This “Anthology” made up of real-life stories started with a single Facebook post sometime around 2013 or ‘14 and haven’t stopped. Today in May 2026 there are 75 memories — “straight from the depth of the subconscious” as stated in the description of the album. The migration to here on One Lucky Soul was only a matter of time.
With the recent publishing of The Healing Powers of Storytelling: A Personal Experience, an 8k-word Opus Dopus, I was once again reminded by how we are the stories we tell ourselves; but also by how some stories stay tucked away in the marrow of the bone, within our inner being, waiting for the right frequency to surface. Looking back, the Early Memories Never Worded series has become a soul map of an eventful life lived across borders, decades, and drum circles.
Now, each article will include three stories, compiled by “vibe” rather than by date or period in life. A link to the dated original from Facebook — where they were first “worded” — will also be added at the end of each.
On this first introduction, we have The Return of the Prodigal Son about my first trip to Egypt in late 2013 after three consecutive years in Canada.
The second memory is Starzat: Built upon a photo of my 7-year-old self on his first year to moving to Cairo Sheraton.
The last one, Turn The Page, recounts my journey across America following Canada — when I found myself in the frozen Midwest before reaching Denver, Colorado and sharing an AirBnB rental with an appealing older woman, with whom I remained in contact during all the following years in L.A. To capture the grit and grace of that 18-hour train ride and the silent stretches in between, I’ve included a short video documenting the adventure; a rare glimpse into the visuals that kept me company during the journey into the unknown.
As often said, when I first embraced writing as a vocation, I made a vow: Once ten years passed, I would share the stories. At twenty years, I promised to reveal the deeper truths of those decades. I’ll keep the identities guarded where it matters — some secrets are better kept between the lines — but the truth of the experiences remains untouched. You can all breathe easy.
This collection of first-time-to-see-the-light tales has no filters, no “watering down”, no edits for “the algorithm” — just raw glimpses of the past. It is preserved here for the seekers, the dreamers, and perhaps a curious student in the year 2300 wondering what it felt like to be alive back then.
Welcome to the migration.
“We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.”
— Anaïs Nin
— ☙ ❊ ❧ —
— Anaïs Nin
— ☙ ❊ ❧ —
I. The Return of the Prodigal Son
On September 13th 2010, I left.
Following three consecutive years in Canada and a brief exploratory stint in the U.S, I returned to Egypt for a while. It was the first time anyone in our family had left the comfort of the “herd" for so long. I had been yearning for that Mama-hug — the kind seen here that feels like it lasts a lifetime — because I had missed those three beyond compare. Thank heavens for Skype, but nothing beats the real thing.
What was utterly different, however, was me.
Being back around family after so much time, I was often teary-eyed; perhaps it was the residue of early emotional sobriety finally finding a place to land. I’ve always been one to let the tears flow whenever moved; if it moves me, it’s my truth. And no tears in the writer means no tears in the reader — according to Robert Frost the same goes for surprise. I even explored this later in a 2015 One Lucky Soul article: Photos I Shot That Brought Tears To My Eyes.
This hug was a Kodak-moment commemorated by my father. He wasn’t using the Minolta 1974 he had gifted me when I turned 18; instead, he was likely using a Motorola of the time. But the device didn’t matter — he captured the essence of that return perfectly. It was finally time to experience the beauty of life… as it is.
But something else was different in the air. There was a certain heaviness in the Egyptian psyche, which only became apparent after a few days in the country.
I vividly recall passing by Tahrir Square on our way back from the airport. Like a tourist, I whipped out my camera to capture the spirit of the revolution I had followed for three years through a laptop screen in frozen Toronto. It felt surreal; this was the area surrounding my university, the same streets where I’d watched snipers and the “blue bra” assault play out on my monitor.
Nothing significant was captured from the moving car that day though, so I returned later on foot. I was shocked by what I found: a few “Mowateneen Shorafa2” standing around the square, clutching pro-military signs and blaring nationalistic songs like “Teslam el Ayadi” through megaphones. Eugh. It was a heartbreaking sight. It was the moment I realised the Jan 25 Revolution had been hijacked. It was over.
