And There Ends The Web - (In Llansilin again)

"The sword of time will pierce our skins

It doesn't hurt when it begins
But as it works its way on in
The pain grows stronger...watch it grin.
suicide is painless
It brings on many changes
and I can take or leave it if I please."
- M*A*S*H Theme Tune

The poet in a time of oblivion clings to the shadows of the dead gods. Like all poets, Karura found it impossible not to lie. Not the lies of betrayal, but the lies of pomposity, self-importance, world-importance. He had tasted oblivion, soared with the gods and lived with nothing in mind. Yet Karura still lied.

The question returned again and again. How, if at all, could one live an authentic life? By authentic, Karura meant so much more than a vague 'being true to your nature' or that most overused cliche, 'carpe diem'. Seize the day? Follow your heart? Do what thou wilt? All these have their place, but all are cliche. Karura also reflected upon Albert Camus' suggestion that all a man needs to do to be happy is to go along with the general way of things. But that itch, that gnawing, that ache of the soul still tore deep into Karura as he tended his garden and waited.

Karura would be leaving his house soon. The house his love had cried over when she thought it had been lost. The house that still shone brightly beneath the insult of Karura's neglect. The house that was meant to be home, but had been wiped away like a grease-paint mask. These past few days, Karura had attacked the weeds with a passion. Why did he feel the need to make everything right before he left?

Karura had two options. He could either fall into the general way of things and accept that promises are empty and love is as fickle as the beloved disciple, or he could blindly defy the world, continue to push that rock up the mountain and find a way to live which was real, to him.

This had become the age of decisions. Karura had rejected suicide as a betrayal of absurdity. It was a difficult decision given the weight of expectation, but he could not come to terms with nothingness as freedom, and freedom was all he had left to which to aspire.

What did Karura love? The myth of his past life still seared into him and would always do so without radical exorcism. Decisions have to be made. Decisions that would hurt.

And yet, once made, those decisions would have to be binding. There was no going back. Karura could see things clearly now.

Karura kissed his beautiful boys as they lay sleeping, then crept out to the mountains for the last time. Regardless, he would climb now. Naked, alone, soaked to the skin, cold and deflated. He would climb higher and higher right up until his dying breath. No glory, no shame, no pride, no love - just a cold, deliberate ascent.

Too Old to Die Young. Too Big to Cry - Days 26 to 29 (Cognac and Talmont-sur-Gironde)

“Every moment was a precious thing, having in it the essence of finality.”
― Daphne du Maurier

The fisherman leaves . . . 

Two almost unbearably wonderful days with old and new friends in the extraordinary village of Talmont-sur-Gironde provided a fitting finale to Karura's odyssey.

This hollyhock laden maze of medieval streets, candles, music, art, and civilisation rests upon a rocky outcrop protruding into the Gironde estuary and can be entered only at the will of the residents.

. . . and brings back supper!

Karura was waved through the barrier and guided by bicycle past the tourists to the Old Customs House, a magnificent oasis of calm, reflection and contentment, hanging onto the rocks, lapped at by the waves.

As the fisherman passed by the window a thumbs up meant that supper would soon be ours. Not for the first time, Karura ate the best food, drank outstanding wine and talked with friends for hours. A shared bottle of XO Cognac from the vineyard where Karura had stayed the night before brought perfection.

It had been a long time since Neith's bandages had fallen away. Long enough for Karura to have seen eternity and danced with the gods. As he packed his bags for the final time, Karura felt deep sadness that his journey would be coming to an end, yet also a sense of joy and a promise of good things to come.

This time tomorrow Karura would be on his fourth and final ferry. Back to England and then onward to Llansilin and, for now at least, home.

Karura needed to think, to rest and then to write one final time.

Heading West - Day 25 (Prague to Willstadt)

“It is suicide to be abroad. But what it is to be at home, ... what it is to be at home? A lingering dissolution.”
― Samuel Beckett

Karura went to the main Triumph dealer in Prague. Indeed, the only Triumph dealer before Bratislava. He wandered around the new motorcycles feeling a tinge of lust, combined with the nagging guilt of infidelity as his own eight year old Sprint ST 1050 sat still beautiful and overwhelmingly loved outside.

