"Jordan," she said, "Jordan" (like she'd just had four espressos) "you're going on a journey, you have- you have a question for yourself, a question. And what's the root of 'question'? "
My mind was ambushed, it was fumbling back to Latin class, trying to remember the verb- quae something- so that I could make a properly scholarly sounding answer..."Um" - I took too long.
- "QUEST!" She interjected.
I had hoped the connection was going to be more profound. But before I could say more, she sat me down on the couch, handed me a cup of tea and said she would be back in 10 minutes. I just had to do one thing, read this: and she handed me the Four Quartets of T.S Eliot.
When she came back I'd had, unfortunately, no epiphanies. So she gave me a task. She said, "Jordan, before you come back from Europe, I want you to email me a single word. Whatever word. Just one."
It ended up being spinat auflauf (mit schlaf's kase); thoroughly mundane and unpoetic. But I don't think that really was the word I had set out to look for. Despite all the camp, this is a fond memory. Discoveries and epiphanies do not require grand overseas journeys. Sorting out the questions of life can be as ordinary as casserole, I suppose. I am still looking for "a word". Or, rather, I am looking for all places that this Word might be and how it might be, and how it connects all things, and how it hides.
This blog is therefore just my thoughts and experiences. It is dedicated to the days of longing that film, art, poetry and religion help us along with, and is here for anyone who feels like they are a companion or a "comrade" on this kind of journey.
Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime of burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under the starlight,
A time for the evening under the lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.
Old men ought to be explorers
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.