{"id":7826,"date":"2010-07-03T11:12:55","date_gmt":"2010-07-03T15:12:55","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=7826"},"modified":"2018-10-20T15:04:51","modified_gmt":"2018-10-20T19:04:51","slug":"road-seen","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2010\/07\/road-seen\/","title":{"rendered":"Road-Seen"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

[Image: “Little Red Riding Hood,” copyright Amanda Gray; all rights reserved<\/em>. See original at her blog<\/a>, <\/em>what now]<\/em><\/p>\n

From whiskey river<\/em><\/a>:<\/p>\n

Cutting Loose<\/strong><\/p>\n

for James Dickey<\/em><\/p>\n

Sometimes from sorrow, for no reason,
\nyou sing. For no reason, you accept
\nthe way of being lost, cutting loose
\nfrom all else and electing a world
\nwhere you go where you want to.<\/p>\n

Arbitrary, a sound comes, a reminder
\nthat a steady center is holding
\nall else. If you listen, that sound
\nwill tell you where it is and you
\ncan slide your way past trouble.<\/p>\n

Certain twisted monsters
\nalways bar the path — but that’s when
\nyou get going best, glad to be lost,
\nlearning how real it is
\nhere on earth, again and again.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(William Stafford [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

The Next Time
\n(excerpt)<\/em><\/strong><\/p>\n

Perfection is out of the question for people like us,
\nso why plug away at the same old self when the landscape<\/p>\n

has opened its arms and given us marvelous shrines
\nto flock towards? The great motels to the west are waiting,<\/p>\n

in somebody’s yard a pristine dog is hoping that we’ll drive by,
\nand on the rubber surface of a lake people bobbing up
\nand down<\/span><\/p>\n

will wave. The highway comes right to the door, so let’s
\ntake off before the world out there burns up. Life should
\nbe more<\/span><\/p>\n

than the body’s weight working itself from room to room.
\nA turn through the forest will do us good, so will a spin<\/p>\n

among the farms. Just think of the chickens strutting,
\nthe cows swinging their udders, and flicking their tails at flies.<\/p>\n

And one can imagine prisms of summer light breaking against
\nthe silent, haze-filled sleep of the farmer and his wife.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Mark Strand [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Not from whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n

More than a month ago, when I was leaving London for a holiday, a friend walked into my flat in Battersea and found me surrounded with half-packed luggage.<\/p>\n

“You seem to be off on your travels,” he said. “Where are you going?”<\/p>\n

With a strap between my teeth I replied, “To Battersea.”<\/p>\n

“The wit of your remark,” he said, “wholly escapes me.”<\/p>\n

“I am going to Battersea,” I repeated, “to Battersea via<\/em> Paris, Belfort, Heidelberg, and Frankfort. My remark contained no wit. It contained simply the truth. I am going to wander over the whole world until once more I find Battersea…<\/p>\n

“…I cannot see any Battersea here; I cannot see any London or any England. I cannot see that door. I cannot see that chair: because a cloud of sleep and custom has come across my eyes. The only way to get back to them is to go somewhere else; and that is the real object of travel and the real pleasure of holidays. Do you suppose that I go to France in order to see France? Do you suppose that I go to Germany in order to see Germany? I shall enjoy them both; but it is not them that I am seeking. I am seeking Battersea. The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one’s own country as a foreign land… It is not my fault, it is the truth, that the only way to go to England is to go away from it.”<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(G.K. Chesterton, from “The Riddle of the Ivy” [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Vacation<\/strong><\/p>\n

