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Wayfarer

Well-known member
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Sep 20, 2014
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Italy
I can't do much honestly.
I've tried drawing, and still try to this day, although rarely (and with terrible results).
I can't sing nor play any musical instrument.
I can't take photos (well ok, I can use a digital camera, but it's not the same thing).
I can't do any other thing except MAYBE (and I'm not sure) writing something (hopefully) meaningful.

So here I'll post such things. You'll see my attempts at expressing... something? I guess.


First attempt at a Haiku. It should be a poem of 17 syllables divided into 3 lines of 5, 7, and 5 syllables. I don't even know if I got the sillable count right.
----------

the sun is up bright
here's just a daily specter
always a coward
 
This is a post I wrote on my booklikes blog that I decided to include here.

End of a quest: home
5:53 pm 21 July 2015


I started thinking about this while I read the first chapters of volume three of the "First Law" series, by Abercrombie.
Usually the "getting back home" part is located at the very end of a book, just before the epilogue (I may be wrong. if I am, then sorry).
Not in this case though, but that's quite all right since at least the one quest they started in book I (if I'm not wrong) has ended.

Whenever anyone goes on a journey.. be it short or long, I feel he'll look at things differently, when he gets back home. The equivalent of this, in romance (not talking about love stories, but about ->this) is the hero embarking on a quest (this expression is quite fitting, as we'll see in a while), braving dangers of all types, fighting, making sacrifices, succeding.. and then, finally, getting back home, changed.

A first example of this is the figure of Odysseus (or Ulysses, if you prefer). We can see that initially he is full of greed and wanting for glory.
Then he "embarks on a quest", literally.
Near the end though, Odysseus takes on a "different" personality. He disguises himself as a beggar and endures shame and humiliation just for the sake of seeing his family, not for pride. He learns the lesson of family is more important then money or fame.

(Much) later on (1900-ish, probably), Cavafy takes everything a bit further.
Here's an excerpt from Cavafy's "Ithaca"
"...
Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.
Without her you would not have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you will have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.
"
Cavafy imagines Odysseus is disappointed with Ithaca. Notice the plural in the last line: Ithacas, not Ithaca. With that, he wants to indicate that we carry our own "Ithaca" inside, all along. In "adventuring", in "questing", each one of us learns what our "Ithaca" is to ourselves.

This whole "finding her poor" is related to how once we get back "home", we may realize it's not like we remembered it. That it has nothing to give to us, anymore. This feeling IMHO is also shown in LOTR, in this scene:

Here we can see the four hobbits in the pub, seemingly extraneous to what's going on around them. After all they have experienced their outlook on life is deeply mutated. They go back home, expecting it to be the same.. but they realize it won't ever be the same, because the "quest" changed them deeply. They don't even receive any recognition for their deeds. Not only that, but "the Shire" no longer is "theirs". As Frodo itself says:
"But I have been too deeply hurt, Sam. I tried to save the Shire, and it has been saved, but not for me. It must often be so, Sam, when things are in danger: someone has to give them up, lose them, so that others may keep them."
 
Wayfarer said:
I can't do much honestly.
I've tried drawing, and still try to this day, although rarely (and with terrible results).
I can't sing nor play any musical instrument.
I can't take photos (well ok, I can use a digital camera, but it's not the same thing).
I can't do any other thing except MAYBE (and I'm not sure) writing something (hopefully) meaningful.

So here I'll post such things. You'll see my attempts at expressing... something? I guess.


First attempt at a Haiku. It should be a poem of 17 syllables divided into 3 lines of 5, 7, and 5 syllables. I don't even know if I got the sillable count right.
----------

the sun is up bright
here's just a daily specter
always a coward



The only Haiku I know is from a Stephen King book.

It goes something like

Your hair is winter fire
January embers
My heart burns there, too.

I put that in a valentines day card years ago. Not sure what the girl thought of it.
 
I'll go, not a sound
In the ruins behind

Pale memories or ethereal thoughts
What matters...

I wish I were a bird
To dive into oblivion
Wind cutting at my face

I'm just a coward
With no strength
To change my fate
Still, some hope is there
 
sometimes I get something other than scribbles, by accident.
20150912_191227.jpg
 
ladyforsaken said:
Wayfarer said:
(bad) diy document organizer XD

2u90lz4.jpg

Gotta credit yourself for that effort. It looks functional enough. :p

I had some cardboard pieces lying here and there so... XD :)
Btw just wrote this:

I wonder what's the sound of a body hitting the ground, after a long fall. The gurgling, the blood, the broken cry, the vitreous eyes.

