The title is of course from Kerouac, and this is by no stretch of the imagination a Kerouacian road. It leads from the nearby golf course into the forest. At some point it becomes a path trodden on the forest floor, and even that peters out and then you have to find your own way. People get lost in it.
We went to see On The Road at the cinema last night. Though it had bad reviews and clearly they chose the wrong actor to play JK, it captures something of the beat buzz and that drive to be constantly on the move. I wouldn't want to go time-travelling back there (or anywhere before Germaine Greer wrote The Female Eunuch) as a female - I just know I would have ended up barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen while the men went off and had adventures.
There is something about a road, and a white line arrowed to anywhere that is not whatever one knows as Here. It is sometimes said that a real traveller has no fixed plans and is not intent on arriving. I should perhaps adopt this approach because my fixed plans often unravel, however intent I may be on reaching my goal. To go the distance you need fuel in your tank. I am not speaking of my Nissan Micra, the trusty Signsmobile, but the vehicle that is my body. I am a PWME and therefore compromised. I can't do roads. I can do short-distance flights. I make promises I can't keep* and commit to projects I can't complete, but hell, so did Dean Moriarty who was mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time and just like him, I burn, burn, burn - in my fashion.
* so if I don't do a post a day don't shoot me.
p.s. Spam-merchants have invaded my house, so comment Word Verification is back, sorry.
