Somewhere

Somewhere. A root in the earth. The rich earthy earth, moist, the parched compacted earth, hard. The earth in all its stages of crumble, decay, ferment, nourish. Somewhere in this kaleidoscopic earth, a root. A root. Short. Snub. Somewhat stunted. Is pushing on. At its own pace. Slow. So slow. Slower than ---- blank. Blank. Today I feel blank.

I will not give up. I will not accept that this is it now, this way. I will forget what I have learned and go back into my tent, where I sit with my past and organise my thoughts. Whatever I have to offer, everything in small piles on each corner of my prison cell. It's not much, but it's most than I expected. Here I am. Cards on the table with a few hidden aces up both sleeves. The wind howls outside, but I have my headphones on. I listen to my favourite music and I sit. I sit. I sit. I sit.

I love a road trip. The promise with which this piece begins is almost the only sentence I wish to take from it. ‘Morning in the west of Texas, almost to New Mexico, and the road begins to wind.’ I drove twice through California. Once from Seattle to Mexico in a beaten up Chevrolet Classic with the man I would marry. And years later, with Teo, the dreamer, an addict, a wise soul, a human being not a human doing. The first trip I remember for its action. We camped, we drank strawberry daquairis at midday in dark bars, playing pool. We walked and we saw wildlife. We made love, cooked, we spoke little. The second trip was all about the music. Teo and his country tunes. The air on my face. His wisdom.