gypsy time (revision 2)
in a locomotive on a desert rail siding.
Out there on those desert spurs and mountain roads, railroaders use to put anything on the line with traction. Behind the lead unit there could be any kind of funky slug. Old as hell, beat to shit locomotives with nothing going for them except the wheel trucks with their traction motors pulling against the steel rails while sucking power from the MU. They are undead machines clothed in some flag’s faded industrial coating outside but inside they are ruined ghosts of rolling derelicts. That’s where the crew lets you ride if your sister knows how to smile. Nothing, not even money, could get me and my camera a dusty hot ride to Vegas in a wicked-cool, old slug faster than Jilly’s personal zeitgeist.
The skills of sexual polity came early and easy for her (like most of the women in my family). It is good for the world that we are wanderers and not capitalists and social climbers. All those beautiful faces could have started wars and built empires. There has always been way too much of that godless shit anyway. Like all my fathers kin, like me, Jilly just wanted to find the next piece of scenery and (because she is woman) occasionally drink for free at the bar.
We were not fated to suffer the competitive prodding of women with momentous social ambitions; not us, not this family. We are way to restless for the corrosive kind of concentrated effort it takes to go big in the material world. In this blood it isn't where you are going that matters. Fools are convinced that origins and destinations make history but "history is a pile of debris". It is the going, the fact that we are moving from where we were that makes sense. Never rest. Never believe in the destination and don't trust the past. The story is always about the journey.
gypsy time (revision 2)
in a locomotive on a desert rail siding.
Out there on those desert spurs and mountain roads, railroaders use to put anything on the line with traction. Behind the lead unit there could be any kind of funky slug. Old as hell, beat to shit locomotives with nothing going for them except the wheel trucks with their traction motors pulling against the steel rails while sucking power from the MU. They are undead machines clothed in some flag’s faded industrial coating outside but inside they are ruined ghosts of rolling derelicts. That’s where the crew lets you ride if your sister knows how to smile. Nothing, not even money, could get me and my camera a dusty hot ride to Vegas in a wicked-cool, old slug faster than Jilly’s personal zeitgeist.
The skills of sexual polity came early and easy for her (like most of the women in my family). It is good for the world that we are wanderers and not capitalists and social climbers. All those beautiful faces could have started wars and built empires. There has always been way too much of that godless shit anyway. Like all my fathers kin, like me, Jilly just wanted to find the next piece of scenery and (because she is woman) occasionally drink for free at the bar.
We were not fated to suffer the competitive prodding of women with momentous social ambitions; not us, not this family. We are way to restless for the corrosive kind of concentrated effort it takes to go big in the material world. In this blood it isn't where you are going that matters. Fools are convinced that origins and destinations make history but "history is a pile of debris". It is the going, the fact that we are moving from where we were that makes sense. Never rest. Never believe in the destination and don't trust the past. The story is always about the journey.