16 September 2010
Idaho to Oregon
And then, this melancholy Thursday morning, I left the reposing hammock of comfort behind and I said ‘goodbye.’ Each trip must have a beginning and an end for logic’s sake, no? Yet, when they each actually occur or occurred on this perpetual wheel, I am not sure. I do know that again and again those tongue resonating ‘goodbyes’ topple and fumble out of my mouth, and if what I tell you now will discourage ‘some future beginning’ then turn a deaf ear because the throe does not exceed the trial. ‘Goodbye’ never gets easier, you never get any better at it, in fact it seems to get more and more difficult, I guess that’s because the more you travel the more goodbyes you ‘get’ to say, an eerie dénouement of ‘time-half loves.’ Travel is a treasure-trove of oxymorons that sweeten and bitter the nectar of stillness.
I push across the dry interior mountains west towards the sea. From the heart of Idaho along a cliffside course I weave a snaky Salmon River road; a sharp contrast to the rectilinear plains’ highways of late. Traversing the River of no Return is, to me, second nature. A road just as I had left it: I dodge the same dips, cracks, areas of fallen rock, and slow drivers; I am familiar with the straight stretches, rest stops, and beautiful vistas from which to snap photos. I keep on whirring by… my first nature? I drive in reverie as morning turns afternoon and then in my immediate view the Oregon state line comes and fades and my passing denotes the end of my western trajectory, for tomorrow I will round the last bend in the road.
Have I already traveled 300 degrees of the circle? Heuristic yogi lessons of life gush thru my mind. What have I learned? Will 360 degrees bring an answer to any of my questions? Perpetually questioning, stretching farther back than this journey, all journeys. I question my motives for travel. I question this vehicle to enlightenment, as if questioning any faith. Is the cure of my inquietude on the road? Is my journey different? Somehow more true? Is my voyage more revealing? Did I really think that making a magical circle would bring any answers to questions lingering in my spiritual vagabond soul?:
I see an endless wheel; I see four; each pitches down the last rays of sun on the last westerly pavement plan. Four humming, drumming wheels ease my worries, soothing music in my ears not from any radio, but my own.
Mine is a mithridatic whirr, peddle steadily percussing a blacktop tympan; bbbbvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv; beat injected flex and ease of my Achilles heel. Pitch elevation swings round ride cymbal pendulum-like cues of a background provoked rhythm: wheel dips left, ddduuussss; elevates on balance, ffffffff; back right, ffffuussss… repeat. River. Road. Rock. Repeat. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz kick drum dream. My music. No words.
.s.