Should I be disgusted? Should I be scared? This everlasting monotony in the end is better than the blood of life. When the unimportant is important and the important is unimportant.. how can a vagrant sould be expected to find its bearing?

Kind of like too short sheets when you're sleeping. You pull one way and you uncover the other.. you repeat this process until you finally sleep. Sometimes you stay awake the whole night though, that's the difference.

For who is to say whether the light of the morning is better than the shadow of the night? Who is more cruel? The sun, the moon, or the one who thinks he can see without having its sight blocked, who believes the stars are there even if they can't see them. That unrelenting certainty is the one at fault, the one who provokes the suffering... but at the same time, without that, there's no self but just a number.

So I think, standing here and there, bifronted entity whose each front tries to make sense of the other, endlessly. A earthy laugh rises from the deep and all I can think is "I am alive", sneering.
 
Wayfarer said:
beautiful loser said:
Wayfarer said:
(bad) diy document organizer XD

2u90lz4.jpg

LOL...sorry, just thought of my cat lying on the organizer and crushing it.

Aww it's ok. Just let me keep it (your cat) for a while :p

Sorry Wayfarer, he's a keeper. **** cat thinks he's half dog...plays hide and seek with me around the house, attacks my dog (dog just ignores him, while cat is chewing on his neck) and hisses at the mailman when he sees him through the window.

You know, quirky threads like this always pique my curiosity, so keep the "my stuff" thread going. Have a good one.
 
I am still. The pitter patter of the raindrops on the car window is the only sound that spells the passing of time. I had a nice evening, hadn't I? For a while the presence of my friends on the other seats seemed fake, illusory. The idea even funny somehow.. like that sort of "funny" which is usually associated with ridiculous stuff, the kind of idea that makes your smile ripple a bit, but stop midway, in a sort of tired resignation.

That was how I felt. And the passing of other cars.. those other boxes out there, metal colored animals moving about with a sort of purpose in mind. Yes, everything out there knew which way to go.

I thought back about the kind of people I had seen that very evening. Not better nor worse than usual. I don't remember any of them. Just that elderly woman, selling beer to young men, not looking very annoyed as I had expected. On the contrary hers was a sort of calculating look but not that cold either. Very strange.

It's time to get off the car. The words that had exited my mouth some time before were probably already ashes in all of our memories. My body moved automatically and opened the umbrella while muttering the usual parting words. It stepped in the middle of the road, while the sound of the rain moved from the window to the umbrella, and my footfalls echoed.

I can't remember anything. I'm already in my room. It feels good, but normally I'd feel still rather cold. It's surprising how suffering cold for a whole evening is somehow needed to fully enjoy room temperature. I sit at my desk and, after turning comp on, I write this. Did anything change? I'm not sure, but I do feel better.
 
Written today (on a piece of paper) while I was looking first at a fly, flying around in the room, then at my reflection in the windows, then again at the professor talking:

Why am I not a fly?

Why am I what we call a man, a human, a member of the human race?

What about this shell. Is this "me"? Where is "me"?
Is it an illusion? Am I really that much better than a fly?

What if every living thing regards itself as the most intelligent?
Maybe spiders sneer pityfully at us, while perfecting their cobwebs, apex of mastery of the craft.

Here I am, in a room, trying to take in some man-made constructs, abstractions.
Who knows that maybe all this abstracting one day will get us away from this world.

First we built a concrete world on top of the natural one. Then a "cybernetic" world on top of that too. What's next? What are we running away from?

Death. Or time. It's the same in the end.
But all we got in the end is a lot more time but at the price of a loss of meaning in our actions.
 
Idea suggested by WhisprWriter. Basically I filled in the form here, more or less: http://www.swva.net/fred1st/wif.htm


I am from a needlework box with unused trinkets, from marmalade, honey and tea.

I am from the two floors house, ample and quiet, where even whispers get frozen but fierce fires burn.

I am from the olive trees and roses, thorn bushes, the sunflowers and cherry trees, the spiderwebs glistening with morning dew.

