Lost highway

Instead of howling incantations to the moon on the feast of St. Mental, I caught myself indulging in the shameful act of housework. How the hell did this happen?, I beseech the universe to reveal as I hit the bits on the living room shelves visible to visitors.

Allowing unstable hormones within polishing distance of the main exhibition of your life is risky. A sort of emotional Russian roulette. Bang. Oh a lost earring. I wondered where that went. Bang. A car tax reminder. Bang. A moment of clarity pops up and rolls down through the compulsive game of psychological pin-ball.

It starts with dusting around the bills languishing on top of the photo albums on the bottom shelf. Would you look at that. There’s that tree from my folks’ back garden shooting up through their bath with my niece splashing about. My Mother did love to accidently re-use spools of film. There she is again on graduation day. My Dad’s forehead is massive in that. I feel my own receding hairline for a wildly inaccurate prognosis. There’s….another car tax reminder. Before I know it, I’m cross-legged on the floor with a slightly melted Buddha in one hand, and a forgotten book in the other. The latter housing this message on the inside cover:

book inscription 1

It was written unhurriedly then handed back to me as I was about to knot my handkerchief to follow the double yellow line brick road. Naturally, I heeded this essential advice and made sure not to walk with any obvious intent, especially towards cakes or airport check-ins. I kept all movements casual. Why? Well, because I was already doing so for years anyway. Plus, as further reasoning beyond the comma reveals:

book inscription 2

Exactly. With the exception of airport check-in. And the occasional hairdresser.

Reading back over it, it dawns on me just how faithfully I’ve applied it to life. Dreams and ambitions are also shuffled towards with all the speed of rogue hunger pangs helping me help myself to a fig-roll on the sly. The net result of this philosophy is that you forget to ask yourself where exactly you’re headed. And the cumulative effect of a life-time’s excessive biscuit habit cannot be off-set against the method used to procure them.

The feeling of being adrift is immune to securities assumed with settling down, and dining on the varied privileges of conventional living doesn’t always satisfy your appetite. I’m first generation first world at our feet. It’s wise not to reveal too much, but I doubt that full-stop was ever intended to be included in the interpretation. Next thing you know it’s a lifestyle choice! Whatever that is. (Lookit, I’m still working that modern disease through)

Pin-ball over, I wait for the dead leg to subside before rising to my feet to check the contents of the fridge for dinner with a revised version going forward:

Try to look like you’re on the path to somewhere,

That way you might remember to ask for directions.

But, it’s all direction, right? Ah, just one more game of pin-ball….

6 thoughts on “Lost highway

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