Some photos from that evening can be found below in the comments, balanced with others showing pro-revolution murals, including some on the wall of the American University in Cairo old campus by Mohamed Mahmoud St. The art depicted martyrs Mina Danial, Emad Effat, Alaa Abdel Hady, Gaber Salah (Jika), child martyr Sayed Khaled Osman — eventually added to World Art Through My Lens. Unfortunately, all murals were removed soon after. Glad I had the chance to document them.
A much more adorable memory is frozen in that other capture: Mother, Father, and Sister posing with Coutcha. At the time, she was a tiny kitten just rescued from underneath a street food cart.
This photo was actually how I traced back Coutcha's age — by going back to that first time I saw her in this 2013 return and calculating the time: she's at least 13 now! Who would have thunk that over a decade later, she and I would be living together in Dahab following Sokhna.
To celebrate my return, they decorated a small Christmas tree with “Welcome Home Boulla. Signed: Famille Ebif”. Boulla is my childhood nickname while Ebif derives from not being able to pronounce “Cherif” — later leading to “Beef” as the official family nomenclature, especially among the maternal side. Auwhhhh.
Then there was the overcompensation. I had been starved of the flavours of home, so by day three, I hit up Cairo Kitchen in Zamalek for Koshari and Molokheya. Once served, I had a bit of each before being struck by an unexplainable urge to mix them together! Nom Nom Nom.
While most would call this “Aghastronomy” from WIMU The Nineteenth — the practice or art of choosing, cooking, and eating shockingly horrifying food — to my reinvented palate, it was pure bliss. I was reaching a state of “Wontonness” — defined in the same article as the state of creating deliberate and unrestrained reckless havoc after ingesting a type of Chinese dumpling — and I wasn't stopping for anyone.
After about a month, it was time to head back to the U.S to use the remaining two years on my visa. I wanted to see the America that existed outside of L.A and New York — to keep on keeping on the journey I’d started in the Great White North: To remain On The Road for as long as I can endure.
But on the day of my flight, at 5 AM, I had a change of heart. I hopped on Skype, called Expedia, and postponed the flight. It cost a fee, but the peace of mind and excitement were priceless.
Forever the prankster, when my parents showed up at 7 AM to take me to the airport, I walked down with no luggage. The surprise on their faces when I told them I was staying a little longer was the best gift I could have given myself. It seems I wasn’t ready to leave; I hadn’t had enough of “home” before diving right back headfirst into the unknown — a journey that would eventually lead me to some new Facebook friend in Illinois during a frozen February then to a cousin in Michigan.
And so, the American Chapter truly began.
*The priceless hug, then Papa Loves Mambo, Mother Earth, & Sista’ Blista’, December 2013
Original story (2026)
Following three consecutive years in Canada and a brief exploratory stint in the U.S, I returned to Egypt for a while. It was the first time anyone in our family had left the comfort of the “herd" for so long. I had been yearning for that Mama-hug — the kind seen here that feels like it lasts a lifetime — because I had missed those three beyond compare. Thank heavens for Skype, but nothing beats the real thing.
What was utterly different, however, was me.
Being back around family after so much time, I was often teary-eyed; perhaps it was the residue of early emotional sobriety finally finding a place to land. I’ve always been one to let the tears flow whenever moved; if it moves me, it’s my truth. And no tears in the writer means no tears in the reader — according to Robert Frost the same goes for surprise. I even explored this later in a 2015 One Lucky Soul article: Photos I Shot That Brought Tears To My Eyes.
This hug was a Kodak-moment commemorated by my father. He wasn’t using the Minolta 1974 he had gifted me when I turned 18; instead, he was likely using a Motorola of the time. But the device didn’t matter — he captured the essence of that return perfectly. It was finally time to experience the beauty of life… as it is.
But something else was different in the air. There was a certain heaviness in the Egyptian psyche, which only became apparent after a few days in the country.
I vividly recall passing by Tahrir Square on our way back from the airport. Like a tourist, I whipped out my camera to capture the spirit of the revolution I had followed for three years through a laptop screen in frozen Toronto. It felt surreal; this was the area surrounding my university, the same streets where I’d watched snipers and the “blue bra” assault play out on my monitor.