There were no other customers, but there were a few members of staff sitting around, staring so intently at their PC screens that nobody noticed Karura. He saw some stairs and, as ever, was drawn upwards. In a large room at the top, Karura found himself surrounded by all manner of spare parts and a handy counter to stand at. He noticed another four members of staff sitting at computers, tapping away.

Things started to look up when one of the tappers got up and wandered to the other side of the counter.



Geek App Fuel Stops - Think Anti-Clockwise

Karura: "Dobry den"

Triumph guy: "Dobry den"

Puffed up at his fluent Czech, Karura continued:

Karura: "May I speak English?"

Triumph guy: "Sure"

Karura: "I need two headlight bulbs for my Triumph, please"

Triumph guy: "I'm sorry, I don't know what bulbs Triumphs take"

Karura: "They are H7s"

Triumph guy: "Right, yes, I don't think we stock them"

Karura: "You are the main Triumph dealer in Prague, right?!"

Triumph guy (turning round and randomly moving a box on the shelf behind him): "No, sorry, we don't have any"

Karura: "This isn't  a Monty Python sketch is it?"

Triumph guy: "?"

Karura left, remembering to check that the Triumph sign outside was indeed indicative of motorcycles rather than lingerie. In the entire time Karura was in the Czech Republic, he failed to spot one single other Triumph motorcycle. There seemed to be some correlation.

It was early in the morning and Karura aimed to be nearly 400 miles away in Strasbourg before 17:00. He was astonished at how twisty the German autobahns are, and how much lean they require on a motorcycle . . . . . at anything above 150mph! Karura arrived just in time for a late lunch.

Total Eclipse - 24/07/99 to 24/07/13 - Day 24 (The Agharta Jazz Club, Prague, 'Round Midnight)

“I feel like getting married, or committing suicide, or subscribing to L'Illustration. Something desperate, you know.”

― Albert Camus

Falling (In love)

And then I was falling
Through that mist of complete intoxication
I remember vividly the free fall, the rush
At times, all I wanted was for everything to stop
For the essence of that moment
To be encapsulated forever

I could not see the bottom
But I could feel your hand in mine
Intertwined in that special way only we know
Firmly gripped but as soft as your lips when we kissed

We fell together through the magic and the sorrow
We tumbled and danced and flowed
And twirled and laughed and glowed

But I grew weak with the weight of our failure
And as I grasped more tightly
Your grip loosened
Until you were gone

And I screamed for you
And I screamed for you
But another had your hand
Our story lost, redefined

Asleep in Gubbio, eyes still closed
I reached for you
I opened that nectar capsule briefly
And ravished a last, sweet drop

Beautiful people, the best
Grasp me, slowing my descent
But still I fall
And still I cannot see the bottom

Once more, all I want is for everything to stop
For pity's sake, where is the blessed bottom
With its cold, hard rocks

I am coming sweet rocks
. . . . . . . . . .
Take me soon
. . . . . . . . . .
Blot out my shame

Drawing Against Oblivion (Children of the Flames) - Days 21 & 22 (Vienna)

“I see and hear old Kuhn praying aloud, with his beret on his head, swaying backwards and forwards violently. Kuhn is thanking God because he has not been chosen. Kuhn is out of his senses. Does he not see Beppo the Greek in the bunk next to him, Beppo who is twenty years old and is going to the gas chamber the day after tomorrow and knows it and lies there looking fixedly at the light without saying anything and without even thinking any more? Can Kuhn fail to realize that next time it will be his turn? Does Kuhn not understand that what has happened today is an abomination, which no propitiatory prayer, no pardon, no expiation by the guilty, which nothing at all in the power of man can ever clean again? If I was God, I would spit at Kuhn's prayer” 

― Primo Levi

Katharina "Gatti" Kawacz, 8 years

The Blumenkrieg in March 1938 brought the Nazi war machine to the streets of Vienna and even the gods fled. There remains a bunker deep in the Leopold Museum of Vienna where the innocent faces of murdered children bear testament to the gods' retreat.

And all the horror and all the guilt in the world descended upon these children.

