literature
Travel literature includes guide books, travel memoirs and the curious experiences that happen when you seek adventure.
The good man "Nine Old Men"
"Nine old man" is my father-in-law. From an ethical and emotional point of view, it would be "disrespectful" for me to call him that, but because his mother-in-law and his peers used to call him that when he was alive, there was a special sense of familiarity and affection when I heard more; and because he was "good" and would not I even guessed that he heard me call him a good man "nine old herder", maybe he would still be habitually happy "hehehe" smile.
By Hurry Green3 years ago in Wander
Lines in the Sky
“It’s never too late to turn back.” Isn’t that what they say? In my deep sleep I was dreaming that I was in my childhood home. As in all my dreams it was but it wasn’t. There was a balcony on the top floor and the neighbours’ houses were too close, looming over my head with wide, dark window panes that let in just enough light to make you wonder if there was someone watching from behind the tinted glass. I held a crumpled shirt up to my chest to cover myself as I stepped outside and looked down over the white steel railing. An old boyfriend of mine (Steven?) was there calling up to me, coaxing me out for an evening rendezvous in the warm summer air. His slender build and almond shaped eyes were friendly and inviting. He had on one of his classic brightly coloured and bold patterned shirts, a stark contrast to his always tatty pants and shoes. He was beside his bike - reliable but rust-covered. I felt exposed peeking my head out over the railing, back bare to the waning heat. The delight of his presence and the surprise of his beckoning was overwhelming and exciting.
By Nathalie Feehan3 years ago in Wander
Happy fall. Sweet heart like a lotus
A beautiful window, worry purples, thin pen plain in a wisp of ink write time flies. Pick up big and small past, in the wind light cloud light days, let yourself away from the hustle and bustle, with a few pieces of idle clouds, wan a warm sun, the wind and a garment fluttering, long hair diffuse. Grassy grass in the wilderness, the stranger flowers, quiet heart empty, become gentle fragrance. Like this kind of indifferent, let the heart clear and distant, thousands of dust all go with the wind, such as lotus, a wisp of fragrance quietly warm. Time flies, my heart is idle.
By Jane Oxley3 years ago in Wander
Spurious Seas
Bertha Watt could hardly believe her luck. She was currently enjoying a delicious pastry and sipping tea on the Queen of the Ocean- the aptly named Titanic! In 2nd class, none the less! She was traveling with her mother to move to the far west coast of America, where her father currently was. He, of course, had gone ahead to set up a home for his "ladies", as he called them. Father simply sung the praises of their new home, a beautiful town called Portland.
By Guenneth Speldrong4 years ago in Wander
Paris, Coffee, and Vices
A short anecdote on the history of Paris' coffeehouses has left me in a state of reflection. The amount of things one fine bean is capable of doing to humanity is mesmerizing. Coffee's impact in our civilization belongs in the same category as alcohol and herbal spices, and our behavior under its consumption has been the focus of constant speculations about the true purpose of its use ever since we started figuring out the basic chemical components of its composition.
By Ezra I. James4 years ago in Wander
Reading and the Road
I am stationed somewhere along the coast of northern California, a late September snow having stolen any glimpse of Crater Lake, pushing me on down the line sooner than anticipated to meander the winding, stomach-churning forest roads running deep through the shadows of towering Redwoods. At a scenic overlook perched above a picturesque beach, I’d taken to a secluded spot of pavement at the far end of the lot. The van had been backed up tight to the concrete barrier, a hefty glass of red wine poured, doors swung open, bench seat flipped down, and pillows organized to provide suitable comfort. It was then when I’d gotten to work. The town of Salinas sits no more than a handful of hours to the south from here. I glide over the final few pages of Steinbeck’s classic while lifting my head to sneak intrepid gazes of a burning sun as it falls into slumber beyond the horizontal clip of the Pacific. There is significant recognition as to how my eyes are feasting upon a similar scene and story to so many of those who’ve come before me. To the author himself. To the cast of characters. How all of them had either, in the flesh or on account of their creation, watched this same star crash into this very ocean.
By Jake Writes From The Van4 years ago in Wander
