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A story for you...

kazuku
IsraTrance Full Member

Started Topics :  96
Posts :  1097
Posted : Feb 8, 2017 07:28:47
Sorry if offtopic, but tis' trance

Journey

People say “life is a journey”. However it is also journey that is life. Without travel life is dull and in static. One must travel and will travel. Lack of money is not an obstacle to travel. Travel does not have to be cocktails with little paper umbrellas in Hawaii, or barely affordable voyages to far away islands in seldom visited areas of the pacific. Travel comes in many forms. When you walked to work or to school this morning you already made a journey. It is only when you reach your destination, when you step out of motion and into static, that the mundane Monday kicks in. You also do not need legs to travel, even if they are beneficial, and those of us who are lucky enough to have them should be grateful, because some human beings do not. Like mine victims in Cambodia, or forgotten cripples in the dusty streets of poor cities, sitting on the ground, looking to make eye contact but most look away. Thankfully our mind is also a means of travel. That means today you have already travelled, as you mind spiralled off into the distance. Or perhaps in inside a dream, you rowed that boat, gently down a stream of consciousness. Or perhaps the sea was rough and you saw the sea-saw in suspended motion, as things that go bump in the night snuck around on the deck, inside your house of cards.
And then there are those who have legs, but chose not to use them, as an act of faith, as they travel. Mexicans with humble expectations crawl on their knees to the cathedral of the Virgin of Guadeloop, not seeking to exploit time loops, but in search of grace. Pleading with the heavens for a miraculous cure for a sick family member or praying that their wish for a child be granted. Not brewing potions, or conjuring tricks, but only seeking a helping hand with an open heart.
kazuku
IsraTrance Full Member

Started Topics :  96
Posts :  1097
Posted : Feb 8, 2017 07:29
Travel does not need to cost a lot, not even a penny or a cent or a shilling. It can be a bicycle ride or a serene hike, or the sound of skeleton ordained hard skateboard wheels, that slide and skid, leaving rows of marks on fresh and smooth tarmac. Travel does not have to be a cruise on an expensive behemoth-ship that bellows fumes into the air, carried across the sea by the trade winds. Some among us, they like to hitchhike, holding out there thump in an act of blind trust. Perhaps to be picked up by an axe murderer or spiral eyed rapist, but mostly not, because more often than not, leaps of faith are rewarded. Strangers may become friends. Perfect strangers, walking on the edge of danger, yet guided. They have no need for guide books. Their heart is their compass.
Yes, travel should promote friendship and remove barriers of misunderstanding. Sometimes, or in the mean-time, it may be that individual souls from opposite sides of world can communicate without saying a word. Their mind and their eyes and their hearts do the talking. Behind this lies the truth that unspoken words and ideas cannot come from a forked tongue. Instead they decide in unison, which fork in the road to take, and whether to eat with chopsticks or forks, or go to a place where they can take the weather along.
However, travel also has a second face. It rears its head when travel becomes tourism, a cold and calculated program. It has a harlequin face where everything is taken and nothing is given, and if a salty tear does drop in the ocean, it is only their sadness of having to return home. The holiday is over, back to the office. Sun burnt and red faced they haggle over pennies for souvenirs, hand crafted with tremendous skill. They pay hundreds of dollars for the lasts smart phone without thinking twice, for that mass produced marvel of plastic and silicon chips. But somewhere on the beach, cross legged on silicon laced sand, perhaps by the Indian Ocean, a local has carved a piece of art. One of a kind. Unique design. Not a silly con, and not born from conspiracies, whispered in laboratories. A work of heart and hand, created with mindfulness and pure intentions.
“Two or twenty”, the young orphan and his sister pleaded to the passing tourists. That price was too high for them, as they turn away and rush to their large tour buses, that usher them away to the foreign owned hotels and resorts where they stay, separated safely from the unknown behind high gates and walls with glass shards, like nightmarish ziggurats. Quick, quick, dinner is served at eight, be sure to eat their pudding and mountains of food from decorated buffets. Yet that craftsman, with his humble bowl, is happy about his work, because he created something. Not from ivory or ebony or teak or tropical woods from Tical, but from simple materials and abundant resources. As he looks at his work, he asks his mind:
“What is this worth? How many of those rectangular pieces of paper they call money? How many numbers are on that note. What does this deserve? It may be Dollars from dolls that are visiting or Pounds perhaps”.
“How many Pounds is a pound of flesh worth? Somebody, somewhere, asked”. In the background, carried by the a solemn wind, a flute plays rare notes, somewhere at the river bank. There, beyond the shore, clearly visible, lies a marooned ship, haunted and forgotten. Perhaps it was used by merchants to carry oil or precious goods in camphor chests, the business travellers of old. Perhaps it belonged to pirates from Somalia, carrying silver and gold, valuable reductions or weapons of mass destruction.
Yet the most exalted loot was invisible, sounds and tones that came from that flute, an improvised melody, played by a mute. They tell a tale of pieces of coral, carelessly broken with full intention, from fragile reefs, where the stone fish sleeps. It sits on the terrace of a bungalow, next to a star fish, left in the sun to dry and fry. Back to the airport the tourist goes, dreading to go home, to winter and snow. As the boarding gate opens, and the passes are checked, the starfish still lies, lonely and forgotten.
Other tourists now, are oh so brave and oh so strong, climbing high Mountains but never alone. Ahead of them and entourage of sherpas makes the path free, setting up the tents and boiling the tea. The ladders are laid out, along paths down trodden, the ropes are tied, they carry heavy bags of pots and pans, warm blankets, finest cotton. The fee it was modest, the climber can be proud. Beautiful selfie on the summit, sure to generate a plethora of likes and emotes on social media.
Yes, travel has become a commodity, a product, a mass produced good, not made in factories but still from the sweat of those who struggle to make a living. The tourists are happy when they a greeted with smiles, the locals are oh so friendly. So they snap there selfies on an Iphone seven, Instagram, Facebook, seventh heaven. They look at their screens, so very content, media that generates no content. Glued to the screen of pixels and sprites, the coca-cola was cold, served with cubes of ice in round hotel bars. They come from afar, and hunt for prestige, snap shot snap shot, smiling robot. The screen is bright, such high definition, vision much clearer now, successful was their travel mission. Snap shot snap shot, “everything is beautiful, wish you were here”.

