letters from publius.

essays on soul, spirit, and time.

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Tag: solo-travel

  • issy

    issy

    “Well I guess I’ll just continue with my travels” she said. 

    __

    She and I met in a hostel on Kuta Lombok in 2015 when there were 2 paved roads and not much else. 

    I was a dirtbag surfer. Traveling out of an old backpack… weathered, gritty, with dirt and shit all over it. 

    She was a British girl… had been traveling for 6 or 7 months. Petite. Short blonde hair that worked for her. Not the bad short… like all these washed up american 30 somethings in 2025… trimming to try and imitate celebrities. 

    Beautiful short. Sun-bleached. Raw. Natural. 

    She had these old birkenstocks I’ll never forget. Old and weathered. Had been out in the rain a bunch.

    I thought they were goofy.

    She assured me they weren’t.

    She wore around this black little thong 2 piece… definitely not goofy… definitely, definitely not goofy.

    __

    “Well I guess I’ll just continue with my travels…” 

    We paused for a second. Didn’t make eye contact. 

    It was one of those private moments you share in deep love… 

    but a deep love that’s temporary and you both know it and the person who asked the question knows it too… 

    but you’re just so wrapped up in that love that you can’t really fathom the impermanence of it.

    She inhaled her cigarette, exhaled… then looked out at the ocean.

    __

    I got barrelled earlier that day. 

    A gift from God. 

    Being in the barrel of a wave is one of the more transcendent life experiences. 

    The faith of pulling in. The shallow and sharp reef beneath. Understanding the consequences (and high likelihood) of a fall – deep cuts and gashes on a rural island. 

    And the sound… The sound in the tube is the most surreal part for me… suddenly the outside world disappearing… a weird sort of vacuum mechanical white noise as the wave envelops you. 

    The light blue curtain separates you from the outside world… The sun shining through on your path into a new dimension.

    Then you either fall… skipping down the face of the wave, sucked over the top, covering your face and praying to god the consequences aren’t that bad.

    Or you make it out… miraculously… 

    That moment though… deep in the tube… it’s never long enough… you just wish it could last forever.. It’s never long enough… 

    Every one is different… the same… but different… 

    A portal to another dimension 

    __

    On our way back from lunch that day some Indo yelled out “bro bro!” on the side of the rural road. He snagged a shot of that barrel I got… 

    “Goofy rasta” was the title of the photo. I’m goofy footed and had my dreads long… it’s wild how much youths of developing countries idolize dark skinned dudes with dreads… 

    She got a good laugh outta that one,… “Goofy rasta hehe”

    __

    That night she and I found some gorgeous inlet. The swell was down. It was just calm glassy little waves. Mountains in the background. Untouched sand. Nobody there. Nobody was in west sumbawa. 

    I’m sure there will be some day… The same way Bali got developed. The same way Lombok is getting developed.

    The pattern is simple…Surfer dudes bring their lover girls to some remote and beautiful and consequential break. Just looking for empty tubes…

    Get surfed out… come back to a little shack by the sea to deep connection. Raw sex. Lust or love and connection with everything that is. 

    __

    Then that spot gains a little momentum… 

    The surfer girlies open a little yoga studio and a little cafe… 

    The wrong dudes find out… who bring the wrong girls… who tik tok or insta or snapchat or whatever the fuck they’re all doing nowadays that’s putting all the gems on the map

    More of the wrong girls come.

    More of the wrong dudes come to try and get more of the wrong girls…

    Posers… literal posers… 

    Then it’s ruined…

    And then 2 years later my friends from college start talking about some cool new spot that they wonder if “like have you ever been there, nick?”

