As I got ready to travel to the other side of the world, I had an idea I wanted to write about. But with so much to do prior to departure I opted to write it on the plane where I wouldn’t be distracted. Alas, my attempt to access it from the context of the jet was too much for me. I was fatigued from vintage and the arduous travel compounded it. It slipped away.
Now, twelve time zones distant, in the excitement of NY, it’s even harder to retrieve. The rhythms of nature seem to be overpowered somewhat. And in jetlag’s disassociation, my body and spirit keep reaching back to the feel of back there. Again I’m bridging two worlds, missing the simplicity and directness of life on the farm while being drunk on the sparkle and speed of this realm.
When I left Margaret River, the autumn rains were beginning. The sky had grayed down. Moisture kissed breezes greened up the pastures, while leaves were browning in the vines. My post-vintage fatigue was matched by a world that urged sleep. The season of summer had drawn to a close, and the season of Djeran had arrived, bringing blustery winds out of the southeast, a smattering of rain and noticeably shorter days.
I’m asking myself what is real, as there’s a different scale of real for me today. Nature has been "banished", the bright lights drown the stars. I encounter lovely trees in full spring blossom, tethered to discrete little squares of ground surrounded by concrete. I’m not about to go barefoot around here, but I need to touch the earth. I hold onto a tree, gather blossoms and sniff, pricking distressingly vague memories. Inside the apartment the disconnect is surreal, extreme. It’s normal here to google the weather in order to dress appropriately for it. Back home the weather is woven into the fabric of my existence, I couldn't escape from it, nor would I want to.
I'm drinking Cloudburst (and Lynch-Bage) on an amazing rooftop with a new friend. New York is spread out before us in the gloaming, as the sun drifts Australiaward. Alpenglow bathes the edifices in a burgundian light and I look off across the Hudson and see the purple hills of New Jersey. My eye is drawn back to the glittering city, the cacophony of horns rising from Lincoln Tunnel gridlock, then back. There's land over there. I see a fox slipping through spring flowers. A gurgling brook. Trees yawning with baby green leaves. The cool living breathing earth exhaling into the gentle dark…
Bright lights, big city. Darkness. Country.