So, I pushed through the day, still feel quite listless, didn’t accomplish much but I was expecting that.
I thought to myself that come what may, I was gonna post so I did a poem and read some blogs and I’m going to answer this question if it breaks me.
I think it’s part of it, this postaday thing and I just keep focussing on a full years blogging.
You know, these topics are helpful, even if I go blank sometimes because all I need to do is answer a question.
Great writing is fickle. I can’t wait to get some inspiration that leaves me all aquiver.
We don’t do road trips in Kenya. You’ll wreck your car.
I remember driving 500kms cross-country long ago with Dad at the helm and colonial highways still in working order. We’d have the entire home packed into the car, cabinets, tv, toys, the thing would be squat on its back wheels looking like the Concorde on the runway.
And we weren’t the only ones. Remember the original Honda Civic? The roof is stronger than it looks. Managed entire living room sets stacked on top of the other. The sight of cars leaning horizontal through corners, wobbling all over the road like revellers on sticks.
My dad hit and killed a cow on the way home one time, and we never travelled that way again.
Oh, and we had a giraffe lick the wipers off the wind-screen once, in one great, big, slobbery, slurp.
America was amazing. People just get into cars and drive. You point the thing and go. Intoxicating. I enjoyed trips with friends to Washington, and to Chicago and to Illinois, all on a whim. Fed up? Let’s go.
I remember motels by the roadside with my boyfriend, a gorgeous blue-eyed Daytonian. I don’t remember details…these trips materialised out of thin air – suddenly you’re at some diner in Appalachia being served coffee by a waitress in a red and white check apron, chewing gum, or at a roadside bar surrounded by gruff truckers getting loud, or lost in an enormous city, just another ant on the hill.
I remember loving the friends I had on these trips. I remember too, the transience of it all, years later, wondering whether these people were really there
America in some senses, is truly free. I was always taken aback by students in my class telling me all the things they hate about America, how they’re trapped by media infiltrating their minds, scared of gun-toting republicans or black men in hoods, how they’re going to vote by not going to vote.
I had every one of them understand that people elsewhere die for what is possible for them. To RE-WRITE their term papers! By the way do you have any idea, the things American students will do to get a better grade?
-visit my poetry blog – Tomatos, Oranges and Other Fruit–