    __

    “Well I guess I’ll just continue with my travels…”

    This quote was Issy’s response to an intrusive couple that had asked about our story and what we were gonna do when I left indonesia for the U.S. peace corps in Mozambuqie…  

    Such a sad reminder of the finite when we were just chilling in timelessness at this indo-australian couple’s bungalow… that couple had been chilling in timelessness for a while… they had a little garden to the left and would serve up these huge curry bowls to all the surfers every afternoon

    We were so obviously deep in love… so obviously deep in the moment… the nerve of that other couple to take us out…  

    But I’ll never forget that moment. We were both so surprised I think by the question. Like, how could we even concern ourselves with “what’s after?” when the moment was so good. 

    We were just so caught up in it. We hadn’t even thought about it ending. What would happen when it ended? Why would it end? How could something that visceral even end?

    And could something that felt so powerful and real… dreamy… but real… really die for quotidian / finite-structural circumstances?

    …….

    Yes. The answer is yes. Most things like that do.

    The deeper I get into life. The more this is evident to me.

    The dream of life dies with the quotidian… with reality.

    The quotidian is insidious.

    Reality is limiting. 

    We have to guard against the creep of the quotidian.

    Guard against the seemingly inexorable “reality.”

    Or we’ll be left on our death bed with deep, deep regret… Regrets of all the bullshit limitations we hoisted upon ourselves and unrelentingly held onto for no fucking reason at all. 

    __

    Is it even possible to avoid the quotidian without letting go? 

    To live in a dreamy world while grasping for our perceived reality? 

    Because once something is fully integrated and accepted doesn’t it become quotidian?

    Once something becomes finite / structural / measurable… doesn’t that make it real?  

    So then… logically… isn’t the whole art to a soulful and dreamy life just as much about letting go as it is about falling in love in the first place? 

    __

    Life’s big questions… 

    What I do know is moments like these…the one here that issy and i shared as we motorcycled around the Indonesian archipelago…are the point of life. 

    It’s why I could die tomorrow with tears of joy… because of how beautiful and full it’s all been.

    __

    EPILOGUE

    Issy and I still talk from time to time. She has a kid with some guy. 

    I’m doing my thing.

    It probably pisses her off a little… the fact that i ping her outta the blue with some visceral and emotionally triggering memory. 

    She also probably loves it a little… 

    I think I know that too… I think it’s sorta funny… 

    Still fucking around with her over things that are borderline not OK to fuck around with her about…

    I know she thinks it’s sorta funny deep down too.

    That’s part of why we fell so deeply in love.

    __

    The humor behind it is why we know we need to be careful.

    She knows she can’t get reeled in too far.

    And I know I can’t reel her in too far.

    The infinite dance between the masculine and feminine 

    We both know we need to be careful. 

    -Publius

  • Essence

    Essence

    A scenic view of a Parisian park at sunset, featuring lush green trees, a fountain, and a distant view of the Eiffel Tower under a colorful sky.

    “The keys are right beneath your fingers baby, you just gotta play em”
    -Ray Charles

    —

    Hands waving everywhere. Pushing. Shoving. Some sort of Cantanese, Bahasa variant, Russian, Indian, all being shouted all at once.

    A 3,000 year old sculpture made 2,000 years before god was even created; a painting which gazes into the depths of your soul; a statue of the perfect woman.

    And some sort of Cantanese, Bahasa variant, Russia, Indian, all being shouted all at once.

    Hands everywhere. Cameras flashing everywhere.

    —

    I need more drinks and less lights. And that American apparel girl in just tights.

    -Kanye, from “Gorgeous”

    —

    I looked at her. She looked back at me. I looked at her again. She looked back at me again.

    I don’t know how long it was. A couple waves of crowds had rolled by.

    21st century humanity… Selfies. Pushing. Shoving. Mayhem. Finite mayhem.

    Then me… gazing… anchored Parisian timelessness.

    —

    Every time I look at a good piece of art I just get lost.

    I fucking suck at painting. I don’t know the first thing about where to even start.

    And it doesn’t give me some deep respect for painters. Or envy or anything. I just suck at it lol.

