Wandering the bitter river


Sometimes I curse the road and long for home. Then I remember that I don’t have one. The road is the only home I have ever known. Every place I’ve ever tried to stay has only been a desperate attempt to hold to something that was already slipping away.

Sitting by the side of some interstate on Easter Sunday, listening to Jack White bash out “Jolene,” a country song written and made famous by Dolly Parton and paid loving, screeching tribute to by White, I want to send a thousand expletives down on this beautiful morning.

No doubt, I have received many blessings — but for each one I have a countervailing sadness and suppurating gash, so in the end it all evens out. I generally choose to look on the much-touted bright side. God knows, I have made an art of it — but I still reserve the right, from time to time, to rain down a bitter river of curses on everything that forced me into this life of wandering — if only to bring balance back to my world.

Let the cussing begin.

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