Recapitulations A Place to Start From (Afloat in the World) – Travel World

As I look back, thinking about my life my travels and poetry, I’ve beenafloat in the boat, of world travels per se, as long a time as I canremember, some fifty-years, or more!Out in the cold, out of the cold!More than once, stomach empty!Dreaming! Following my dreams.Talking to people who were not really listening, hence, wasting my timelistening to their complaining, doubts, negativism…On things they could change, but were not going to-People duped, turning a blind-eye to this and that, because the truth didn’tfit into their reasons of failure to have followed their dreams.But it all started one day, as everything has got to have a start, a first step, Isaid: “I don’t like being tied down, or anchored!”The more I thought about it I said, “Minnesota is just a place to start from,not necessarily end.”I said to myself:I want to see it all, the Andes, the Amazon, Cape Horn, Asia, Europe, War,Africa, the Artic, China, India; and the list goes on and on… !Thus, Minnesota was a good place to start from, period!I asked my second-self, “What is beyond the beyond,” that is to say, thehill in front of me, the ocean in back of the hill, the landmass at theedge of the ocean.I cannot express the vastness of my outfall desire in adventure, travel, andthe waves of my hands that swept to reach them places.To circle the world.My mind, thrilled at the prospect!My spirit, save, if I lived long enough, to do it, I’d do it!I always knew the world would be to a certain degree a nightmarishhorror, in transversely -That it was a place most people wanted to avoid, lest they go in groups astourists, here and there, for safety reasons; I preferred travel any-which-way, sole most of my days… And why not?The world tugged at people, I knew this too, but it was not reason enoughto stop me, it was man-made, let the bewildered and fearful, stay home!You got to live life and not be afraid to! (but you better know how to fight!)Had I stayed in Minnesota, I would have died idle and helpless long beforeI’d would have been able to write this, poetic prose…Drunken on my ass!At an early age my mind was made-up, my neighborhood was no place forme, the way out was simple, I would leave and lean my head to fate,face fate… Like a fish on a hook, if need be, and I’ve been on thathook, believe me!For just one person, the world was large enough I figured.On a second thought: what would come, would come.If there was something for me to find, somewhere I’d find it!If others have traveled the world, why not me?I was not going to be left behind! Nor beg, one must not do that, lest hebecome unworthy of the world; and God’s angels to watch over you.Hence, I was wandering from one corner of the planet, to another, like myold grandpa, would pace back and forth from the porch to the kitchen.I had found my resolve, at sixteen, and now at sixty-seven, it is no lessDiminished-Traveling was simply, no more than a matinee at Harold’s for me, topresent a simile.I could pack up and leave in a moment’s time!Yes, at times life was exacting: traveling the globe is not easy occupationYou must quench your thirst, by and by, and take chances;Go to where the few have gone: if not, if unquenched spaciousnessenvelops one’s life, squeezes, this is torment! For a man like me.But if I had not gone to San Francisco, at twenty, I would not have gone toGermany at twenty-two, nor been in the Vietnam War, at twenty-three.I would therefore, not have went on to college at twenty-seven, for sevenyears, and would not have written forty-seven books in thirty-four years, and acquired a number of degrees, to boot, a: Doctors of HonorisCausa…Or become Poet Laureate of Peru! (that would not have been possible)Nor would I have ventured into real-estate, and acquired a small fortune. And I could go on and on, but begging your pardon, it all started the day, Isaid, “Minnesota is a good starting place.”It all started when my thoughts, my unuttered thoughts, sank down anddissolved to give place in other thoughts, and I moved on: liken to my poetry-slimly penciled in my darker sleep, penciled picturesquely into mycerebellum, only to be written out at a later date.And not wasting my time to all those people who were, talking,complaining, and not listening, nor changing, not wanting to listen tothe things I was saying, had to say, not hearing not encouraging the things I was trying to explain, as if they could not receive!Yet still they talked on and on (perhaps still at the bar!)Nonetheless, I confess I kept on writing, traveling, knowing if the fulfilmentof life does not come to you, you go it it-Yes, I told myself, I’ll die a poet, read or unread, and if I’m the only onethat knows it, I still know it, for no matter what, that will have to be enough, that will have to do, for I have to scratch the itch that itches at mysoul!And I learned not to mind what people think, it’s them that looks thatfinds. Plus, the majority of the time, whatever they’re thinking, isn’t what I think they’re really thinking at all.Note: No: 5461/9-28-2014