A New Kind of Travel
Rilke, the Austrian poet who experienced the societal upheaval of WWI and the hedonistic backlash of the Twenties, wrote often of solitude. In his French poem titled Eros , one of his lines roughly translates to; “he is a barbaric god, he wants that we touch.” A virus has silenced the world. Nightclubs, bars, and coffee-shops are now enemy headquarters—breeding grounds for mankind’s demise. We have been asked, by the government, to spend weekends and sunny afternoons trapped in the new and often stressful intricacies of the present moment. We are hurting. We are in pain, because touch, in all of its nuanced forms, is canceled. Without the pressure, or even the possibility to jet-set, island-hop, or beer-crawl, young people have been asked to slow down, and stay home. Our reality is at once as big as the earth, and as small as our childhood bedrooms. Door on Moore Road in Sharon, Vermont The New Classics