and reflecting on the guy in Taos, I wonder if his dunroamin’ days came on in stages. Already in the first moments of departure I begin to enjoy the prospect of the journey back more than the venture out, but that could be because so many of my journeys lack glamour or novelty. And I fret more as I age, about the humdrum perils of delays, checks and other hassles. But these things never used to cross my mind, just to be moving was desirable. I’m more protective and want control of my time now, though I’m a dismal housekeeper of the hours. Or it could be that I’m more conscious of the horde, that I – and no other – can make accurate inventory of minutes left. Disarmed by the not-knowing I pace and waste the gushing seconds. So the stages creep on and I barely notice them. What was unimaginable is slowly gained by this gentle creep, until all longing to see a new valley or cove is gone. I’ll resist that, put down a marker. I’ve still far to go, stomping in my reality boots – with a nod to Jack.
