I-Land is where memories and experiences turn into short stories, personal journal entries and narration in first person, part memoir, part fiction, exploring topics such as the relation between humans and the societies they live in.

Mrs. Dalloway On My Mind — An Xavier Letter Pt. 3 (Fiery Spirit)

[Previously on Mrs. Dalloway On My Mind: Pundits everywhere, players, fun people, energetic, all verve and ideas and looks with which to conquer the world, each in their own way . . .]

. . . the rising tides of the young and mighty, the old but rejuvenated and acting lively and not crusty or short-circuited. Acting sassy. We’re talking entrepreneurs, value builders, young professionals and hustlers and even the Svengalis of the world alongside the straight shooters and primcases, the purists of the highest order, all of them gathered in the strangest gatherings in the oddest places, some of them so mainstream you’d think it’s a joke, and yet there they are, rejuvenated, making up fascinating assortments of individuals-come-groups-come-organisms in flux — damn! how good it feels! How splendid they look and sound. The season to be jolly, no hesitations! Take it, the opportunity, grab it by the hand and jolly the shit out of it until it’s all buzz and anticipation. Squeeze out those jitters and make the days and nights all yum; zing; abandon and mayhem, current and storm. The next day, what will the next day bring and how many new things will happen during the course of a single hour? Pot luck. Can’t wait. So absorbed and invested in the fiery spirit, all excitement, possibility. There for the making. Temporary the flux may be, a derivative of passing celebration, perhaps even hollow, but so are the best ships, hollow on the inside and yet perfectly capable of traversing the wildest oceans. Know how to use them, these hollow vessels and you can go places you never thought possible; fantastic journeys await you, sights and insights and experiences only the hollow and floating ships of rising tide and passing storm can provide. Man the vessels and say goodbye to the shore, leave behind a wishing stone to guard the air you were breathing in the land you called home, cultivating dreams you can return to and be part of. The foreshadowing is at hand, the beginning and end of every fateful journey; grand junction where bygones and foresight meet to lay the groundwork for the coming traversals, a new venture down the beguiling distance. Temporary the flux may be, the verve, a derivative of passing celebration, but so is every storm, every current, a derivative of passing turmoil and resolution without which where would we be? Lost, stuck, uncelebrated? Without current or storm to carry forth the seeds we seeded on the shrinking shores, where would we be? How would the word spread, the verve and skill, how would it tread the land and make itself available to all those willing to use it? The turmoil we suffer is our great enabler, our amazing host that supports our volatile awesome explosive nature . . .

Watch this space for Part 4