Ulysses?
I’ve always loved travel. My mother swore that, as we click-clacked our way by train from Montreal to Chicago, I (at age three) sat mesmerized with nose glued to window, staring in dumb amazement at the world streaming by. I guess I’m just like that. I think it’s something in the blood.
I was never one to fuss in the car. I never asked: “Are we there, yet?” There was so much to see! Too much to ponder. Is it any wonder I traveled at every opportunity? My work involved copious travel. Even so, given a chance, I sallied forth again and again and again (usually alone). My most memorable travels were solitary exploits. I crisscrossed this continent by car (mostly in my Porsche roadster -- top down -- regardless of the weather) or, best yet, motorcycle. I was a pretty self-sufficient sort, once. I won’t go so far as to say I was intrepid, but I managed to survive my adventures with a certain aplomb, humility and general good humor. My head overflows with impressions and memories. I’m grateful for each and every one.
* * *
I realized, several months ago, that I must venture forth into the world again. As soon as possible, actually. It’s not a matter of wanderlust this time. No, it’s not that. I must go because I’m utterly lost and must, somehow, find my way home...find myself...again.
I’ve never been as unsure of myself as I am today. I've never felt as vulnerable, as fragile. I’ve lost all faith in my survival instincts and my intuitive heart, the two mainstays that sustained me my entire life. I’ve been SO wrong in what I believed to be true about myself and the ones I’ve loved. All my truths and troths have crumbled to dust. I am truly, hopelessly lost. I fear the slightest breeze might propel me into oblivion.
Stripped of all confidence, I worry that I’ve become a timid traveler. Therefore, I must cross the ocean to explore faraway lands, and wander alone to discover whatever resources I still possess. I must open my eyes to the world and its possibilities, make myself understood without the benefit of language. I must scare myself on darkened streets, find my way back from foreign cul de sacs. I must face the unknown and the unfamiliar and, in so doing, find whatever is still left of me, the traveler who once so loved to sojourn alone.
* * *
They say we revere the classics because they reveal the essence of the human experience. I won’t argue with that. Lately, I’ve been thinking about Homer’s Ulysses (or do you prefer Odysseus?). I’ve come to feel a certain kinship with that forlorn, long lost and wandering Greek.
Oh, I’m no victor sailing home laden with the spoils of war. To the contrary, I am the vanquished, possessed of a heart that has been mercilessly sacked and razed. My brother Ulysses and I, having offended the Gods, find ourselves lost and adrift…and now we both must, despite the winds and waves, find our respective ways home.
Homer described Ulysses (“son of pain”) as: brave, bold, artful, crafty, witty, tender, mild, eloquent, exquisite, magnanimous, able and prudent. Those adjectives hardly apply to me nowadays. Maybe, just maybe, if I travel long enough and far enough, stare a Polyphemus in the eye, encounter a Calypso (I’ve already met my Circe), survive some 21st century Scylla and Charybdis and claw my way back from Hades…maybe, just maybe, blind Homer would see the similarities in me.
Sadly, I do know this: no matter how long my odyssey...or should I even find my Ithaca...there is no Penelope waiting patiently, faithfully, for me.
* * *
Wayward Breezes
If wayward breezes
Catch me
What dreams
Will lag behind?
Will there be
A faint glow
To mark where
My heart lay?
My shadows
Are darker
I feel
A rustling
If wayward breezes
Catch me
Will there be
Anything
Anything left
At all?
I was never one to fuss in the car. I never asked: “Are we there, yet?” There was so much to see! Too much to ponder. Is it any wonder I traveled at every opportunity? My work involved copious travel. Even so, given a chance, I sallied forth again and again and again (usually alone). My most memorable travels were solitary exploits. I crisscrossed this continent by car (mostly in my Porsche roadster -- top down -- regardless of the weather) or, best yet, motorcycle. I was a pretty self-sufficient sort, once. I won’t go so far as to say I was intrepid, but I managed to survive my adventures with a certain aplomb, humility and general good humor. My head overflows with impressions and memories. I’m grateful for each and every one.
* * *
I realized, several months ago, that I must venture forth into the world again. As soon as possible, actually. It’s not a matter of wanderlust this time. No, it’s not that. I must go because I’m utterly lost and must, somehow, find my way home...find myself...again.
I’ve never been as unsure of myself as I am today. I've never felt as vulnerable, as fragile. I’ve lost all faith in my survival instincts and my intuitive heart, the two mainstays that sustained me my entire life. I’ve been SO wrong in what I believed to be true about myself and the ones I’ve loved. All my truths and troths have crumbled to dust. I am truly, hopelessly lost. I fear the slightest breeze might propel me into oblivion.
Stripped of all confidence, I worry that I’ve become a timid traveler. Therefore, I must cross the ocean to explore faraway lands, and wander alone to discover whatever resources I still possess. I must open my eyes to the world and its possibilities, make myself understood without the benefit of language. I must scare myself on darkened streets, find my way back from foreign cul de sacs. I must face the unknown and the unfamiliar and, in so doing, find whatever is still left of me, the traveler who once so loved to sojourn alone.
* * *
They say we revere the classics because they reveal the essence of the human experience. I won’t argue with that. Lately, I’ve been thinking about Homer’s Ulysses (or do you prefer Odysseus?). I’ve come to feel a certain kinship with that forlorn, long lost and wandering Greek.
Oh, I’m no victor sailing home laden with the spoils of war. To the contrary, I am the vanquished, possessed of a heart that has been mercilessly sacked and razed. My brother Ulysses and I, having offended the Gods, find ourselves lost and adrift…and now we both must, despite the winds and waves, find our respective ways home.Homer described Ulysses (“son of pain”) as: brave, bold, artful, crafty, witty, tender, mild, eloquent, exquisite, magnanimous, able and prudent. Those adjectives hardly apply to me nowadays. Maybe, just maybe, if I travel long enough and far enough, stare a Polyphemus in the eye, encounter a Calypso (I’ve already met my Circe), survive some 21st century Scylla and Charybdis and claw my way back from Hades…maybe, just maybe, blind Homer would see the similarities in me.
Sadly, I do know this: no matter how long my odyssey...or should I even find my Ithaca...there is no Penelope waiting patiently, faithfully, for me.
* * *
Wayward Breezes
If wayward breezes
Catch me
What dreams
Will lag behind?
Will there be
A faint glow
To mark where
My heart lay?
My shadows
Are darker
I feel
A rustling
If wayward breezes
Catch me
Will there be
Anything
Anything left
At all?
* * *
posted by Jonas | 9/22/2006 10:49:00 PM
2 Comments:
Travel safe young man... I am travelling too.
Although I've been doing it a bit unsafely of late, it still stretches spaces in your heart, where you find unexpected strength.
"Travel safe young man..."
Oh, my Papuan Poetess, you cracked this geezer up! (I'm easily amused).
Yes, travel works a lot of magic...some good, some rather dark. I certainly don't have the guts to do what you're doing. I think visiting Budapest or Prague will be adventure enough for me.
By the by, I've been searching for the book I promised you. I can't find it anywhere. Poetry should be a staple but, alas, it's not. I'll order it from Amazon, and pass it on. In the meantime, practice your chords!
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