The large charcoal portraits by Manfred Bockelmann are based upon police shots taken by the authorities at the time - the Gestapo, the SS, the medical profession. Many already wear the striped convicts' clothing of the death camps. Others are in their best clothes, having wanted to make a good impression when called for a photo shoot. Many were Jews, others were Roma and Sinti. 

The soft charcoal seems to bring out the person within better than a cold photograph, but this is an act of remembrance rather than art. Lifting just a few individuals from the anonymity of statistics.

Mengele had drawn an arbitrary line on a wall just a few short feet from the earth in Auschwitz. Those who failed to reach the line were gassed immediately. Karura's mind recoiled at the pitiless contrast as he saw again his own son's anguish at being above the line which would have allowed him to enter his chosen bouncy castle. How could Karura even have that thought in the face of what he was witnessing? Many of those who survived the first cull were killed later, either by gas, starvation, disease or by 'medical experimentation'. 

Karura would have avoided the gaze of others, conscious of the vacuity of his self-indulgently red eyes in the face of such primitive evil. Except he was alone. Utterly alone. Karura knew that he was not 'only' looking at murdered children in that room. He was confronted by nothing less than the execution of God himself.

The Philosopher - Days 18 to 20 (Slovenia to Budapest)

“Philosophy is a battle against the bewitchment of our intelligence by means of language.” 

― Ludwig Wittgenstein,

Although Karura had undertaken this journey on his own, he had met with or made friends at each stop. Budapest was to prove to be a city of contrasts and surprises, but all held together by companionship and hospitality.

High in the hills of Norma-fa, Karura surveyed the city below him. The great river Danube defines the location while the effortless beauty of the topography gives definition to the scene. Although helped by the cogwheel railway, it had been a long walk to reach this highest point. Nevertheless, Karura's step was light and he was happy in the cool breeze.

There is unquestionable beauty in Budapest. It is a city steeped in history, culture and life. Karura reflected that despite this history it feels very young - adolescent even - and he wondered how that could be. Perhaps it came from its people, so many of whom seem not quite to have found their place yet. Or perhaps it consists in the optimism of a still new market system which has yet to settle into the predictable patterns of many other major cities Karura had seen on his travels. Most of all, he concluded, it was to be found in chaotic juxtaposition of old and new. In parts there seems little overall coherence, with, for example, ultra modern glass buildings grafted onto the old as a statement of what? Function over form? Form over other form without heed to connection?

Karura was in two minds. He loved the vitality and individual expression, yet perhaps saw his own life reflected too deeply in the lack of overall coherence. The word 'integrity' was never far from his lips as he searched for ways to bring everything he felt and knew together as one. Karura had rejected morality in the traditional sense, but he was determined to find integrity. That would mean taking each part of his life and moulding it into a whole. No cracks, no misfits, no tensions. All of it glued together by character and integrity. Karura could not quite see it yet, but he was finding direction.

That evening, Karura enjoyed food, wine and jazz with friends before moving on to the indescribably wonderful 'Szimpla' to drink beer and discuss philosophy until the small hours. In this company, Karura had always found his thoughts shifting for the better and so it was to be once more. Everything was good.

Jumping Back Into The Whirlpool - Day 17 (Croatia to Slovenia)

Karura would spend his sixteenth night aboard the ferry from Italy to Croatia. As a teenager, he had driven the length of the coast road and still it held him in thrall.

As with the Pyreneean mountain passes he loved, the road snaked into the horizon with hairpin after hairpin to focus his mind. The sun beat down on the ultra-marine, ultra-calm sea. At times the water was so close Karura could touch it. At other times the false camber of the road threatened to pitch him a hundred or more feet into its salty depths.

A new motorway some miles inland had shifted time backwards on this lonely coastal road. Many who were holidaying would pass this magical landscape without even thinking. Karura lapped it up and drank deeply from the cup of beauty and truth. Nearly 2500 miles had elapsed and the syncretism of bike and rider was complete. Karura's heart beat and the purr of the engine became as one. Later that day, Karura crossed the border into Slovenia. He could sense the gods were still smiling.