I am from never get unnecessary stuff and nice hands, from quiet but warm great-grandpa Alfonso and resolute but funny great-grandma Guerrina and (way too) kind grandma Elda.

I am from the a place where everyone has high expectations and lives off reforged shattered dreams.

From secret treasure maps and jars full of fireflies.

(Following paragraph is religion related, so feel free to skip it and don't judge, please)

I am from none but at the same time all religions. Utnapishtim or Noah, Vishnu's dream or the universe, the Dao.
Still awaiting the moment where everything will make perfect sense.
(end of controversial lol paragraph)

I'm from a small city by the sea, in a not so known region of Italy, pasta and fish.

From the naughty kid that my grandpa was, playing cards by the docks and ditching school, the always smiling great-grandma Splendora working in the fields and cooking scraps for 10 people, and the grandma Onorina hiding (as a young child) from the planes carrying bombs. From unmovable smiles, especially in the hardest times.

I am from olive trees, chicken coops, rabbits, the bad but peaceful smell of wood burning in the fireplace, the sea, comics and books, ball games.. hide-and-seek, bicycle, the noise of the sewing machine, stray cats, flowers and bees, fireflies in the night, frogs and dogs, the saint icon on my desk, gravel roads and dialect.
 
Wayfarer said:
Idea suggested by WhisprWriter. Basically I filled in the form here, more or less: http://www.swva.net/fred1st/wif.htm


I am from a needlework box with unused trinkets, from marmalade, honey and tea.

I am from the two floors house, ample and quiet, where even whispers get frozen but fierce fires burn.

I am from the olive trees and roses, thorn bushes, the sunflowers and cherry trees, the spiderwebs glistening with morning dew.

I am from never get unnecessary stuff and nice hands, from quiet but warm great-grandpa Alfonso and resolute but funny great-grandma Guerrina and (way too) kind grandma Elda.

I am from the a place where everyone has high expectations and lives off reforged shattered dreams.

From secret treasure maps and jars full of fireflies.

(Following paragraph is religion related, so feel free to skip it and don't judge, please)

I am from none but at the same time all religions. Utnapishtim or Noah, Vishnu's dream or the universe, the Dao.
Still awaiting the moment where everything will make perfect sense.
(end of controversial lol paragraph)

I'm from a small city by the sea, in a not so known region of Italy, pasta and fish.

From the naughty kid that my grandpa was, playing cards by the docks and ditching school, the always smiling great-grandma Splendora working in the fields and cooking scraps for 10 people, and the grandma Onorina hiding (as a young child) from the planes carrying bombs. From unmovable smiles, especially in the hardest times.

I am from olive trees, chicken coops, rabbits, the bad but peaceful smell of wood burning in the fireplace, the sea, comics and books, ball games.. hide-and-seek, bicycle, the noise of the sewing machine, stray cats, flowers and bees, fireflies in the night, frogs and dogs, the saint icon on my desk, gravel roads and dialect.

Very nice ^^ Keep up the good work, and keep writing! - I'll post mine some time soon :)
 
Impermanence

olive tree, so big and crooked
olive tree, so mighty and sweet
many a bird found refuge in you

you bend your branches
nourish your sons and daughters

nothing fazes you
not the winds, not the days or the nights
yet, you bend and bend.

you stand there, evil, endless reminder.
 
Spring wind

A lonely cold day streatches ahead
clouds of smoke rising up into the distance
feelings of nostaglia are creeping up
and suddenly memories too

All those features vanishing in the mist
sometimes it's the smile, or the nice voice
those clear eyes of yours, sometimes blue or black
time is taking them away from me

A lighthouse and a ship
in a thunderstorm
sometimes a light trap and an insect
getting burnt

And those talks we used to have
And the laughter and the smiles
I can't believe it's all gone
never to be found, never the same

I can't forget no matter what
the good times and the bad times
all of it

don't you walk ahead and
do turn to look at me
forget all of this
don't you walk ahead

I wonder how is it over there
I don't really care but I miss you
Please forgive me for never being there
when you needed me

and if on those melancholy nights
you let your mind wandering, unrestrained
please look ahead and forget about me
I'll just be a passing memory or a dream
I'll be happy just knowing you're ok
but I hope you'll recall me with a smile
from time to time

the cold wind is here again
I have to go too
沈黙のangel
 

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