You hit the road.
The road hits you.
This particular road hit me in Patchogue some time ago. It's a road through ideal American Suburbia.
Mommies driving four-by-fours to the groceries, daddies being dropped off at the station to go by the L.I.R.R. train to whatever day job they have, kids on bikes or even skating the asphalt, sometimes a gran with a dog crossing, sometimes a footie ball rolling around - that's pretty much what this road gets to see during the long and rather greyish life of hers.
Sometimes she dreams away, dreams of the unfamiliar Other, of a bunch of yellow taxis from The City someone has just recently told her about, of rickshaws pulled through the streets of Japan another one told her about a couple of months ago, of the donkey-carts a little girl had drawn onto her with crayons, of motorbikes with a bunch of teds riding them like in the old days, of one of those classic pairs of roller skates the folks still use on Sundays in the Central Park, or of some kind of knight on a white horse that is cantering towards the castle of his princess, at least that was the story the kids told each other whilst they were playing hide-and-seek. She also heard of a tank this year, and of this young lad who will never cross her again, somehow related to that tank - she didn't quite get why.
Some of those dreams leave colourful spots. Others leave cracks for the rain to flow in. A flower will grow there eventually. Or the crack will expand. She never knows ...
Saturday, October 20, 2007
"On the Road ..."