The Artist's House - Days 15 & 16 (Near Gubbio)

“I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.” 
― Michelangelo Buonarroti

There is a place in the heart of Italy where peace and tranquility are interrupted only by wild boar, porcupine, crickets, food, drink, conversation and laughter.

Karura ate plates of eggs and pasta dripping with truffles and drank Sicilian wine. Within minutes, the heat of the city, the noise of the traffic, and the endless tourists had become a thing of the past.

It had been eleven years since Karura last visited this magical place. He promised himself, hostess willing, that he would never leave it that long again.

Karura rested both mind and body, his contentment complete and the friendship more than enough to see him through the next stage of his journey.

Karura Visits the Gods - Days 12 to 14 (Rome)

“Thoughts are the shadows of our feelings -- always darker, emptier and simpler.” 
― Friedrich Nietzsche

Over two thousand miles into his pilgrimage, Karura arrived to pay homage to the gods at the Pantheon in Rome. Earlier, he had felt the thrill of walking out into the arena at the Colosseum, where the mortals had entertained themselves so cruelly. But now, Karura acknowledged the presence of the divine and became silent.

The gods came to Karura as he sat in contemplation and they whispered in his ear.

"If you, Karura, could live forever, would you at once fall to the ground and curse the gods for their malice, or would you rise up and meet the divine? Would you, Karura, become a god?"

Light seeped into Karura through the oculus as he considered the question. It was true that Karura loved life and the thought struck him that all joy must wish for eternity. Or, more precisely, that the joyous moment ought to have infinite value. Were these two notions of the same root? With integrity, could Karura encapsulate the essence of joy and not only allow it to be but also to be forever? Moreover, how could a point at which nothing could proceed further, a point which simply is, not be eternal?

Or were the gods offering merely a longer and endless struggle for perfection?

The desire for existence, the desire to be liberated from your triumph and shame, the need to experience a better life, never to lose hope. This religious instinct with its focus on a future point in time as an escape - "If you just pray/fast/meditate long enough, your hopes will be realised and your fears will disintegrate." - is not enough.

Karura sensed the need to find an answer for the gods.

The thought that things can only get better had sustained Karura through many difficult times. Yet there had been times when he needed more. It was in those deepest, darkest caves far into the underworld, where all hope seems lost and where the nothingness descends that Karura found his answer. For the mortal man, death is always an option. It is not the desire for death and certainly not the act of dying that was important to Karura, but the possibility. The knowledge that one could, if one so wished, end everything, deprives life of its sting. There is nothing that this universe can do to the free man to take away his ultimate autonomy.

Those who are immortal share with force fed prisoners the ultimate denial of integrity. Karura, the lover of life, would find such an insult intolerable. He felt sure the Roman gladiators would have understood.

As he prepared to leave Rome, Karura forgot to throw his coin into the fountain. Perhaps the gods would forgive him.

Make The Money, Don't Let The Money Make You - Day 11 (Between Corsica and Sardinia)

“What I'm sure of is that you can't be happy without money. That's all. I don't like superficiality and I don't like romanticism. I like to be conscious. And what I've noticed is that there's a kind of spiritual snobbism in certain 'superior beings' who think that money isn't necessary for happiness. Which is stupid, which is false, and to a certain degree cowardly.... For a man who is well born, being happy is never complicated. It's enough to take up the general fate, only not with the will for renunciation like so many fake great men, but with the will for happiness. Only it takes time to be happy. A lot of time. Happiness, too, is a long patience. And in almost every case, we use up our lives making money, when we should be using our money to gain time. That's the only problem that's ever interested me.... To have money is to have time. That's my main point. Time can be bought.

- Albert Camus

In the early hours of day 11, before falling asleep on his ferry from Barcelona to Civitavecchia, Karura recalled a conversation that happened a long time ago in the dark ages. Wrapping up some Pecksniffian advice on parenthood and relationships, Karura's interlocutor had posed the question:

'Why do you want to be married anyway?'

Karura's initial response was cut dead in mid sentence.

'Well, I have made a huge invest . . .'

'Aha', the judge's decree fired back triumphantly, 'so it is all about money!'

