Casa Robino

Paro no sentirme soloPor los siglos de los siglosYour guts aren't like mine afterall, tinkerbell.Lightness is heaviness. Et l'inverse. The sky is a cold blue, the grass is full of fire, the warmth of colours before the long winter. I wonder, after years racked with confusion and doubts, if things are coming together now. To survive, we, who wander without roof or roots, have always been obliged to fight, but now survival has extended beyond what is physical - of the physiological yearnings towards emotional, philosophical, spiritual growth. A kind of growing into a skin, filling it with the blood and organs of what it is to no cut off all ties to material compulsions.But too, that strain is great; to live so that it doesn't become what drags behind you, the dead horse. To constantly search for a shelter, the needs of the belly..the energy required is enormous, and in turn, that which goes to emotions, appreciation of beauty, direction, meaning.. is taken away.The insantianable hunger and prison bars that freedom can create. What is freedom is not just physical, of course, of course, at the gallows you can be free and less and less it matters not what you are doing but how you are doing it.  Bukowski's what matters most is how you walk through the fire clings to me still, after all these years after reading it's simple message. What is rootless, or nomadic, whathaveyou, that grows more and more steadily through the days is a natural accent, but we forget the mind, that movement means so little if there's never inside it.On Tuesday, I travelled from Perpignan back into Central France, seven hundred kilometres in seven hours. For the first time, I managed to travel fast without any unease at it's minimilisation of quality, of a mcdonalisation of breadth. Instead, it was just empowering that I could travel like that if required, to take care of my appearance if needbe, to have incredible conversations with people I would never have met before, to approach me and gain their trust easily into allowing me to travel with them. A priest picked me up just as the sun fell, 60km away from here. He was miserable and cold. I had the impression that something was choking him, a fish bone or hot coals. Voluntarily inserted. Like the man tearing at his legs. Soon, I got him to stop talking about god, and about the world, materialism, kindness. He kept trying to say he was spoken to by god to serve him and I found it disturbing. Miserable people are not so helpful, most of the time. He almost left me in the forest but made a point of telling me how much he was doing to help me by taking me the extra 2 km to the nearest village. Thank you, father, thank you.