The post card vendor is wearing a frown, sitting outside his small shop. “Where have the customers gone, and why don’t they need stamps anymore?” Today cards are posted in digital realms, no stamps needed, just post it. Press enter and return. Control alt delete is the word on the street.
Table Top Mountain, Cape of Good Hope, submarine traveller views the horizon with his periscope. Meanwhile, in the mean time, somewhere on the NEWS, news presenters want many views. Somewhere are traveller engages in gambling tourism, was it Macao or was it Poipet, maybe he was Indian, or maybe Vietnam Vet. Everyone glued to their screens, Gulf War, 9/11, televised conflict, convenient sandwich, 7/11. The dice was rolled, but the number could not win, the cube had six sides, and luck was growing thin.
Travel can be different, it should be win-win, passing down cultural and natural heritage to kin along generations, bringing benefit to people and nations. The rich and the poor, all have a heart, salt in their tears and most like cold beer. Everyone needs a screen, to enjoy and play and watch. Others need mosquito screens, to stop the mosquitoes, and mosquito nets, not internet. Others they travel, and are kind on the inside, open faced smile, nothing to hide.
So travel while you can, by foot or by van, as long as health permits it. I hope you get your visa or travel permit. Travel far, or near to places rarely seen, at your own pace, looking into people’s faces, put aside the phone. Before you know, the clock it ticks, dust to dust and bone to bone. Leave the selfie stick at home. There are also travel routes, roads inside, leading deep into the mines of the mind. If you sit quiet and still, at the beach on the sand. As the waves roll on land, they have a story to tell: Love above will. The waves they come and retreat, like fleeing armies of disembodies ghostly demons, attached to your feet. Fleet in the distance, might as well ignore, search for a number, it is greater than four. “Dont mention the war, don’t mention the score”, muttered the trembling harlot and whore. Don’t listen to the babble, the constant chatter, listen to a voice beyond the noise. Be sober or drunk or a little bit tipsy, look in your inner most chamber, the inner gypsy. When one is all and all is one, the alphabet soup is dispersed, love and evolve. Now is time, thyme is a herb and herb was a beetle. Beetroot is red, demom demon back to the root directory. Double you Double You Double you. Dot. No World War Three.
All flags are waved in unity, be happy you have legs, because walking is free. Computer virus, zombie virus, Prince of Persia and King Cyrus, roles of papyrus, a tainted kiss, willingly accepted, adapted wizard, land of the free, holy ghost, burning toast, coast to coast. So traveller be happy and be blessed, happy happy, festival. Leap year leap frog day out of time. The whore is silent, end of violence. The whore is sad because on the floor in Siem Reap, sits a mine victim with no legs. He carries the flags and badges of all nations and lands.
And the man with no legs he had the final lesson:

No More war
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