That was the moment when Karura realised everything he had heard was correct. He would never speak to his interlocutor again. There is nothing to be gained from one so methodically ignorant of love.

Karura would consider the question of love many times, but now he turned his mind to money. He hoped to find an ATM in Rome tomorrow, to facilitate a meal out with friends, fuel for his bike, entrance to the Colosseum, and a roof over his head. That would be OK. He had time.

Enough on money. Growing bored with his wandering thoughts, Karura drifted off to sleep.

Pandora's Box - Days 8, 9 & 10 (Barcelona)

“It is necessary that every man have at least somewhere to go. For there are times when one absolutely must go at least somewhere!” 

― Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Pandora opened her box of holocausts and all but one flew out, ravaging the world and the minds of men with torments. Like so many, Karura had experienced many of these evils, yet he had escaped many more. As is the way of all who pull themselves from nothingness, Karura had taken to heart the evil beyond all other evils. It was Zeus himself who had ordered Pandora to shut her box, leaving only hope inside. Mankind in its innocence, took this final evil as the greatest good and each held the almost empty box to his heart. Could we not see that Pandora had brought us a box of evils? Did we not understand? This most terrifying, most harrowing evil of all gave rise to all the great religions and is still the source of power that keeps men clinging to futile thoughts of salvation or enlightenment; to making a virtue out of slavery. In inflicting hope upon mankind, cruel Zeus had ensured that, despite constant attrition from the other evils, mankind would continue to strive, continue to live, continue to become. Hope was the necessary evil that gave all other evils their bite. Hope alone had the power to shake a man to his very foundation. 

Karura had spent three days in Barcelona. He had found life, art, architecture, warmth, companionship, sustenance, passion, and laughter. Pandora's evils had not troubled him, for the gods were still on his side and life had remained unexamined, experienced in the moment. Now, as he sailed towards Sardinia and Corsica, Karura sat once again upon his rock. Tomorrow he would be in Rome where the gods would watch him continue the fight in the Colosseum. He lay on the deck, imagining himself hoping for nothing, merely allowing the rumble of the diesel and the gentle sway of the ship to caress him to sleep. He imagined that he could whisper consoling lies to himself. But the stars still called to Karura and his heart beat its response . . . . . regardless of his will.

(Dancing to Django Reinhardt's 'Minor Swing' on the streets of Barcelona)

King of the Mountains (You sat upon your rock, Sisyphus) - Day 7 (Col d'Azet)

“He who climbs upon the highest mountains laughs at all tragedies, real or imaginary.” - Nietzsche

It is not the yellow jersey that draws Karura's greatest respect, but the polka dot colours of The King of The Mountains. For he is the one who comes into his own in the high country, pushing upwards as others fade away; reserving his strength on the plains and biding his time. The King of The Mountains is a specialist whose greatest attributes are sheer stubbornness, a refusal ever to give in to the pain, and an absolute need to reach the highest points first.

Karura knew that the Col d'Azet, on this hardest of days in the Pyrenees, would be the greatest test. With the road closed, Karura faced a long climb up the mountain to be there. He set off pushing his boulder in front, starkly aware of the absurdity. Why did he want to be there? What could he gain? In four hours time he would be at the top, sitting on his rock, anticipating a fleeting happiness. At the same time he would be four hours closer to death, still in revolt, still pulling himself from the nothingness to which he aspires.

Step after agonising step, Karura set himself to the task, heaving his boulder up the mountain, with all thought, all effort, concentrated only upon the next footfall. There was no time to think, just relentless toil until finally Karura reached the crest. Exhausted, he sat upon his rock and waited.

The mountains had taken their toll on the peloton resulting in a first small group of riders flashing by, followed by a much bigger group. There Karura saw him, The King of The Mountains, looking utterly at ease with the physical and mental demands. Serenely the polka dot jersey pressed the pedals, watching, listening for danger and ready to pounce. And then, with the last rider disappearing towards the valley, it was over. The mountain remained impassive in the face of Karura's futile search for unity and so there was nowhere left for him to go but back down. His rock creaked and started to tumble with Karura chasing behind. He knew he would be doomed forever to push his rock up mountains, but it had become Karura's rock and he was beginning fully to understand its shape and texture. Karura would carry his rock each time better than the last, and in this way he would embrace the absurd and live as a hero.