Nothing significant was captured from the moving car that day though, so I returned later on foot. I was shocked by what I found: a few “Mowateneen Shorafa2” standing around the square, clutching pro-military signs and blaring nationalistic songs like “Teslam el Ayadi” through megaphones. Eugh. It was a heartbreaking sight. It was the moment I realised the Jan 25 Revolution had been hijacked. It was over.
Some photos from that evening can be found below in the comments, balanced with others showing pro-revolution murals, including some on the wall of the American University in Cairo old campus by Mohamed Mahmoud St. The art depicted martyrs Mina Danial, Emad Effat, Alaa Abdel Hady, Gaber Salah (Jika), child martyr Sayed Khaled Osman — eventually added to World Art Through My Lens. Unfortunately, all murals were removed soon after. Glad I had the chance to document them.
A much more adorable memory is frozen in that other capture: Mother, Father, and Sister posing with Coutcha. At the time, she was a tiny kitten just rescued from underneath a street food cart.
This photo was actually how I traced back Coutcha's age — by going back to that first time I saw her in this 2013 return and calculating the time: she's at least 13 now! Who would have thunk that over a decade later, she and I would be living together in Dahab following Sokhna.
To celebrate my return, they decorated a small Christmas tree with “Welcome Home Boulla. Signed: Famille Ebif”. Boulla is my childhood nickname while Ebif derives from not being able to pronounce “Cherif” — later leading to “Beef” as the official family nomenclature, especially among the maternal side. Auwhhhh.
Then there was the overcompensation. I had been starved of the flavours of home, so by day three, I hit up Cairo Kitchen in Zamalek for Koshari and Molokheya. Once served, I had a bit of each before being struck by an unexplainable urge to mix them together! Nom Nom Nom.
While most would call this “Aghastronomy” from WIMU The Nineteenth — the practice or art of choosing, cooking, and eating shockingly horrifying food — to my reinvented palate, it was pure bliss. I was reaching a state of “Wontonness” — defined in the same article as the state of creating deliberate and unrestrained reckless havoc after ingesting a type of Chinese dumpling — and I wasn't stopping for anyone.
After about a month, it was time to head back to the U.S to use the remaining two years on my visa. I wanted to see the America that existed outside of L.A and New York — to keep on keeping on the journey I’d started in the Great White North: To remain On The Road for as long as I can endure.
But on the day of my flight, at 5 AM, I had a change of heart. I hopped on Skype, called Expedia, and postponed the flight. It cost a fee, but the peace of mind and excitement were priceless.
Forever the prankster, when my parents showed up at 7 AM to take me to the airport, I walked down with no luggage. The surprise on their faces when I told them I was staying a little longer was the best gift I could have given myself. It seems I wasn’t ready to leave; I hadn’t had enough of “home” before diving right back headfirst into the unknown — a journey that would eventually lead me to some new Facebook friend in Illinois during a frozen February then to a cousin in Michigan.
And so, the American Chapter truly began.
*The priceless hug, then Papa Loves Mambo, Mother Earth, & Sista’ Blista’, December 2013
Original story (2026)
x— ☙ ❊ ❧ —
II. Starzat
If you played football (soccer) in the 80s there were two ways to be functional and look cool at the same time: Either strap your shoe laces horizontally behind the ankle over the long white socks, or underneath the shoe in between the cleats/studs/spikes — which then in Egypt were called stars; some kids would even arabise it by pluralising the plural word and calling them “starzat”.
Shown here is a typical day at the Club for this seven-year old. Football and tennis while for some reason also wearing an American football attire gifted by L.A aunt. This however, was not at the usual Gezira Club, but Nady el Qahera that faced the Cairo Sheraton — where once a year the employees would have a Sport Day. My father the G.M would even play football with them. As for this little man, I seemed ready, but was too young to really contribute.
Few years ahead, the football was replaced with basketball and tennis with ping pong. My friends and I would spend six hours alternating between two or three sports. That is in addition to being part of few teams who actually competed and won championships.
