"How to Live?"

A Journey of Metamorphosis and Surrender Begins...

And so, another journey begins. 
Same and yet so different.
Sometimes you shed skins so fast, you're uncertain of your own form.

I am in France.
In my heart is the warmth of family.
And the ache of leaving it.

Donna, my campervan, is parked in an olive field.
Near Cucuron.
I left late, so there was no time for previewing spots.
And when the sun sets it doesn't leave time for "umming and ahhing".
My only concern:
"Will I get away with it for the night?"

And then, there it was.
A little hidey-hole.
A mound of rubble, just high enough to hide Donna from the sight of the road.
The usual fiasco of attempting a too-tight turn trying not to get stuck.

That tends to blow your cover.

"Hello sir, do you have a tractor?"

I remember that poor fellow by the Black Sea. 
I spent hours trying to dig him out of the sand.

"Try now, dammit!"

Gesticulating wildly while he wheezed Romanian curses.
All we did was bury that beat-up van deeper.
And yes, we did call in the tractor.
It was ancient, but nothing next to the hero driving it.
And then - the victory of release!

We all need to get stuck sometimes.
To understand that our life is not ending here.
And after, to experience the singe of homemade vodka searing your stomach.
How it exorcises demons!

Back here, I must set up.
I have not yet learnt the rituals of this trip.
I don't know what it wants of me yet, or I of it.
Night descends.
You have to accustom to this first ritual of the dark.
"What is that noise there?"

My father gave me an old iron knuckle duster when I first bought Donna.

"Use it if you need it, boy" he said.
" Just don't hit them in the head unless it's life or death".
"Thanks Dad".

That's how fathers guide.
Make sure you protect yourself.
Do what is necessary.
He probably knows that I'm doomed in a fight.
A pre-broken jaw and bulls-eye nose make for a fine target.

"Fuck it Pop, it's only me and the North Star tonight".
How it gleams.
It announces itself before any other star appears.
It doesn't even bother waiting for the light to fade.
"Here I am" it says.
Lone.
Defiant.
Eternal amongst the sky.
In the absence of orientation, I tether to it.

One does wonder if it is wise.
Its luminance arrives after a 434 million light-year journey.
Am I watching an illusion?
Could it have extinguished itself already?
Sometimes that is what life is.
Tethering ourselves to things passed.
The wind bites and the thought chills.

I have let go much this year.
Love.
My uncle.
Even my own project gnashes at my ankles:
"It's time to move on".

(Last week I finished recording "The Isolation Diaries")

The question arises:
To what?
To where?

And so today:

I shaved.
I cut my hair.
I departed my family.
I tethered myself to the North Star.
I sang a hymn to an undead Olive Grove.
I stole a parking place from the Gods.
I declared this fiefdom my own.
I pissed into the wind.
I ached.
I ventured.
I felt gratitude.
I made promises to the wind.
I asked questions to the dimming sky.
"How to Live?"
That shall be my starting point.

When in doubt.
Ask a question.
Seek its answer.
Share what you find.

My shedding begins.
I am in drastic metamorphosis.
I am hunted by time.
I acquiesce to its intention.
And understand I am free only in surrender.

As I tap away,
I wish love to all things.
Chilled.
Silent.
Nipped by the wind.
At the beginning of everything.

I will be sharing my personal diary about this van trip with my subscribers. As such I will be sending more newsletters than usual. Please feel welcome to join me during this time of renewal. If you would like to read (but are not ready to pay) please send me an email at jimkroft@gmail.com. I will send you a 3 month trial subscription which will give you full access.