Shades of Grey

Ive been rather silent the last few weeks.
I put it down to colour and movement.
Even at my best I struggle to put in words, the vivid moments of the everyday. Perhaps it is as Oscar Wilde quipped, that the bad poet '...lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realize.”
I cant help feeling that is somewhat overdramatising my own situation, but it does afford me the consolation of believing that theres a little poetry in my life as lived.
.. Even if the expression of it remains a frustrating mystery.
Anyway, be all of that as it may, the last few weeks have been rich with change and difference, the new, the old revisited, happiness, sadness, melancholy, memory and maudlin... and no small amount of alcohol (considering that last one, it is probably best for the sanity of any that may read this blog that I have refrained from writing much. You are all no doubt painfully aware that alcohol does little to improve whatever I have written under its influence.... be it only an ill-advised text message, or 20)

So, at the end of all of that, a month of erratic movement has passed since the Vendange,
a month that has seen 10 trains and 2 buses across 7 countries.
A month of old friendships revisited, and new ones cemented.
A month of language melange.
A month reminiscing about the past and ruminating upon possible futures.
80's music in Switzerland, 50's in Antwerp, Bavarian in Berlin... and Morphine in Rotterdam.
The UBahn, the Metro, the Tube. Taxis, buses, bikes and wobbled walks home at all hours.
Wine, whiskey, Beer and ill advised martinis in the early morning.
... a month ended standing in the bar of the Eurostar, humming across the sunny autumn countryside, as the wave of realisation and memory begins to catch up.
Quiet tears into my gin, under the weight of all that has passed.
The realisation of the travellers dilemma.
Once you have tasted life elsewhere, felt the difference and richness. Once you have lived a vivid other, you lose the ability to be content anywhere.
Home is home, with all the warmth, love and security of the familiar and family.
But so much of your life, your memories, and your friends reside elsewhere and to live at home is to miss them and the life they are part of.
One can try to chase them, bouncing forever between in the vain hope of finding a place where the feeling is less. But, as I stood in that bar I realised that the price one pays for living vivid, is to live with an enduring sadness and separation afterwards.
One can live many lives, but only be content with them one at a time.
 ...
The autumn colour of London is grey.
From the moment you see it in the distance, buried under a misty dome of clouds, it is near universal.
Grey stone streets and pavements.
Grey concrete flats.
Grey tiled rooves.
Grey river.
... grey skin as summer fades.