I had been applying salves of Tolkien and Thoreau, when a life-bouy arrived in the form of a ruck-sack named 'Dave.'
It was love at first sight. Dave wasn't just some frivolous purchase from one of my English Country Home porn mags; he was Bilbo Baggins heading out onto the road, he was Ratty messing about in boats, he was a gypsy caravan, a canal boat, a pair of Redstone rollerskates on the top of a steep San Francisco hill. He was a red flag snapping at the nose of adventure- and he wanted me to join him!
Sure, there was that wonderful spark of loves first bloom when I first savagely ripped Dave from his Postpak womb, but it wasn't until my husband started referring to him as an extra family member, that I knew things were serious. My husband even made little jokes of jealousy over Dave, possibly because I wouldn't put the bloody thing down. And I was obsessed with repacking him. Made from Organic cotton canvas, Dave was no polyester light-weight to begin with. And he had a severe case of pockets (which I only found endearing)which I knew it was of vast importance to fill with two of each species of animal, toiletries, first aid kit, emergency books, art and writing sets, plus bottled water if I must.
My devotion to Dave awakened me to the fact that I hadn't been doing too well. I mean here I was, preparing to climb the fells in search of Smaug, when in fact I lived in the guts of suburbia in Sydney. I had a garden that was a mess unless you squinted, a house that probably needed bulldozing but we couldn't afford to rebuild and a mortgage big enough to squeeze the gonads off Hemingway. AND I was busy. Two gorgeous teenage zombies, a flustered husband, two shedding hounds, two reproducing male guinea pigs and a part-time job in a fabulous book-store filled with papery things I had no time to read. Did I mention I also wanted to be a published author and illustrator? (insert sounds of maniacal laughter here.)
I just really wanted to chuck a Moley and toss the effing whitewashing in and follow the dandelion puffs over the hill to the sparkling River.
I thought about Bilbo and how he had been hood-winked and rifle-birded out his front door with ne'er a moment to grab pipe, hat and kerchief. He hadn't planned that adventure like a P & O cruise; months of mooning over which knickers to take and speculating what to wear at a craps table. It had just sort of happened to him. God, where was Gandalf when you needed that swift kick up the arse?
I had definitely been going about things the P & O way until Dave's arrival. I guess he was my Gandalf. I'd long wanted change, craved adventure, but I thought in order to be allowed IT, I had to get the rest of my life right first.Ordered, dusted and eco-friendly. Yet Thoreau had pissed off to Walden without permission or a tick of approval from the masses. And everyone admires him. Right? Well, probably everyone hated him or thought he was a weirdo back then but the important thing is that we love him now and respect him. Respect. I needed some of that for myself.I need to think for myself, find myself, some peace, reflection, stillness. And here was Dave offering to keep me company for the duration if I would but go.
Will I go????????????
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