I was going to start with a tale of how I got in this mess. I have it all written out and saved over in the draft folder. It's a good Hemingwayesque romp around Paris. It has cafes, a woman in a French maid outfit, Les Halles, bets won and lost, and me back in the States buying a van,
but these 1's and 0's that I call my blog ain't that. That's the past. This isn't going to be a Hemingway. For how could it be when this current trip, journey, slow passage will be nothing but meandering and dusty. Hemingway liked his prose tidy. No, I don't see this as a tidy thing.
This is going to be a Whitman. A van, a country, a song of myself. This is the man-with-the-beard-and-the-paunch's territory. A good bloviation is needed. A ramble for a ramble. I'll leave the precision to writers of Facebook code and Iphone apps.
My posts like splashes of tar.
Parts will miss, but those that hit will stick
and stick good.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this
air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
From "Song of Myself"
I will awake with a view from Dutch eyes, and all that is passe will shine like the top of the Chrysler Building. I will once again be bold despite the fear, or maybe to spite the fear.
We will rattle-on in a van with no AC or rear shocks through this country unsure of its destiny. We will find its original energy and inhale its musky fume.
Therefore, to utterly misquote Vonnegut's Tralfamadorians by removing a t, "So i goes."
