Prompt

Conventional wisdom dictates: don't buy groceries when you're feeling hungry. My version of that is don't plan a vacation-- even an outrageous, implausible, imaginative vacation --when you're feeling tired, disabused, old or irrelevant. The possibilities are seductive: the walls of skulls in Paris, Torture Toys R Us, arcades filled with an endless supply of pound the gopher.
Then there's not only the where, but the how. Anywhere I want to go means crossing water. Maybe a boat, maybe a plane. I hate flying and only remember it being tolerable when I was loaded. Transport me-- that would work. There's a destination-the Enterprise, or somewhere it goes. Flying, but kinda not really. Or a boat. I like sleeping on boats and I can't sleep on planes. Too much noise. Too much to keep track of.
Ok, to hell with the how. Where, where. And maybe it's like I said, how I'm feeling tired and old and a bit irrelevant. But I want to go back to Newfie. Back to the Rock. See it all. Slowly. In a car, on a horse, on a trail. I want to sleep. I want clean air and undomesticated people. And water. And honest conversation. I want to talk with children and old people, skipper and the missus. I want to hang out with working class and poor people. I want to eat fish and chips out of a bag. I want to lean into the wind and hide in the fog.
It's my vulnerability, this longing for home. That or beat the shit out of some asshole who desperately needs it.
And since it's home I'm going, maybe I'll go farther home. Maybe I'll head to Ireland, next. Last time I was across the pond and nearby, I missed the chance to go. Too many bombs and too much bullshit. That's next, after Newfie. Ireland. My son's been there and he tells me it's beautiful, and dark, and wild and real. Compelling. I believe him.
So, I'd go. Slowly. In a car, on a horse, on a trail. And I'd talk to children and old people, and hang out with the working class. And sleep. And lean into the wind. And hide in the fog.