Written in the Air

Like most English trips, this one finds me nervous, excitable, and generally rattled from my collide with the rest of the world. I feel packaged off and sold as a commodity, here where all is salable and for sale. Money may not be exchanged, but life force is, and I feel emptied of it having relinquished this resource for passage home and our material living. All one big nightmare, really, this world unjust commerce has built up. Virtue and value don't exist because they are not profitable. Even their mention in writing amid the clash and clang of it all feels like a blossoming wildflower in a thundering underground nightclub.

Yet, again England amazes me. The closeness I feel to its Nature and growing things almost makes me swoon, and I stumble about its meadows and hedgerows, my feet clumsy on soil that does not radiate stability like wild home. The great, wriggly, solemn oaks, sparkling hawthorns, resolved beeches, laughing daffodils, and smiling nettles feel like a taste of home, like the flavor of something lost, something that's dying here on earth.