Looking at the River, Thinking of the Sea

I've been reading, rereading, a lot of Cavafy the past four to six weeks. All of his verses recalling flesh stationed in the past, anticipation of barbarians and treats vibrant in his hand but just out of reach seem very relevant of late.

As the northern California non-season of "spring" moves into the more tangible fog season, I look ahead at my upcoming travels and the disconcerting task of entering so many abstract landscapes. Going from golden grasses of California to the green pastures of the rest of the country in June always focuses me on the blue of the distance, taking sustenance in longing and trying to avoid the futility of fulfilment.

After a long period of loss, I've been reassessing what desire is and the hazards associated with it. In the past I associated that with travel, but too much of my travel has become familiar, not the blue highways I have once pursued with such passion. The foreign has always brought me much greater comfort than the familiar, but now I am not sure what either really either. I question if they have reversed places in my world.

The outreaching hand, however, that I suppressed for much of the past few years seems to be striving for the distance again. It seeks less fulfilment and more movement, the passage of waters that flow to some greater body of water, circle into some new harbor and then move forward to wrap around another gravitational destination. When I close my eyes I can see blue again, outlining and mawking the sullen hues of black.