"Not all those who wander are lost." ~ J. R. R. Tolkien
For weeks now, my thoughts have been rather preoccupied with ruminations on Into the Wild, quite possibly because Summer's arid, crunchy grasses and radiantly incandescent sun provide sensual reminders of the wilderness in which Alex Supertramp first found himself upon arrival in the remote northern hinterlands. Also, after over two months of having the kids all to myself for almost every day of the week, I find myself quietly yearning for a wee bit of solitude, silence, and solo exploration; so shoot me if I start squirming with an eensy bit of squirrelliness at the prospect of relishing a few solitary hours to get lost, think, or not think, or to focus time and attention on my mounting plethorii of photography, writing, editing, music, graphic design, mending, sewing, woodworking, and various training and volunteering projects. All these, not to exclude most importantly tending mindfully and diligently to the regal duties due my domestic dominion. (Oh, September, how I can not wait for thee to begin...!)
While enjoying a lovely coffee and catch-up with the Muay Thai Baker yesterday morning after classes, relevent mental synapses slipped back into electric fusion when he decided to barrage me with a battalion of perversely ass-bad jokes, including this particular gifty:
"So this paedophile and a kid are walking deep into the woods one night, and the kid says, 'Sir, I'm scared!' The paedophile responds, 'Hey, you're telling me. I gotta walk outta here all by myself!'"
Did I not warn you?
Wiping down the counters last week, a related random thought re-crossed my mind: Into the Wild is "My Side of the Mountain" gone utterly, heinously pear-shaped, albeit with a killer soundtrack and painfully adorable actor. Granted, I doubt watching an almost-pubescent Sam Gribley bathe could move me to the same tears as Alex Supertramp taking his epic, glorious first shower to Eddie Vedder's warm and plinky "No Ceiling." Maybe because I'm not paedophilic. As far as I know.
Now, come to think of it, maybe my associations have also been triggered by the very recent release of Bon Iver's new video for "Holocene," its screenshot strikingly reminiscent of the still used for the Vedder video above, with latter scenes eerily echoing the cover of the "MSotM" edition up at top. Curious, all these hearkenings. As a worthy counterpart to the stomach-bleeding sadness of the delicately gorgeous song, this video is a raving beauty for the soul to behold. It merits Full-Screen/Turned-up Speaker Status (FS/TSS™), truly.
And no, it has nothing to do with opening with a half-naked kid. Blame it on the majestic brokenness of Justin Vernon's haunting work. Pseudo-pornographic scenes of feet navigating over velvety plush, phosphorescent moss. Wide-open, silvery vistas. Sparkling horizons. The sensation of fresh and ancient wind brushing over your skin and into far-off forests and onto distant shores. Reflective waters. Skidding clouds. All-seeing, primeval craggy edifices.
No thanks to the stunning cinematography, Icelandic yearnings are searingly re-ignited, and wanderlust has my feet alit with that oh-so-familiar itch and tingle. Ironically, fellow adventurer Coyote Girl first posted this few weeks ago; I was afraid to watch it lest my intense desire to soar through the heavens to discover distant outposts of warm connection and new understanding become unbearably overwhelming as they have been in the past.
*sigh* Oh, but to be Daddy's not-so-little girl once again, and eligible to take shameless, liberal advantage of free airfare and freedom to fly wherever my heart desires, to revel in the exultant sense of release, relief, revelation, and perspective. For the time being, however, I'll continue to glean no uncertain satisfaction by escaping into the luxuries of memory, imagination, creation, and whatever heights and depths my hands, feet, spirit, heart, mind, and body are capable of taking me.
And bask wonderingly in the view... and breathe.
(photo credit: Book cover for one of my all-time childhood favourite books courtesy of, well, Puffin Modern Classics. Thank you, Puffin!)
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