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Showing posts from February, 2018

Nepalese Notebook: September 25th, 2014

September 25th, 2014Besi Sahar 760m.
You never expect it, but the high mountains soon give way to the low, and the day comes when it is cloudy and humid and easy to forget what is near.  Everything simply disappears without importance, and even if we believe in it, have seen it with our own eyes and accept it wholeheartedly, the lapse is too great, change is too certain, and what was once a thousand year old glacier is now the fountain you drink out of.  Now it is only a busy little Nepalese town where colorful buses pass, where street vendors and shops remind you of the growing indifference of what had once seemed normal, and a fleeting sense of accomplishment gives way to restlessness.  Could we have done more?  Having the trek over is short-lived, and looking back upon the hardships of the trail reminds one of a melancholic sort of comfort that creates new adventures and even more hardships before the time it takes your muscles to recuperate from the previous journey.  Pushing onese…

A Poet's Journal: February 3rd, 2013 (With Audio)

February 3rd, 2013

For the first time in some months I am confident in my path and linger not upon doubt.  Those creatures of thought heard in the solitudes of the forest no longer need a name, but are somehow understood, and should I put my finger upon the sounds of distant words, they become recognizable purely because of utterance.  Giving life and finding sureness in the dark, is a compassion unlooked for, but so very well at home, that we almost too swiftly set out again before we have enjoyed the full comforts of that most intimate moment.
Douglas Thornton

A Poet's Journal: January 26th, 2013 (With Audio)

January 26th, 2013

We must constantly be set in some direction lest our preoccupations fall within a mode of importance that bind us to an obligation which does not serve our purpose or present state of mind.  Yet this is hard to define at any given moment, and though we are contemplative, our thinking mostly consists in reflections on variously changing subjects.  If we could let ourselves be pulled into the center and perfect intention of our art, the reconciliation of life as we see it in reality, and the wisdom for which we aim, would not be so difficult.  But as it is, the effort is divided and we must learn to let go.
Douglas Thornton

A Poet's Journal: January 8th, 2013 (With Audio)

January 8th, 2013

Today, Tuesday, sun all day; feel the days getting longer.  The slightest variation in light is perceptible only by the way in which it hits certain objects.  To the eye, we may notice morning, evening, and noon, by taking into account the incline of the sun, but as for our earth moving in its orbit and the light growing longer or brighter on the hills or the walls of our homes, that feeling and that change is lost unless we take minutious observation of our daily surroundings.  Light, by contrast, is a transformation of the understanding of the inexplicable; it enlightens but does not clarify our perceptions, and even though it is to make the day longer, it is not a privilege granted for our comfort.  Though the object then may help us see, it makes us turn our backs to that which we really want to know, and so the languor and discomfort of these ever-widening days is a burden and something careful to be shrugged off.
Douglas Thornton

A Poet's Journal: November 15th, 2012 (With Audio)

November 15th, 2012

Hiked on the 10th; mushroom hunting and the first cepe de Bordeaux I've ever found.  Those places where the mushroom lives and sprouts up excite me; for they are on the most unnoticeable part of ground and give importance to a spot that we would have briefly looked over in any other circumstance.  It is perhaps a meditation on nature; the robin, the squirrel, and even the deer are apt to cross our path, and still other birds, or the tracks of unknown animals, and though the mushroom still sits in the back of our mind, we anticipate an encounter with something far less known, and going into the underbrush, or pushing aside dead leaves, enlightens a conscious courage that is almost as ancient as it is foreign to our daily lives.  He certainly who finds what he's looking for has always been searching for something else.
Douglas Thornton