I am grateful to have grown up playing sports. Somehow it does stay with you, not merely the physical part but perhaps more importantly the psychological one as well.
Wondering if 40 years later today football players have more technologically advanced ways to tie their shoes.
— Cairo, 1984
Original story (2023)
— ☙ ❊ ❧ —
III. Turn The Page: From the Frozen Midwest to the Mile High Gnosis
“Travelling ― it leaves you speechless, then turns you into a storyteller.”
― Ibn Battuta
The following is a mix of two previously “worded” memories: Turn The Page On A Journey Into The Unknown (2021) and The Frozen Niagara Falls Photo (2022). The reason for the merger is simply because both occurred one after the other. I even made the YouTube above to use all the footage.
Choosing uncertainty with a chance of happiness over certainty with guaranteed unhappiness always wins in my book.
The American chapter began after the Return of the Prodigal Sun.
A Facebook friend had invited to Sycamore Illinois and that was where I headed again after Cairo. An hour away from Chicago, I spent some days there in the middle of nowhere. It was my first time in the suburban Midwest, which was radically different than the big cities I had seen.
Sycamore was followed by a visit to my second cousin Teymour in Michigan — and his sweet Egyptian American Doggo Izzy.
On this frozen early morning of February 18, 2014 I left Teymour’s place in Michigan. From Birmingham Station I was going back to Chicago by train, which was all I knew then. I was in a discovery mode and had absolutely no plans other than to keep on keeping on.
I remember standing there all alone in the cold waiting for the train when I was joined by a grandfather and grandmother along with a six-year-old boy. We chatted for a few, and after telling them I’m a writer coddiwompling across the country looking for novelty and inspiration as I work on my book, the grandfather looked at the boy and gently told him: “You see? One day you can be like him.” Auwhh.
I smiled as the words touched my inner core in a warm, peculiar way. Then as we got on the train some minutes later, the very thought that I could be inspiring others — here, a child — just by being myself kept echoing in my mind, resulting in a fountain of tears dropping down my cheeks.
Deserting the comfort zone of the pack along with all the “known” made me feel significantly alone, vulnerable, even somewhat alienated. Yet this instance came to be the beginning of a long series of affirmations sent by the Youniverse throughout my journey, always when I needed them the most.
This had already been one harsh winter, you see. After three years there I had just left Canada where my loving Cocker Caramella had recently passed away, and the relationship I was in didn’t seem like it had any bright future. I had taken writing as a vocation and did not seem to have other option than to just keep going. And I did. I chose uncertainty with a chance of happiness over certainty with guaranteed unhappiness.
I was and still am sincerely grateful for such little encouraging and validating signs — especially for someone who doesn't go out of his way to seek encouragement or validation. Because they reinforced my gut instinct, making me believe in myself and my manifested dream — when not many around me particularly shared the same view.
But the truth is, we can never, and should never, force others to join our journey. Down deep inside, you somehow instinctively ‘know’ you’re on the right track... usually alone. And that is all that matters for the Here and Then.
CHOO CHOOOO.
 |
| This 37-year-old bearded dude took being carded as a compliment. Apparently, this wasn't going to be a first in the U.S |
Few days at the Sheraton Chicago were spent. It was cool to enjoy some hotel pampering amid the journey into the unknown. Hotels for me, as you know, are like going back home.
I recall being at the hotel’s restaurant with a young woman when the waiter asked for I.D before bringing a bottle of rosé. “For the lovely lady?” I asked. For both, see smilingly said. I was was 34 then and sure took it as a compliment.
The Art Institute of Chicago was so sensational, I went back solo the following day — since the ticket included a two-day visit. I was lost in time and space, leading to capturing hundreds of photos.
A highlight from the Wind City was an authentic Brazilian steakhouse called Fogo de Chão. Lordy Lord. An all-you-can-eat type of restaurant where you are given a green/red card to signal to the waiters to approach you [ green] or either taking a break or done [red]. Such mouthwatering meats, I ended up going twice.