All is well. One must, in the profoundest possible sense, imagine Karura happy.

Karura Chases Dragons - Day 6 (Castres to Vielha)

Col de Peyresourde

The time had come for Karura to return to the mountains. Perhaps his deep affinity for the peaks arose in those childhood years, soaring through the clouds chasing and devouring dragons in a far off land. Or perhaps it could have been his need always to reach higher that gave him the desire to return whenever he could.

Here in the high country every wheel beyond two diminishes the experience exponentially. With four wheels, inertia drags you sideways rendering rapid progress a three way battle between man, machine and nature. With four wheels you are isolated in still air, protected from the elements, from life itself. On his two wheels, Karura flowed through the bends, his motorcycle using the laws of nature to the full, leaning easily into each hairpin before galloping along the straights. Karura could taste the heat from the road and smell the ice cold snow, his senses tangled in the perfume of the moment.

Airport Peyresourde

Higher and higher Karura climbed until he reached a place where the crisp air is ice thin and the trees can no longer seed. Eventually the peak was his, but still Karura craved more. After so long deep in his cave, Karura's thirst was unquenchable. He would not stop until once again he could fly with the dragons.

The gods remembered Karura and smiled. A small unmarked road to his left seemed to offer just a few more meters of height and Karura felt himself drawn to follow. It was at the end of the road, where the ski lifts lay dormant, that Karura stumbled upon a field of dragons. A scribbled sheet of A4 paper pinned to a hut invited Karura to reach higher still. For twenty blissful minutes, two wheels became none and Karura chased dragons in the realm of the gods.

A Rope over the Abyss (Between Beast and Superman) - Day 5 (Vienne to Castres)

"Give me a star to aim for, tell me what it takes and I'll go so high, I'll go so high my feet won't touch the ground" - Macklemore

Millau Viaduct

Karura stood at the bottom of the greatest pier. His intention had been to ride over the Millau bridge, but he became inexorably pulled towards the almost silent underworld where horses play and 'penicillium roquefort' infused ewes' milk ferments in caves. An interesting decision. He felt himself reclining onto his back at the side of the river allowing the coolness of the long grass to sharpen his senses to the songs of crickets and the smell of wild herbs. An Eiffel Tower above him, the pinnacle of the rainbow bridge shimmered in the haze and an almost silent procession of cars took flight. Perhaps he had felt the whitest of gods keeping vigil at the southern end, watching, waiting for the final battle. Or perhaps Karura himself, so recently divested of his bandages and veil, was not ready for this stage of the journey.

It was silent now as once again Karura entered the moment.

Millau Viaduct

Karura fixated on the rope over the abyss. As he watched, the shimmering path seemed to turn to fire, rendering the whole massive structure a molten flux of brilliant steel and concrete. Observing further, the fire grew stronger, fingers of blue hot flame stabbing towards him, fearsomely, invitingly. The heat was beginning to melt his clothes as the sky tore in two releasing a sheet of lightening which crashed through the heavens directly enveloping his pounding skull. At the same moment, Karura's eyes were blinded by rivulets of sweat splashing from his forehead, salting his lips; an aching fear anchored Karura to the spot. The coolness of the grass and the heat of the bridge obliterated consciousness of anything other, searing into his soul, tearing at his mind, threatening another chasm of cataclysmic proportions. He had glimpsed the land of the gods, a noumenal realm so holy so other, a truth so final, that it took the most tremendous all too human madness to break back to his own.

Bifröst - The Rainbow Bridge

Karura roared his lungs raw, revelling in the bitter sweet taste of eternity. As the beast shrank away, he hauled himself just one non-step back from the brink and peered down far below where he could faintly make out a river. Close to its banks, oblivious to the battle that had raged above, wild horses grazed.

The rain came slowly at first, dripping huge droplets onto his pungently new leather jacket, seeping down before moistening the dust of three millennia. Then faster and faster it poured, hammering into him until Karura was soaked through the skin laughing as he had never laughed before. Thor had returned. The fire was extinguished. The final battle would come, but not today. When it did, Karura now understood that, whatever the outcome, he would be ready.

