Jeremiah

Hot Springs or Busk: Chapter XI (plotting a course)

Picture this, America: some aging fool and his four-wheeled testament to stubbornness, baptized “Rocinante” for that same delusional optimism. Me? I’m trading academe for the wide-open spaces, tilting at the broadcast towers of mainstream media following a loose spine of favorable climates and college towns across these 48 states.

You see, I’ve got this itch. This notion that the true pulse of America isn’t in corporate board rooms or the marbled halls of power, but in the sticky floors of dive bars, the sun-baked town squares, and the yawning lecture halls of universities. So, Rocinante and i, we’re on a quest.

First things first, a man can’t get to the heart of the American Dream on an empty stomach. In each town, the routine is honed with a survivalist’s focus: hygiene out of the way (gyms, truck stops, even the occasional river bath for that true hobo chic), laundry refreshed, and Rocinante’s belly restocked with fuel and provisions. Local libraries become my sanctum – free internet, musty books, a whiff of intellectualism to ward off the creeping road madness.

Then, the hunt begins. I stalk state facts like a cornered possum, armed with Wikipedia and an unhealthy obsession with the bizarre and overlooked. Then it’s into the fray! I corner unsuspecting locals, less like an intrepid reporter and more like a stray dog sniffing out dinner.

“What’s your state motto?” I’ll ask, eyes gleaming with the zeal of a half-crazed Jeremiah. Then the real fun – listening as they fumble, praise, or outright despise those hallowed words. This, loopers, is raw, unfiltered Americana that no cable pundit can manufacture. It gets distilled into my loopy travel-blog dispatches over whatever questionable Wi-Fi i can scrounge.

College campuses – they’re the petri dishes of society, bubbling with idealism, hormones, and all that youthful angst. If there’s unrest brewing, Ronnie Hays has a front-row seat. Not to incite riots, but to chronicle the messy, beautiful chaos of young minds at war with a world that doesn’t seem to give two spits.

Now, this land, it sings to me. Woody Guthrie’s ghost haunts my guitar case. In each state, i’ll pen my own crooked verse of “This Land is Your Land,” a wind-whipped, low-fi ode to the cracked highways and resilient souls i find. Welcome signs become my stage, YouTube my tin-can amplifier.

Planning ain’t my strong suit. Half the joy is in the detours. But hot springs? Oh, sweet geothermal bliss. i’ll soak these old bones till they’re soft as a boiled noodle, conjuring up the ghosts of grizzled prospectors and bathing beauties while i fend off mosquitoes.

To fund this glorious mess, a little busking. My luting skills ain’t Carnegie Hall material, but it’ll buy a burger, or at least a sympathetic chuckle from passersby.

And so, it begins. A year under the vast American sky, a tin can Don Quixote fueled by French roast and stubborn hope. Expect tales of barroom philosophers, off-grid eccentrics, and everyday folks grappling with the beautiful, broken heart of this country. Expect a whole lotta nonsense, a dash of truth, and maybe, just maybe, a sliver of understanding about this glorious, maddening, never-ending experiment called America.

Onward through the fog… R.H.

Boondocking Fever Dream: I Don’t Wanna Know!

In that spilled neon netherworld between wakefulness and full-bore dreaming “I Don’t Wanna Know” by Fleetwood Mac faded in from the forgotten jukebox of my skull. At the same time, a mangy alley cat, tail like a rat-whip, slunk across the dreamscape, all twitching muscle and dumpster-fed desperation. On its heels was a German shepherd, a low-slung Panzer tank of teeth and fury. The chase was a ballet of brick and shadow, a whirlwind of guttural barks and desperate hisses. Holy hell, it was all too much like some third-rate vaudeville skit, and i was the sucker in the front row.

Then, the inevitable clash… a screech like rusty nails on a chalkboard. Fur and blood painted the asphalt. Out of the corner of my eye, i saw the culvert, a concrete maw leading to some underworld. And inside? Another dog, swollen belly taut, eyes glowing like those green roadside reflectors that warn of deer.

Cut to an old folks’ home. The air thick with the smell of grits and regret. A robot cat, fir and plastic absurdity, purrs on the lap of a lonesome resident, its twitching ears a parody of life.

My boondocking dreamscape then spun me round like a cyclone… a funeral, the wind whipping at jacketless mourners like crows in the dead of winter. The mourners were teeth chattering in the face of an early spring blast straight outta the Arctic Circle. It was the pure indifference of Mother Nature… the whole damn universe a cosmic joke, a punchline as old as life itself.

And i, the dreamer, was stuck. Should i help the alley cat… all bone and defiance? Or was it the pregnant dog’s turn for a meal? This was some ice-age saber-tooth dilemma, the kind that’d make Jeremiah spit fire and chew nails for breakfast.

I woke up with a jolt, sleeping bag in a tangle, a strangled scream clogged in my throat. And i had the strangest damn notion… somehow, that robot cat in the nursing home, the alley cat, and the song, they were all connected. Many sides of the same warped die, mechanical pity thrown against raw instinct… and the music of heartbreak.

The whole world, it seemed, was like a dreamscape where choices are never clear-cut. Maybe that’s the point, but i honestly don’t know… it was, however, time to fire up the propane stove and make the coffee and grits for another day on the road… Hot Springs or Busk!

Cheers… R.H.