A different highlight was acquiring my first MacBook Pro 2014. Ta-Da. For me, a laptop is a big thing next to the pen, notebook, and camera. Basically, those are essentials to my minimalist life. But then at the store when I was asked to add an address for my new Apple ID, I was genuinely confused. Uhm. Davisville in Toronto? But I left Canada. Zamalek in Cairo, Egypt? But I haven’t lived there in years. The Chicago Sheraton, seriously? I really didn’t know where my current residence was, because technically I was homeless. The man seemed intrigued by the overthinking. Thing is, I was new to Apple so I wanted the initial registration to be seamless. But again, homeless I was.
Oh, and Checagou. The name “Chicago” is derived from a Canadian French rendering of the Native American word Shikaakwa, translated as “wild onion” or “wild garlic”. Its origin is the indigenous Miami-Illinois language, the Algonquian language. More to the linguistic story is covered in Random Stuff You May Not Know: Two (2015).
From Chicago, I once again went back to a small town that is Sycamore, Illinois — an hour away — where a Facebook friend had invited right following Canada. There was a luggage to be retrieved while I also took the stop to plan the next part of the journey.
I then booked a train ticket from Chicago to Denver, Colorado. The choice was influenced mainly by Teymour’s suggestion, and since there were no fixed plans, I rolled with it.
Mind you, medical marijuana has been legal in Colorado since 2000. But the first state-licensed retail stores had just opened on January 1st, and were beginning of March. So dispensaries were minimal — compared to what we saw in L.A over the following years. But of course I wasn’t complaining — time to enjoy the cool peaceful American Amsterdam vibe [finally!]. Historical times.
I recall being at the hotel’s restaurant with a young woman when the waiter asked for I.D before bringing a bottle of rosé. “For the lovely lady?” I asked. For both, see smilingly said. I was was 34 then and sure took it as a compliment.
The Art Institute of Chicago was so sensational, I went back solo the following day — since the ticket included a two-day visit. I was lost in time and space, leading to capturing hundreds of photos.
A highlight from the Wind City was an authentic Brazilian steakhouse called Fogo de Chão. Lordy Lord. An all-you-can-eat type of restaurant where you are given a green/red card to signal to the waiters to approach you [ green] or either taking a break or done [red]. Such mouthwatering meats, I ended up going twice.
A different highlight was acquiring my first MacBook Pro 2014. Ta-Da. For me, a laptop is a big thing next to the pen, notebook, and camera. Basically, those are essentials to my minimalist life. But then at the store when I was asked to add an address for my new Apple ID, I was genuinely confused. Uhm. Davisville in Toronto? But I left Canada. Zamalek in Cairo, Egypt? But I haven’t lived there in years. The Chicago Sheraton, seriously? I really didn’t know where my current residence was, because technically I was homeless. The man seemed intrigued by the overthinking. Thing is, I was new to Apple so I wanted the initial registration to be seamless. But again, homeless I was.
Oh, and Checagou. The name “Chicago” is derived from a Canadian French rendering of the Native American word Shikaakwa, translated as “wild onion” or “wild garlic”. Its origin is the indigenous Miami-Illinois language, the Algonquian language. More to the linguistic story is covered in Random Stuff You May Not Know: Two (2015).
From Chicago, I once again went back to a small town that is Sycamore, Illinois — an hour away — where a Facebook friend had invited right following Canada. There was a luggage to be retrieved while I also took the stop to plan the next part of the journey.
I then booked a train ticket from Chicago to Denver, Colorado. The choice was influenced mainly by Teymour’s suggestion, and since there were no fixed plans, I rolled with it.
Mind you, medical marijuana has been legal in Colorado since 2000. But the first state-licensed retail stores had just opened on January 1st, and were beginning of March. So dispensaries were minimal — compared to what we saw in L.A over the following years. But of course I wasn’t complaining — time to enjoy the cool peaceful American Amsterdam vibe [finally!]. Historical times.
 |
| I’ve turned the page so many times in my life that I have a permanent paper cut on me finger. — Union Station, March 2014 |
On that early afternoon, I rode the Amtrak from Chicago’s Union Station for an 18-hour ride towards the Mile High City. It was my first time to spend the night in one — it felt so adventurous and fitting for a “writer” aimlessly exploring Americana using a pen and a camera. A book called The Eye of God somehow found me in one of those stations, so I took it and began reading.