The sun blazed once more and the steam rose from the tarmacadam like some primordial figment. Heimdallr lowered the great horn of the river and a blue motorcycle sprinted over the spirit of Bifröst and onwards towards Castres, where the King of the Mountains elect lay dreaming of polka dots, waiting for the cool warmth of moonbeams and sleep.

Habanera en Francia - Day 4 (Vienne)

"Well if it seems to be real, it's illusion

For every moment of truth, there's confusion in life

Love can be seen as the answer, but nobody bleeds for the dancer.

Fool, fool! You've got to bleed for the dancer. Fool, fool, fool!!" 

- Ronnie James Dio

Obàtálá had travelled far, bringing with him some of the greatest musicians from his land. Tonight, Vienne would pay homage to the Cuban gods, their audience brought to life through Obàtálá's breath. Under the watchful eye of Apollo himself, the great theatre reverberated to the ancient drums of Africa.

Obàtálá and Our Lady of Mercy

Karura could feel the primal life energy lifting him high, pulling his spirit towards the heavens. With guidance from the moulder of men, Karura touched upon the essence of clarity.

As the pendulum moved his way, Dionysus prevailed. Obàtálá's clarity lay not in order, but in the realisation that chaos could not fall under the compass of words. "Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent." Once again, Karura abandoned himself to the moment.

Tomorrow, Karura would wake anew and the world would see events that threatened to shake him to his very foundation. By nightfall, Karura would have tasted eternity.

Stochelo Rosenberg and the Rebirth of Tragedy - Day 3 (Saint-Quentin to Vienne)

"Wherever the Dionysian prevailed, the Apollonian was checked and destroyed.... wherever the first Dionysian onslaught was successfully withstood, the authority and majesty of the Delphic god Apollo exhibited itself as more rigid and menacing than ever."

-Nietzsche

For the sin of wearing the Coat of Christ in the presence of the Emperor, Pontius Pilate was sentenced to death. Upon hearing the news, Pilate took a knife and slew himself, rather than die the ignoble death of a villain. His body was cast into the Tiber, awakening the evil spirits who dwelt within and creating such consternation that the Romans 'drew out the body in derision' and had it sent to Vienne.

Pilate's Tomb - Vienne

Apollo and Dionysus watched as the wooden ship eased its way up the Rhone in the dead of night. They remained motionless as the soldiers tied a millstone to Pilate's body in anticipation of a final journey to the bottom of the great river. As the soldiers relaxed with their new wine in old wine skins, a singular silence fell, revealing through the tolling of a bell that the moment was now. With the last chime dissolving into the starry heavens, the gods stirred and the great betrayer sank beneath the surface. Slowly he sank at first, yet gathering pace until, trapped by stone and black mud, all motion ceased. Almost at once the great river shuddered as the ill spirits of the water revealed themselves in waves of such ferocity that the vessel above splintered into a thousand parts.

The men aboard became absorbed by the ferment and swam for their lives, fighting the lashing rain and currents in a desperate bid to reach the safety of the shore. By dawn the twelve survivors hauled themselves up the bank and fell exhausted beside an old, shattered millstone. The body of Pilate lay just a few feet away, unmarked but broken. Silence returned. The curse was lifted, the gods had triumphed, and Vienne would now be a place of music, life, wine and intoxication.

The Roman Theatre - Vienne

Karura took his place at the top of the ancient theatre, sensing all too keenly the struggle to create order from chaotic fate. The terror and ecstasy of life seem to require meaning and yet in grasping some interim meaning, the terror and ecstasy are lost. Sitting here in this ancient realm of the gods, Karura determined to create himself anew. His autonomy demanded it. His life required it. Washing his hands of responsibility would not suffice.

Later he would work his way to the front of the crowd in order to be an integral part of the revelry. For now, Karura was content to allow his neighbours to smile tolerantly. His long held ambition of discussing Jean Paul Sartre in his original language was as far away now as it had been when he was a teenager. He was on safer ground discussing the music, but in his element constructing paper aeroplanes for his new young friend to throw anonymously towards the musicians far below.

