From an Old Journal; Ramblings Revisited

Well, I may as well use this website for something. And honestly, writing is something I've been meaning to reconnect with for some time now. Ultimately, I write for me, for my enjoyment; though part of this is for you. You know who you are.

Maybe I'll publish some stuff someday, but for now I'm content typing away at this computer by the fire, deep now into my down-time away from the gardens and the farmers' market and soccer balls...deep into my reading time, cutting wood and burning it time, writing songs time, time for no time kind of time. I just now picked up a journal from my last journey to India back in 2009. I found an entry and liked it, and it's actually what made me think about writing again. I was on a train from the south speeding toward the northern city of Varanasi.


Squat houses with clay shingles, circular patties of cow dung drying on the roof. Dry washes hinting of the rainy season as a bull kicks up dust outside a newly tilled field. The rains will come to wash away the dust and fill this arid landscape with green harvests and mud puddles. Small paths leading to seemingly infinite somewheres. No trash out here in the country; a white heron perched on the shore of a grassy river gives the only colorful contrast. Girl of my age across from me in the train, peach saree betraying subtly her smooth features, a gold nose ring drawing attention to her soft face, looks out the window and smiles.

The sun sets behind this place seemingly out of time. Few electrical wires hint of the modern world. As we approach a town, the piles of trash begin; and the air smells of rot and shit. 'What have we done to this planet?' I thought yesterday when we left Chennai.

Back in the country now, nothing seems to stir, not even leaves in the trees. A man in white cycles down a dirt track before dark. More leafless trees...undergrowth blackened by brush fires. A few Mother Trees amidst the fields. I'll never know this place--never walk its dusty paths, though I long to. To be one of the goat herders and know this somehow lonely landscape. But this is not my life. I am on the train, and the land is outside.....

More to come.  I promise.