As you can see from the video above, I took some footage from inside the train as well as all around to document the adventure. Those photos and videos came handy when years later I’m finally telling it like it is.
After hours and hours On The Road, one thing becomes apparent: That country is huge. 18 hours by train to go few states to the left. Really?
At breakfast the following morning, I remember meeting a Canadian couple with whom I bonded for being “outsiders from up north”. Aboot. Haha. Then shortly after, around 9 or 10 am, we finally arrived to Denver.
The first thing to notice is the friendlier weather — a cool addition signifying a break from the frozen winter. I later celebrated by wearing short and t-shirt to have a jog in the nearby park. Also on that first day, the overcompensation led me to take photos of the sun and the green grass that isn’t covered in snow, like a depraved someone. This is how much I had missed the not-frozen weather.
Fortunately for me, I was hosted in Denver by one charming artistic older woman who rented a room in her house through AinBnb. Cynthia [Corinthia] spoke French and German, painted, and even rode horses. This gypsy soul walked barefoot around the house, which I loved. And she enjoys rosé wine as much as I did.
 |
| 1911, you say? |
On our second night home, Cynthia was showing me a family photo album. As we sat there by the fire sipping on wine, she handed me one of the black-and-white captures that shows her grandfather standing by frozen Niagara Falls — similar to this one above.
Now, somehow I knew down deep inside that it was not the first time to see this spectacular photo. How come, I silently wondered. Without much thinking, I found myself blurting: “That’s in 1911!” She looked at me weirdly before turning the photo on its backside. “Niagara Falls, 1911” was etched right there. Speechless, she looked at me again, her face radiating with awe and fascination as if looking as some kind of Gnostic wizard.
“How did you know that?” she finally asked. I don’t really know was the reply. I mean, I knew the Falls partially froze over in 1911 — among a few other recorded times throughout history; as I equally know that in 1912 three tourists slipped and died. So I guess, my mind and photographic memory may have intuitively calculated the years. She was probably around 49-50 years of age then while I was 37; my own paternal grandfather was born in 1884; so hers could very well be standing there by the Falls in 1911. And he was. Ta-Da. Gnosis.
Now, somehow I knew down deep inside that it was not the first time to see this spectacular photo. How come, I silently wondered. Without much thinking, I found myself blurting: “That’s in 1911!” She looked at me weirdly before turning the photo on its backside. “Niagara Falls, 1911” was etched right there. Speechless, she looked at me again, her face radiating with awe and fascination as if looking as some kind of Gnostic wizard.
“How did you know that?” she finally asked. I don’t really know was the reply. I mean, I knew the Falls partially froze over in 1911 — among a few other recorded times throughout history; as I equally know that in 1912 three tourists slipped and died. So I guess, my mind and photographic memory may have intuitively calculated the years. She was probably around 49-50 years of age then while I was 37; my own paternal grandfather was born in 1884; so hers could very well be standing there by the Falls in 1911. And he was. Ta-Da. Gnosis.
Cynthia and I bonded so lovingly over the stay, we had a picnic day up the breathtaking Colorado Mountains when I drove her car. That included Red Rocks Park, which is part of the Denver Mountain Parks near Morrison, Colorado. Also the Red Rocks Amphitheatre where we both went down for a small tour of the area.
A whole lot of sensational photos were taken that day, many became part of my exhibition in Cairo, La Natura, as well as On The Road the following year — where 17 out of the 20 displayed photos were acquired.
The featured photo above taken right in the middle of a flowing lake was captured by her... using my other Sony camera. Damn right, I was ready.
Another day, she dropped me at the Denver Art Museum — where of course many more photos were captured.
There was also Saint Patrick’s day when we went “bar-hopping” before heading to a fancy restaurant for dinner. Most other nights though we would cook at home. She had that wise, warm feminine energy that I had surely missed.
On my last night we had such a rosé farewell, that we both overslept, leading to arriving at the airport merely 50 minutes before takeoff. So I called her up from there, only for her to say: “Come back home, Honey”. Eventually I stayed for five more nights — paying only with my company. It does pay to be a knower, huh, even of random bits of information.
