The sledgehammer of my realness feels wonderfully hefty in my hands.
I swing high,
With a great tinkling of glass,
the mirrors vaporize at my sudden assault.
And I see my face, centered, crisp, and alive,
in the gentle river of my own true identity...
at last....
The overcast sky merges with evening; it is soon dark. I lie on my bed '._ eating monaco biscuits with some jam& some dried rasins.
It's about all I can keep down in this thin air. Altitude always sends your appetite haywire.
The silence of the night is shattered hourly by the long cries of another gust of wind. It shrieks as it rages across this high desert and then it hits my flimsy tent. For now the guy ropes hold (barely).
This high desert amplifies each mournful Sound and entwines it with the weak threads of my own thought.
Normally I enjoy solitude, but tonight my aloneness oppresses me like the magnified sound of blood beating in my ears. Nothing brings it home more than this rugged desolate plain which stretches out before me
I seem to equate my life with the landscape before me.
Rock, Rock, Desert, Ashen mountain scapes covered with a fine silt of dust which were once rocks but have been rendered thus by the jealous love of the north wind..
The wind loves the rock just so...
I fall asleep only towards dawn. Across the road an Army Depot where I hope to buy fuel in the morn.
Across the treeless street
A moist breeze blows.
I re-arrange my sheet,
Wiggle my cold toes,
Stare at the sky, and toss,
---------------Insomniac.
The wind comes like a freight train
Screaming through wide plains
Alongside, the scent of distant rain.
I am too tired tonight
To sleep. I lie Companion less.
The white Clouds gut the sky.
Orion, Pleiades, Plough,
All signs and certainties
Are lost to vision now.
The Army trucks come Unload.
The loaded trucks move on.
This is the great depot
Where nothing stays.
The hours move towards light.
Sleep: in the tall-skied days
You will forget me tonight.
Wide plains draw
Rays down from wider skies.
The daylight, rising higher,
Burns through thin air to grass;
At night globes of green fire
Float on the pastured pass.
Cold, shivering like a duck
I watch the Eastern sky:
A shooting star brings luck;
A satellite swims by.
The Silver River flows
Event less, through the night.
The moon against the snows
Shines insular and bright.
Here we three, each, alone,
Me, Myself & I
At last we’re almost in touch with our range.
So onwards and upwards with porters galore,
Towards Denga and Shakti and even Maraur.
On their arms and their legs and even their dicks.
At Parkachi Thach we settled the mule train
But the afternoon was spoiled by a misty rain.
Don’t worry my friends,
I am in top form,
‘The weather will clear with a really good storm.’
The cook gives us chai each morning at seven,
This isn’t a trek, it’s much more like heaven.
I’m getting twitchy to get at a peak,
So up to Camp 1, an objective to seek.
To recce we set out in three separate ways,
And agreed on a summit to fill the next phase.
The weather’s not perfect but still, off we set,
And it’s not very long ‘fore it’s hailing and wet.
But I am still hopeful and true to form:
‘The weather will clear with a really good storm’
And, oh no, some people are starting to flag
A couple and I set off in a bit of a hurry,
While the rest of them wait trying hard not to worry
When we return safely, much to their relief,
With a point on the ridge successfully reached.
Back down to Shakti to get some food
Some of the porters are beginning to brood.
Slogging up and then down, we carry on through,
Dhel was so pleasant we stayed there two nights,
And then towards Ghumtarao we turned our sights.
Should we go this way, or should we go that?
In the end we went 'that' way and what a descent.
I'll swear that my knees are now permanently bent.
To even things up we climbed at such length,
By the end of next day I'd used up all my strength,
You know the saying, 'What goes up must come down,'
Well, the descent to Tirthan just went on and on.
Just a short day to Gushaini should hold no fears,
And the sooner we get there, the sooner there's beers.
Of mountains and gorges and torrents and bridges,
Of singing and laughter and new people I’ve met,
T’was a trip that will prove hard to forget.
in the mist
lost in the mountains
temple bells die out
their faint echo remains
the wind
gives prayers
wings...
I can sometimes hear her whispering my name .. The Call of the North Wind as it whistles through the Valley... The Misty Mountains are beckoning..
The present is a luminous ball.
Behind it - the past; in front of it - the future.
The whole soars in total darkness and reels to and fro, now gently, now vigorously.
Below there is an abyss, above vapor, It is pitch dark.
Either the ball crashes, then all is lost or it glides into the future and renews hope.
Which way is it going? I for one am totally helpless and can't seem to influence which way the twin headed hammer of time will fall and what will be the result.
Sometimes I feel that I am suspended between 2 worlds the one that I see and perceive and another which keeps on eluding me.
