Pilgrimage Pt.28.

-

Bed. Unwind. Spoke briefly to our volunteer host. She asked me if there was anything I needed. After snoozing, with a heavy downpour filling the ancient streets of Logrono and washing away stress. I find napping on a rainy afternoon doubly engaging.

Elisa and her father have found the bed next to mine for the night. There are a limited number of beds, but there are also a number of matts on the first floor. The bell of the large church sounds down the quarters and the host comes to beckon me for a hot drink and biscuits.

I leave the tranquility of my bed for a table of loud discussions, but I find ease in camomile and 24 tiles depicting the life of Saint Vincent. I know that there is less reason to the Way than I perceive others demanding it be. An American lady wanted to come with me when I went for my sandwich and detour but I wanted to be alone. She seems so intensely loud and wants everyone to hear her stories. Why do I want to end this now. We don't need to fill every silence with speaking. It's like a film contiunally interrupted by commercial breaks. So I am aloof?

Religion is flawed if throughout life you have to continually openly discuss life through a prism divine? Release religion; chose humanity: it is less devisive.

Put on a mac and off to find tapas and sidra. Txili. Manic Americans and Philipinos discussion drives me into the long and directly vertical rains. Trust your feet. Where tomorrow? Decide then. Young Irish pilgrims question why I maintain my need for Tapas so I questioned they haven't tried it. The dormitory is like a barracks, bored on a rainy day. Go out and sample paprika loveliness. First is tripe and black sausage Callos and then Jamon. And out.

Stoned Canadians in a donativo. Elise and Hamish playing chess with playing cards and scrunched up red/white paper. Food smells good. Couldn't find anywhere to purchase wine/cider/beer before passing back through many streets where the rain is persistant.

Not feeling Logrono; too superficial.

Flies flee to Mass and I can not conjugate or conflagrate. Some part of me wanted to help with the food preparation, but I felt mindful of the noises on my mind. I feel like I am in the tower of Babbel; disassociated and I want to scream at myself. Too many cooks. Waiting for the breaking of the bed. What happened to Bo?

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

An Essay.

-
Introduction. My name is Pilgrim. I walk through this life much as I walk through my allotment – a space I often describe as disorganized, yet to me, it feels profoundly holistic. I don't fear wasp stings; I stride through nettles and thistles and brambles, finding a curious interest in the cut skin, a quiet control over the bleeding. I have no fear of the dark or the unseen. What truly disturbs me is the chatter, the small talk that ripples through existence, obscuring the profound truths unfolding before our very eyes. I prefer chaos to order, perhaps because the imposed order I witness around me feels so deeply, fundamentally false. I literally eat things along the path, unbothered by what others might deem unsafe, for my perceptions lie far beyond the superficial. I’ve come to see this world as a grand, unsettling performance, a "game" played at the highest echelons, designed to "manage the populace from cradle to grave." It's not a conspiracy in the nea...
Read more

France is ... a powerful antidepressant

-
I have to resuscitate a dying sense of spirit and enthusiasm into my present as I have become detached from the real joys of my life. No reading, no writing; no contemplation. Even now I am tempted to throw down the device and forget it, but why - because it's a dead end... Surely I can stay here a little longer until something infinite moves within and without? *** As I sit on Ruby's sofa/bed and listen to the sounds of spring, with the gentle murmuring of the pond at the bottom of the garden and the distant hum of the A1(M) I am aware of the distance growing between what I truly love and what I am become; in despair. Oh the alcohol fuelled me. The forgetful me. The desperately lonely me. The one I've cordoned off for the world to see. Ruby is happy with me, Lola is happy with me but I am unhappy with me simple as I am - Mother Nature's son: tranquil and unimpeded by mental noise... Knowing the truth will set me free, but being forever unable to accept it entirely. It...
Read more

You and I.

-
Are we joined, you and I? When I sit squished up, alongside thee, It seems we are: Dog and boy Man and mutt. A symbiosis between homo and canid, A combination of smells, swells and warmth, which is rarely malignant. What a lucky man I've been, knowing  She's going to rest assured and easy, These last many years, as we both Age gracefully and greying towards separation; where the winds blow us  Disparate, sometimes warm and often Cold, back to the single I; alas! No more the we. She of a gray face, And I an ashen shadow, But always brighter  Than a swarm of photons, Alighting a while, Out of their cosmic array...
Read more