To prepare for the Drupal Conference I am reviewing the work of Hunter S Thompson.
I pull up the Sunliner and gaze out over the Pacific ocean. I think I am almost half-way to the conference. I count 4 night sleeps since I left my hermit-acre. How far have I travelled? The paper map on the seat next to me makes it 470km. That's not much for 4 days on the road. I shake my head at my friends who tell me it should only take 12 hours to get from Melbourne to Sydney if I keep my foot down. Who wants to keep their foot down? If we don't make it this year another conference will happen next year. There is always another conference.
I reflect on why I even want to go to the conference. My reflections usually meander and I allow them to go where they will. There are seagulls fighting over some sandwich scraps on a picnic table under some pine trees. They swear at each other like Irish tradesmen. I open up my iPad and search for Conference Of The Birds and am reminded it is a poem by Farid al-Din Attar. The language makes me weary and I want to put the coffee pot on. But I am too lazy to move. The waves are rolling in and I decide to bookmark Farid al-Din Attar for later.
'We each come into it in the middle.' I think.
After that my brain needs another rest and the waves are still rolling in. A couple of surfers seem to be understanding it all as they rise and fall in patterns of delight and insolence and significance.Again, I tell myself to reflect, and again I wonder why I am going to the conference. I remember deciding some time ago that it will be good to go. It seemed an idea supported by my history and my vision so I bought a conference ticket and made some plans. The plans have been unrolling over the last few days as I drive my motorhome up Highway 1. I remember also I announced I would write a book about the journey and interview people at the conference.
The remembering hoots its horn at me as it passes through my mind and disappears into the depths. Through the windscreen of the Sunliner I see that the tide is coming in. A little boy has a bucket and he is tipping sand over his puppy and the puppy shakes it off each time and the little boy laughs. The surfers are still reflecting my mood and the waves are still rolling in.
The rememberings of the beginnings of the journey are like trains trundling past me as I lounge on the platform waiting for a lover who never arrives.
Trains pass in the night; trains pass in the day; trains hoot their horns and go on their way.