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Getting There From Here
Outside of Delacroix I started thinking about Bob Dylan but not able to conjure up any meaning from it I grooved on the almost cliched beauty of a bayou surrounded by swamp and marsh, and the requisite moss covered trees, the yellow and pink flowers, the yellow and white honeysuckle, the waterfowl so different from the sparrows left behind, and the fact that no one was following me, which in a driving excercise on a two lane road is moderately to extremely rare.
An early Sunday morning jaunt driving blindly away from any aspect that resembles responsibility. Or goddammit, I'm tired of working; I'm tired of making mistakes; I'm tired of knowing I'm going to make mistakes and then plunging headlong into the mistake. I need a vacation. So I take a little one while on the way to what was going to be my only responsible act of the weekend: picking up materials at the Home Improvement Store. I don't wanna, therefore I don't hafta. Nawh.
I'm not saying I don't have a place to hide but I don't. Dumaine has mostly never been a hiding place, what with the insurrgence of children that just seems to happen naturally (t)here, and Rocheblave is not yet home, although I sure wish it was. Wish in one hand...
So from this part of the world take a left on Rampart and head east, vere right once, and before you know it you are in Delacroix, deadended, with nothing to do but turn around unless you came to charter a fishing boat, or have a camp nearby, or need to buy live bait. Can you say cockahoe? No matter.
The way back lacks magic, but you already know you can't have everything.