Too many shoes to wear out on the street. Leaves the foot of your good old king sore and travel worn. To get back in the swing of things the horses are saddled. The rye canting song of jim chiminy has outside the post to get another matter on by. The rider gets to its righteousness and the woman and children race with the rabbit and the egg.
Numer, letre, and tone. These have the heights of sky and the depths of a sundry perversity to beat the time. A betting game of telephone booths. Run in leery eyed contests of a hampered van. Levee the draft in the cogitations of missed busses and lay back trains. Make romantic a windy beach with the augur of a lucred wreck. Traipse in ragtail siminy throughout the diurnal period.
Learn the ropes of the terrestrial condition. Rein in the horseplay of racing coursers. Lead the march beneath the pale moon of an early days meander. Look back high and low for that sign that this is not dissolution in the lightness of fantasy. Take each round through the gate sans indulgence and be not unaccustomed to the passion play. The days will wax and they will wain. It is the Hyperborean commitment. A trip of cats in the ramble and row of concommitant relations. A pride of the ephemeral and chaste.
To growl pleasantly upon the hillock and berm. A respite’s pace for youngsters in the brood. Wresting the gracious harbingers’ their traps. That a lady may carry the way in bringing on the hungers of a panged heart. Identifying the longing of the church for the cross.
A halted line of workhorse. The road gear and swag of a traveling manage of concerts. All the wise and rye dalliances with the favorable Mrs. To brave the conduct of the tamers and wranglers of the equine boss. Work and play. Love and sustinence. Sleep and interaction.
The packing in and packing out of treasure and debris. To see the winding hill and bend in the wood for well cared after portions of the forested country. To identify the embellished retreat for its pleeched walls of bowery and Linden and to know that like a ship at sea all is not so well with the captain and his men.
The force of the spirit can fall disparately into the hands of the self loathing. What a horrible romance it is to get lost in drink. How uncertain our culture does become in trying to lay deception upon the generations. How to believe in those generations without forgeting the self. I think the selfless can be awfully needy people. And how may we forgive if the resurgence of past transgressions is the faulty laud of persons at the heel of our own shitty provender.
Back on the road and traveling enmasse. 1,2,3 maybe 4 periods within a system of lifetimes that I can remember living without the confines of a settled home. Seasonal or year round. The lights of heaven twinkle from the edge of a family fire. The circle of wagons gets the oily treatment for the squeaky wheel. The horses receive a pleasant tide of oats in a mash. The children linger after supper and as the men tap whiskey some marm of the householders’ begins in on a song or a story.
Like it or not the days pass much in the same way throughout the seasons. One might just complain or comment on the weather or local constabulary or even recently having been snubbed at suggestion of a romantic walk by a young woman decidedly in need of her space. No more to throw a mark at the rents. To have care for a little child so curious as to the maids whereabouts for moments beyond the easy feet that have that child only so far into his journey.
Likened in the vestures of life as may permit his taking to the floor to treat with another youngin or else one of the family dogs. These also limited in adherence to the rules of the caravan and knowing the bout of digression not worthy of the trust in there compassion as beasts of the friendly persuation. Also haply glad and attentive to the banter of the clandestined folk holing up in a pocket of the woods.
This for a week while waiting for a stock of supplies necessary to end a passage South to finish out Winter. Going to be near the seaside in warmer climes and within easy reach of the smoked fish. A meal known to be of a good sustinence and resource for their traveling ilk to at times feast on.
Glad to remember and glad to have been a part. Retired for now thinking sometimes on a new start. A little timey in the country, a little timbre sounding in town. The roads and the miles extend while the night camp circles the wagons round.
Personal Writings 