Lima (before or after the jungle)
Wake up in the morning removed from people but move right towards them. Mediated by needing people, need to come close. Sit in that plastic chair for fifteen minutes after I've woken. A limp body in musty clothes. Everything damp, everything thin. Everything exposed. Breathe and meditate as if a separate thing from others. Casio alarm clock on table behind me. Clothes strewn over the left-hand bed. The smell of the place, slightly sour and bracing. Pretending I can be alone. Waking up alone but with a sense, a desperate need of what other people can bring. Sit alone as a game a pretence. Never wanting to be alone, never ever ever ever. Not working on myself then, there is no independent existence. Joining the queue at the Maestros’ lodging to be liked or disliked wanted or needed, to see the reaction I provoke in others. A silly labile child. My whole being tilting on a sense of this. Walking down from my Tambo in expectation. Each step nervy. Who I see first, what I hear first. Where is the disturbance of others. Not not to be liked but not to be actively liked either. It was not automatic that people would like me. Putting out a sort of 'please-like-me' vibe irrespective of whether I like the person myself. Trapped inside this forever and ever and ever. Waking up slightly fragile with this, seeing how it will all devolve at breakfast. This wanting to love people but feeling timid. The complexity of the inner feeling. The push/pull, the thing protected not let out. All sorts of excuses. But in that space I am bare and I want to show love. Wanting to show a great love and affection. But feeling timid. The woes of the world solved by this love. Just every fibre as I move, as I walk through that jungle. Not so many steps, limited steps, only go so many places, past so many Tambos, people, guests and workers, stuck in yourself for as long as.
The slow trickle of autumn, funnel down from above. Seasons falling, changing. The sun not knowing to be warm or silent, restrained by the air. Light checkered amongst the trees amongst things swaying in the wind. Back in Japan, the first time. Back to schooldays, to crushing spindles in crumpled leaves. Swish the leave pool around the pavement. Many, many autumns to live, many points of approach to winter, of school to winter. Back to Japan the very first days, a land engorged in autumn. The trees and air given up, let go of the tension, release, relief. Warmth but the imposition of foreboding. Feel it as impulse in the backs of your legs. Light covering, great heavy clouds, dark, wisp, white, black, grey and shadow. The wind picks up, the wind always picking up, throwing the air in shoots. In the wide consuming jungle there is no autumn. No autumn at all. Just the splurging of rain on receptive leaves. Just a green and mud brown, water rising, water falls. I am back in Japan and I am twenty-six. We are on a trail that leads to a bridge over a gorge. We are on that bridge, the end of the trail. The four of us. Ashish, David, Philip and me. The leaves have piled up, the wind swirls, but overall, there's a calm. The slow trickle of autumn and I’m still twenty-six.