The bus is rolling like a ship. I have my tunes turned up high and I am happy to stare out at my window-sized world, blissfully lobotomized. Neko Case is crooning in my ear, the sexiest song ever made, and you'll be in my arms tonight, there's no need to cry...
I'm on the East Coast highway. The road snakes up, down and sometimes through the mountains in dizzying hairpin turns before flattening out to hug the ocean. Beyond the guardrail, the earth just falls away, and I find myself staring down into the crevice of two massive cliffs, hundreds of meters high.
All along the coast, there are B&Bs and boutique hotels. and remnants of once-weres. scraped out cement towers, abandoned to the elements. a squatter's paradise. The zoning laws here are either non-existent or meant to ridicule the rich. Large, 3-storey mansions and industrial factories practically sit side by side, plumes of smoke kiss the sunlit balconies a throaty good morning.
Construction materials line the coast- blocks of cement cut out in strange shapes, abandoned on the shoreline. They're not ugly, just a little curious-looking. some look like push pins, some like letters spelling out a secret message. The ocean's Golden Voyager...
I scan the internet for a couch and I find one. I meet a South African man from Capetown. We share a 7-11 beer over talk about apartheid, rebellion, armed revolution, Castro, Palestine, Tibet. And I think to myself, yeah, this must be why we're all here. So we can sit around and talk about home in a way we can't when we're there. So we can hear all about the exotic corners of the world, with the familiarity, love and longing etched into the voice of the storyteller. so we can shake out all the gold in our lives as we marvel at someone else's stash, and collectively give thanks.
I'm back where I started. I've written this before. many years ago.
I'm on the East Coast highway. The road snakes up, down and sometimes through the mountains in dizzying hairpin turns before flattening out to hug the ocean. Beyond the guardrail, the earth just falls away, and I find myself staring down into the crevice of two massive cliffs, hundreds of meters high.
All along the coast, there are B&Bs and boutique hotels. and remnants of once-weres. scraped out cement towers, abandoned to the elements. a squatter's paradise. The zoning laws here are either non-existent or meant to ridicule the rich. Large, 3-storey mansions and industrial factories practically sit side by side, plumes of smoke kiss the sunlit balconies a throaty good morning.
Construction materials line the coast- blocks of cement cut out in strange shapes, abandoned on the shoreline. They're not ugly, just a little curious-looking. some look like push pins, some like letters spelling out a secret message. The ocean's Golden Voyager...
I scan the internet for a couch and I find one. I meet a South African man from Capetown. We share a 7-11 beer over talk about apartheid, rebellion, armed revolution, Castro, Palestine, Tibet. And I think to myself, yeah, this must be why we're all here. So we can sit around and talk about home in a way we can't when we're there. So we can hear all about the exotic corners of the world, with the familiarity, love and longing etched into the voice of the storyteller. so we can shake out all the gold in our lives as we marvel at someone else's stash, and collectively give thanks.
I'm back where I started. I've written this before. many years ago.
