Ah, the thunk of a few belongings in the trunk, a fresh tape in the voice recorder, home-brewed coffee in a thermos that rolls about on the floor beneath the Bug's passenger seat. Am off on a road trip in the a.m.
How I love to be gone. Gone means miles and miles of silence, the right tunes at certain times, the august of the unknown.
So on the birthday of Ulysses S. Grant, I will head south. To Charlotte, NC, where cousins await; a Friday meeting with a client in Winston-Salem; deep mind, wonder chef and much laughter in Greenville, SC come Saturday. Then on to a white beach east of Savannah, Georgia where one can always find an answer in the sound of water.