In my quest for the Arctic Wolf I crossed hundreds of miles of tundra and came across this relic of past ages entombed in the snow and ice. I pity the poor traveler who abandoned ship. I picked through his dusty posessions and came on some dirty clothes and cans of salmon and some books of philosophy. There is no telling what kind of person he was or what he was searching for here in the bleak arctic, but he represents that eternal longing in us all, that mythological creature who finds no contentment in his surroundings and his thirst for new experience is never quenched.
Who knows where my own travels will take me but I raise my glass to this vagabond in his 1969 Ford Econoline conversion van. May his road be filled with adventure and may he never be content as long as there is an unexplored horizon in the distance to draw him on.
Walk well, my brother
3 comments:
Jesus, finally, you have your shit together, now you need to pick it up and move toward a place that warms your heart
like Punxatawney Phil I emerged from my rat hole of depression and saw the shadow of my ego looming over the lake of my despair. 6 more weeks of narcissism and I felt the lash of the bible belt sinners. My flaccid neck fat flaps in the wicked west wind while the township of my mourning lies buried in snow. Did Kim Lai get their new decoration or do chicken fingers reside in the domain of pink flame broiled rat flesh on bamboo sticks as before? The trail of my indifference leads backwards through the chicken killing fields and Retta's tombstone casket and through the PHS shortcut that proved to be the long way around like everything else in my life, the long way past the future home of my parade, the clipper home where we will wow the 80 year old PHS grads with Elton John tunes and Jackson Browne songs and poems from Kerouac and Wolfe.
I have torn myself down to the ground and crawled with the lowest flock of endangered flightless birds. Felt SADNESS for the planet so deep that my cheeks cracked like crispy crab rangoon when I grinned. Wept for the squirrel who lived in the tree I cut down when I was 4. There is a cycle of despair and amusement that never ends. I am not ready to move on but my shoulder and neck pain is no longer the highlight of my day either so there has been some progress.
If I am telling the truth, that looks like Stratham. A soul has left his chariot, on the orders and advice given by the Parliment who's adventures were never found, due to lack of courage and fire in his own soul. Jealous rulers have guilt ridden advice not to be followed.
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