Stochelo took to the stage and Apollo smiled. It was for this that he had stirred all those years ago. Karura eased his way to the font of the crowd where, wine in hand, he abandoned everything to the music of the gods. Dionysus too was pleased. Tonight meaning permeated the air, grasping at Karura's lungs with every breath he took; clinging to his body. Tonight, Karura danced with the gods.

And Thus Begins The Web - Day 2 (Llansilin to Saint-Quentin)

"I am the things that are, that will be, and that have been. No one has ever laid open the garment by which I am concealed. The fruit which I brought forth was the sun"

Credit: http://myworld1.deviantart.com/

After three thousand or more years weathered by sand and rain, Neith's exquisitely woven bandages fell to the ground, the shroud disintegrated, and the gift of death stole silently back into the shadows. Karura was alive again. For so long the goddess had protected him from annihilation; standing guard with her arrow and bow until no one even remembered his name. Until the precise moment that the last person who had felt his presence expired and his very existence became no more than an echo in the breaking waves. Yet in her greatest task, Neith had failed, and with her failure his proud heart tore itself asunder, unleashing a passion not even the waters of the great Nile itself could quench. The crocodiles and the birds knew of his pain and would steal out to soothe his burning forehead each night as Karura slept. The fish kept silent vigil. Waiting. Praying to the gods.

Karura could feel the wind now. The sun on his face and the smell of the fields tore into him, pushing through his skin, into his eyes, his ears and his nostrils, nourishing his very being. For months this feeling had been his goal, his solace. Now, at this very moment in time, nothing else mattered. No aspiration, no purpose, no desire, no yesterdays, no tomorrow. He glanced behind briefly. A futile gesture. But this was not a moment for sharing and he turned his face back to the wind. Tucked into his breast pocket, close to his heart, was a reminder of two young boys, a recent farewell and of the tears that had almost breached defences forged through many, many months of grief. Karura twisted the throttle a little further and the bike swept forwards more urgently, the perfectly balanced beat of an inline triple reverberating through his body, massaging his soul. The great plains of Shropshire lay dazzlingly wide behind him, punctuated by hills and part encircled by mountains. This was the view he loved so much when travelling homewards. Home, that restorative place of belonging, contentment and love is, above all, where the heart lies. But his heart did not lie. 

He was heading east now and soon would swing round to the south and the sea. Four weeks and four thousand miles. This time tomorrow, he would be in Vienne at the Roman 'Théâtre Antique', listening to the music of the gods and learning to dance. Karura followed the arc of the curve, sinking deeper into that trance like state where the bike and rider become one and there is nothing left to contemplate beyond the magic of the moment.

"Passport, please". She looked at Karura from behind resigned, restless eyes and through differing roots a flash of envy on both sides brought him back to a very different, more tangible but somehow less real 'now'. Paperwork complete and helmet on tank, Karura traversed the final few yards of English soil then took his place high up on the top of the ship, all the better to watch the emerging stars. Peace enveloped him. France beckoned. The gods smiled.

Leave No Tracks - Day 1 (Last night in Llansilin)

“Without new experiences, something inside of us sleeps. The sleeper must awaken.” – Frank Herbert

There are no yesterdays on the road. Nobody who knows who you are, what you have done, where you come from. Nobody who knows your shame and your triumph. Nobody who has seen you laugh, cry or dream. It is almost as if you could cease to exist. You eat, sleep, observe, talk, and think; but most of all you move and keep moving. While moving you exist. For only when all is calm are you extinguished. For some unfathomable reason I can't stop pulling myself from the nothingness to which I aspire. Like all dreamers I fell asleep and my lips the angry Mab with blisters plagued as I lay dreaming of love. Then later, when dreaming of hate, I came to see both as coincident forms of passion. With my passion I am alive. With my passion the old horizons are sponged away and something new is coming into being. A million tiny metamorphoses have combined within me, paving a way for the forthcoming tempestuous uprising. The sleeper must awaken and my story must begin . . . . . . 

(With apologies to Jean Paul Sartre and Shakespeare for tugging at their ankles)