Little did I know that leaving Denver to L.A was going to be of the end of this wild and magnificent six-months journey. There, I ended up in Venice Beach — with all the action and drum circles — for the following five years.
This was absolutely not in the plan. Then again, there was no actual plan and that’s what made it a uniquely liberating and cathartic experience.
Et Voilà. Until the next Early Memories Never Worded: The Subconscious Chronicles #2.
A whole lot of sensational photos were taken that day, many became part of my exhibition in Cairo, La Natura, as well as On The Road the following year — where 17 out of the 20 displayed photos were acquired.
The featured photo above taken right in the middle of a flowing lake was captured by her... using my other Sony camera. Damn right, I was ready.
Another day, she dropped me at the Denver Art Museum — where of course many more photos were captured.
There was also Saint Patrick’s day when we went “bar-hopping” before heading to a fancy restaurant for dinner. Most other nights though we would cook at home. She had that wise, warm feminine energy that I had surely missed.
On my last night we had such a rosé farewell, that we both overslept, leading to arriving at the airport merely 50 minutes before takeoff. So I called her up from there, only for her to say: “Come back home, Honey”. Eventually I stayed for five more nights — paying only with my company. It does pay to be a knower, huh, even of random bits of information.
Little did I know that leaving Denver to L.A was going to be of the end of this wild and magnificent six-months journey. There, I ended up in Venice Beach — with all the action and drum circles — for the following five years.
This was absolutely not in the plan. Then again, there was no actual plan and that’s what made it a uniquely liberating and cathartic experience.
Et Voilà. Until the next Early Memories Never Worded: The Subconscious Chronicles #2.
 |
| Wanderlust. Fernweh. Sehnsucht. |
— ☙ ❊ ❧ —
On a long and lonesome highway, east of Omaha
You can listen to the engine moanin’ out his one note song
You can think about the woman or the girl you knew the night before
But your thoughts will soon be wanderin’ the way they always do
When you're ridin’ [s̶i̶x̶t̶e̶e̶n̶] eighteen hours and there’s nothin’ there to do
And you don't feel much like ridin’, you just wish the trip was through
Here I am
On the road again
There I am
On the stage
Here I go
Playin' star again
There I go
Turn the page
You can listen to the engine moanin’ out his one note song
You can think about the woman or the girl you knew the night before
But your thoughts will soon be wanderin’ the way they always do
When you're ridin’ [s̶i̶x̶t̶e̶e̶n̶] eighteen hours and there’s nothin’ there to do
And you don't feel much like ridin’, you just wish the trip was through
Here I am
On the road again
There I am
On the stage
Here I go
Playin' star again
There I go
Turn the page
— ☙ ❊ ❧ —
The Great Pyramid’s Blessed Curse: Climbing To The Top And Beyond
Banged Up Abroad — My Few Days @ The Don Jail
Banged Up Abroad — A Night @ The London Police Station
Surviving the Madness of Sakarana — Hyoscyamus muticus (aka Deadly Nightshade)
Out-of-Body Experience and Ego Death on a “Heroic Dose” of Mushrooms
World Art Through My Lens
A Year at the Venice Beach Drum Circle in Photos & Videos (2014-’15)
Another Year at the Venice Beach Drum Circle in Photos & Videos (2016-’17)
One More Year at the Venice Beach Drum Circle in Photos & Videos (2017-’18)
Banged Up Abroad — My Few Days @ The Don Jail
Banged Up Abroad — A Night @ The London Police Station
Surviving the Madness of Sakarana — Hyoscyamus muticus (aka Deadly Nightshade)
Out-of-Body Experience and Ego Death on a “Heroic Dose” of Mushrooms
World Art Through My Lens
A Year at the Venice Beach Drum Circle in Photos & Videos (2014-’15)
Another Year at the Venice Beach Drum Circle in Photos & Videos (2016-’17)
One More Year at the Venice Beach Drum Circle in Photos & Videos (2017-’18)
No comments:
Post a Comment