Some memories are so sharp and visceral, they cannot be forgotten and therefore don't need recording. And years later, perhaps decades, when the details have fogged over, the core of that day will be revealed. Immediately after the moment, it is still bleeding on the ice.
Yes, a lovely read, wandering mind, assisting in a new experience for Mila. In ways the writing feels very open and in others spiritually guarded. It is the mystery that takes hold. Pokhara Valley and the lake are unforgettable. Your memory so clear of the women washing clothes. Thank you. I hear the slap, too, of heavy strikes of wet cloth on the rocks. I can bring to life easily the trek from there to Jomson and back where starting out we passed a elderly couple from Brooklyn coming down the path, their calves and white bobby socks drenced with blood from leeches they had tired from removing. "I've been there and back. I've been there and back," the man hollered, the echo from a what felt like miles away before, shaking a fist at the sky, he and his wife both in shorts and t-shirts appeared from behind a sharp hill. The caravan of donkeys hauling soon after. In the background Annapurna. And then the sheer thrill of distant Everest, "Goddess of the Sky." Still vital in my mind, those two, alive inside me from 1971. Like your writing, Damon. I've was blessed with the strength to take such journeys. And feel blessed to read and hear your voice. And understand the loneliness. Always so far away and near. Constance
a lovely read this early morning.
Some memories are so sharp and visceral, they cannot be forgotten and therefore don't need recording. And years later, perhaps decades, when the details have fogged over, the core of that day will be revealed. Immediately after the moment, it is still bleeding on the ice.
Yes, a lovely read, wandering mind, assisting in a new experience for Mila. In ways the writing feels very open and in others spiritually guarded. It is the mystery that takes hold. Pokhara Valley and the lake are unforgettable. Your memory so clear of the women washing clothes. Thank you. I hear the slap, too, of heavy strikes of wet cloth on the rocks. I can bring to life easily the trek from there to Jomson and back where starting out we passed a elderly couple from Brooklyn coming down the path, their calves and white bobby socks drenced with blood from leeches they had tired from removing. "I've been there and back. I've been there and back," the man hollered, the echo from a what felt like miles away before, shaking a fist at the sky, he and his wife both in shorts and t-shirts appeared from behind a sharp hill. The caravan of donkeys hauling soon after. In the background Annapurna. And then the sheer thrill of distant Everest, "Goddess of the Sky." Still vital in my mind, those two, alive inside me from 1971. Like your writing, Damon. I've was blessed with the strength to take such journeys. And feel blessed to read and hear your voice. And understand the loneliness. Always so far away and near. Constance
Great stuff, Damon. Truly.