It’s music. Here.
But someone tagged me, and it was about cities, towns, something Rudy built. Sorry, Jim, I don’t do the townscapes.
I was listening to music. The road to hell, to be precise, by Chris Rea. I love that music, it’s music for a constant traveller. There are others. I have favourites, and this is but one.
My nomad blood screams at me, calls me to the path of a wanderer, a wonderer, a ‘what’s around the bend’ traveller. This song does that, too. Reminds me of something out there.
The feet get that itch, the headspace can’t see what’s in front of it, the heart surges at the sight of a sun setting or rising, and walks the soul to the edge of the horizon.
I’m there, right now.
On the road with the music, imagining I’m on another road no one has ridden before, even if it is the road to hell. The wanderer in me needs a bit of a loose rein every now and then, a heavy bike, a 4WD, a tent or a swag. It’s winter, the bird wants to fly. Not to the warm sands or the noisy places, not where there are people. I seek silence, or —
… immersion. Maybe to stand on the edge of the untamed ocean, feel the roar of a storm, a wild tide, a sand-blast of winds across the barren scapes of nowhere, somewhere … out there.
Not here. Not there.
Is this the road to hell?
Yes, it’s called editing and rewriting – still going on my own road to hell, and dreaming of escape, of being anywhere but tied to the task … easily distracted but trudging on, as if a swaggie from the past, my roll on the shoulders and a string to hold up the belt. Nothing else matters, but to see beyond …
That’s the crush between a dribble and a wee, and nothing yellow about it. See you on the next round …