    But I get lost in paintings sometimes. Some pieces. Truly. Complete peace and calmness. Couldn’t tell you why.

    And it’s funny… because something that I’m so not involved in… that I don’t understand at all… the effect that it gives me gives me a deeper appreciation than I ever could have if I understood the first thing about it

    —

    This wine is too good for toast drinking my dear. You can’t toast drink with a wine like that, you’ll lose the taste

    -Hemingway, from Sun Also Rises

    [I know I quote this nearly in everything I write]

    —

    We just sort of got lost in each other.

    Complete serenity.

    If I was at some other point in life I don’t know what would have happened.

    But now, the simple eye contact of something completely indifferent to me.

    Something that wasn’t even real.

    It was a mirror right back into my soul. Into myself.

    It was the all seeing eye.

    It was God.

    God as a woman.

    Just simply looking.

    No matter where you go. There it is. Still looking.

    That same indifferent expression. Calm folded hands.

    It’s the Buddha, the observer, the lama, the priest, God, Christ… all in one…

    —

    “The keys are right beneath your fingers baby, you just need to play them.”

    —

    We are the answer. We’re all our own answer.

    If you can look at the Mona Lisa and you feel calm. If her gaze watching you around the room brings you serenity. You’ve done it. You’re delivered.

    _

    You’re your own answer.

    —

    I’m writing this in one of the many french bistros in the 6th district.

    The Paris run club is going by.

    Purple and greens.

    All different shapes and sizes.

    Some smiling, some laughing, some huffing and puffing

    —

    “The. Keys. Are. Right. Beneath. Your. Fingers. You. Just. Need. To. Learn. How. To. Play. Them.”

    —

    What if god was watching everything you did. And what if you were just OK with that?

    The good, the bad… what if you were just OK with it?

    What if you didn’t have to lie? Cuz you’re not gonna fool him.

    What if you didn’t have to perform? Didn’t care about the opinions of man? Didn’t serve some perfunctory and temporary culture? Didn’t give value to someone thinking you’re cool / sexy / smart… whatever…

    Just simply accepted. Tried to do a good job. Stewarded the blessing you had, and didn’t grasp for the ones you think you should have.

    What if you just asked for forgiveness and moved the fuck on. And listened a little more and tried a little harder next time.
    _

    The keys are right there. He speaks in a whisper. But they’re all right there.

    —

    But how the fuck are you going to learn how to play em if you’re shouting and screaming and waving your fucking hand and taking a fucking picture of a painting to post to your friends as some symbol saying “this is how to live! I’m grasping the essence of life! Look at me at me! Experiencing timeless history!”

    Get out of the fucking way. 

    Accept. Observe. Forgive. Listen for the whisper. Don’t grasp. Integrate the lesson. Let go. Adjust. Move forward. Slowly and patiently move forward.

    —

    This wine is too good for toast drinking etc etc etc lol. 

    OK I’ll explain it. And I’m almost afraid to because it’s so simple to understand, and so many ppl aren’t doing it, but it’s just so fucking simple.

    You can’t toast because you’re appreciating… the toast is a distraction… The pomp is a distraction. The circumstance is a distraction… the picture is a distraction… trying to capture, remember, dress-up… it’s a fucking distraction

    It’s all going away! All of that stuff, it’s going away…

    Essence is a simple experience. That’s it. A simple, present and grounded experience.

    And that’s what’ll bring you to tears.

    It’s just. So. Fucking. Simple.

    Shutup. Slow down. Let go. Breathe in and breathe out, it might be the last time you do it. Don’t see. Don’t fear. Just experience. Savor it like a good cup of coffee. Every sip of it.

    Publius

  • Emily

    Emily

    Golden hair. 5’9. Curves flowing like the waves in the ocean. 

    “I’m the luckiest girl in the world”

    7 years older than I was at the time. 25 to 32. 

    I was staying at a hostel in Wellington. I’ll never forget when she first walked out. 

