Thursday, March 12, 2009
Woody Guthrie was an Easy Rider.
Somewhere in between proud American poet and larger-pattern dropout in seeking freedom. Hobo train riders talk about this—this challenging of punch cards, having to report to the larger authorities, time, money, obligations—while still feeling free.
When we’re ready or have had enough, we hit the road with songs that draw up the images of those without, among us, past widescreen landscapes, reminiscent of times outside of city vertical and peoples thick. Past red sand spires of Monument; past a wasting Panhandle drive-in theatre turned wild daisy lot, “For Sale” sign in the projector booth window. And dust blowing, we kick around the country testing the welcome, and the conditions for those familiar with the mission.
Getting to see that little bit more, is the illusion you might belong a little bit more to the land. Looking out expansively, uninterrupted, is the filling up lungs with one great big breath before heading underwater. That want for another gulp burns until had. “Until” then feels like forever.