve continued walking for thought nearly daily since, this was a closure of sorts to my much needed plunge and releasing of tangles. I was being warned of the jutting, hidden rocks of stagnation and set back on the proper path.

I’m crawling back into the webbed world. This entry was delayed due a bit of a disconnect I needed to make in order to refocus myself. The walk I wrote of here was the first of many I’ve been on since then that have been helping in that. Now I’m in the midst of catching up with sharing a few things, so please be patient as I warm up the writing sphere of my brain and get back into my daily practice.

I’m listening to Sam Roberts‘ “Hard Road” at the moment. It’s fitting what I’ve been thinking as best as any other song I can think of at the moment, so I’ll snitch some lyrics from it for this entry’s title. I’m looking forward to hearing what the band has written for the new album because the first still excites me.

Coming soon are an anticipated entry on love & romance, some thoughts on death, a book review and reflections on atomic terrorism. Patience is a virtue and I’m so glad you fine readers are so virtuous.

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