    Put together. Black turtle neck up to her chin. Slim. Gorgeous. 

    Grace in every step. A slightly amused closed lip smile. 

    __

    “I’m from Germany. But my family, they’re vikings. From Iceland. I’m a strong viking hehe look at my muscles”

    She was just to die for…

    “Oh my god you lived in New York… I just love New York… But it’s just so busy. And something is missing there. But I just love it. Oh you worked on wall street? Where? Wow… Oh you went to Penn? My ex went to yale”

    “But get away now! This is wine time! It’s for old ladies! You’re too young hehe!”

    Just to die for…

    __

    How did she even end up at a little hostel full of dirtbag travelers in Wellington?

    “I’m a lawyer… I went to Cardozo in NYC. I got so bored with Corporate law. My Dad’s a famous judge in Germany. I came here for the summer to do xyz law work for fun. I was going to stay in this hostel for a little bit then get a sublet. But it’s just so fun! Like who would think that a proper 32 year old German lawyer would live in such a place. But it’s just so fun!”

    My heart was melting.

    __

    One night everyone in the hostel was going out. She and I were chatting. A couple drinks. Flirting. We went to some little divy dance bar in Wellington. Something that felt like baby’s alright in Brooklyn in the 2010s.

    We ended up dancing together. She taught me. Our bodies got close. I can’t remember if I kissed her there or back at the hostel. Either way we ended up leaving together.

    __

    We found somewhere private… A little nook and cranny…

    Emily was famous for knitting. Peter (our friend) said it’s cuz she’s sexually frustrated.

    He walked in on us…

    “WOAH! Guess you won’t need to knit anymore!”

    We laughed…

    __

    It’s adventures like this in our youth that makes life worth living. Play. Fun. Different people. Different cultures. Foreign places. Adventure. True adventure.

    Emily and I are still friends. After I left Wellington to go surfing for a year in Indonesia I thought she’d come with me. 

    She didn’t. Her ex BF in NYC was her real BF. He’s ugly, but stable. I don’t know if she really loves him or not. Her love is different I imagine. Colder, like scandinavian winters. Maybe cozier.

    Mine is full of passion. Aficion like the matador in Hemingway’s Sun Also Rises. 

    It’s risky, it’s bright and strong like the sub saharan african sun. And cool as a deserts night when the sun goes down.

    __

    In 2020 she called me. After a couple glasses of wine. 

    “I just want you to know you were…um… it was the best. When we made love it was the best for me. I was talking to my friends and I just… I just wanted you to know that… Something about the passion. The way you kissed me and touched me. And put your arms around me. I just… I just wanted you to know that…”

    We spoke about traveling together around the world. Opening a little vineyard in some nook and cranny somewhere.

    We laughed…

    __

    In 2022 we met up for a drink when I was living in Brooklyn for a couple months. She hadn’t aged a day. 

    Sparks everywhere. A warm burning passion in my heart and stomach. 

    We couldn’t keep our hands off each other. We spoke about sex, deep passion, kept grabbing each others hands in the middle of the table.

    One of us had to go or something. She walked me to the subway. 

    __

    “No I can’t meet up like that. I’m a grown lady! I have a boyfriend we live together. You can’t just come over I can’t do that.”

    The way she matter of fact and lightly can talk about something so deep is true art.

    __

    In her photos I don’t see her smile much. I wonder if the adventure is stil in her soul. Whether she longs for it. What could become of us and our story. Has it ended? 

    She has a kid and lives in a high rise in new york. I don’t see her leave much.

    __

    These sorts of relationships leave me with a deep yearning to keep living. Something about their essences helps me answer… What is this life? What’s the point of giving passion in the first place? Aficion? 

    And once you feel it why the fuck do some people give it up… especially when they’re so deeply in touch with it?! 

    __

    The answer, I surmise, is it’s just not intentional. It just goes unnurtured and then it dies. Slowly, insidiously, it dies.

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