I love the hour before takeoff,
\nthat stretch of no time, no home
\nbut the gray vinyl seats linked like
\nunfolding paper dolls. Soon we shall
\nbe summoned to the gate, soon enough
\nthere\u2019ll be the clumsy procedure of row numbers
\nand perforated stubs — but for now
\nI can look at these ragtag nuclear families
\nwith their cooing and bickering
\nor the heeled bachelorette trying
\nto ignore a baby\u2019s wail and the baby\u2019s
\nexhausted mother waiting to be called up early
\nwhile the athlete, one monstrous hand
\nasleep on his duffel bag, listens,
\nperched like a seal trained for the plunge.
\nEven the lone executive
\nwho has wandered this far into summer
\nwith his lasered itinerary, briefcase
\nknocking his knees — even he
\nhas worked for the pleasure of bearing
\nno more than a scrap of himself
\ninto this hall. He\u2019ll dine out, she\u2019ll sleep late,
\nthey\u2019ll let the sun burn them happy all morning
\n— a little hope, a little whimsy
\nbefore the loudspeaker blurts
\nand we leap up to become
\nFlight 828, now boarding at Gate 17.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Rita Dove [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

The biggest hit by the classic hippie-era boogie-blues band Canned Heat was a little three-minute number, “Going Up the Country,” which seemed to come out of nowhere in 1969 — sounding like almost no other song in the Top 40. Wikipedia calls it “the unofficial theme of the Woodstock Festival.” I don’t know about that, but it sure does come to my mind whenever I start getting summertime itchin’-to-travel feet.<\/p>\n\n

Lyrics:<\/p>\n

Going Up the Country<\/strong>
\n(Alan Wilson; performance by Canned Heat)<\/em><\/p>\n

I’m going up the country, babe don’t you wanna go
\nI’m going up the country, babe don’t you wanna go
\nI’m going to some place where I’ve never been before
\nI’m going, I’m going where the water tastes like wine
\nWell I’m going where the water tastes like wine
\nWe can jump in the water, stay drunk all the time
\nI’m gonna leave this city, got to get away
\nI’m gonna leave this city, got to get away
\nAll this fussing and fighting, man, you know I sure can’t stay
\nNow baby, pack your leaving trunk,
\nyou know we’ve got to leave today
\nJust exactly where we’re going I cannot say,
\nbut we might even leave the USA
\n‘Cause there’s a brand new game that I want to play
\nNo use of you running, or screaming and crying
\n‘Cause you’ve got a home as long as I’ve got mine<\/span><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

As an aside, the Canned Heat song has different lyrics but is otherwise pretty much a note-for-note “borrowing” of a much older song, “Bull Doze Blues,” by one Henry Thomas (not to be confused with the E.T.<\/em> kid). In the original, the flute solos — which pretty much everyone remembers from “Going Up the Country” — were played by something called the quills: a sort of Pan pipe originally popular among Afro-American slaves in the 19th century.<\/p>\n

Here’s Thomas’s “Bull Doze Blues”:<\/p>\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image: “Little Red Riding Hood,” copyright Amanda Gray; all rights reserved. See original at her blog, what now] From whiskey river: Cutting Loose for James Dickey Sometimes from sorrow, for no reason, you sing. For no reason, you accept the way of being lost, cutting loose from all else and electing a world where you […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","h5ap_radio_sources":[],"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"activitypub_content_warning":"","activitypub_content_visibility":"","activitypub_max_image_attachments":3,"activitypub_interaction_policy_quote":"anyone","activitypub_status":"","footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[183,247,1393,74,5,36,251],"tags":[66,178,684,1345,1866,1867,1868,1869,1870],"class_list":{"0":"post-7826","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-everyday-life","7":"category-ruminations","8":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","9":"category-music","10":"category-06_writing","11":"category-reading","12":"category-poetry-writing_cat","13":"tag-gk-chesterton","14":"tag-whiskey-river","15":"tag-mark-strand","16":"tag-william-stafford","17":"tag-travel","18":"tag-amanda-gray","19":"tag-rita-dove","20":"tag-canned-heat","21":"tag-henry-thomas","22":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-22e","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7826","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=7826"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7826\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":20668,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7826\/revisions\/20668"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=7826"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=7826"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=7826"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}