Spotted Dick

You know what? I’m tired. There’s a drain that starts in your head, drip drip dropping down into your arms. I feel heavy, dreadful heavy … you want to know what I feel like today, day five off the road? I feel like I’m walking through a thick tin of spotted dick. A big fat can of British pudding. I must be getting old. I must be growing deaf. I must be losing my nerve. I don’t hear the call of the highway, feel its pull. I’m happy to take a seat, drink a cup of coffee, and inhale slowly through my nose. Ugh. It stinks over here. That stale smell that lingers around a bag of bread that’s been sitting and molding in the back corner of your pantry. I haven’t smelled this before. Maybe I’d known nothing else. They say your nose adapts to your environment. That makes sense enough – why else haven’t I gotten that whiff before? You know what it smells like to me? A stale tin of spotted fucking dick. Sugar baby can’t conceal the real deal. British pudding is only so sweet once it’s been left out in the sun, cooked and recooked. Seems that if the game can’t change – if these recipes are the same – then I have to be the one to make amends to the system. Adaptation without representation doesn’t make for a lucrative profession. Oh to fly once again, to soar above the crumbly crumbs … gah but it is comfortable here. I sleep in beds. I stand in front of air conditioners. I watch the garage door go up, and then I watch it go down. I twaddle my turnips electrically, eat my avocados organically, compost the pits and watch the tumbler shake. I find myself sucked into the pudding, find myself eating that saccharine mess like it’s going straight to the trash, find myself gorged on complacency, find myself sick with the sweet, find myself falling into forgetfulness.

Who was I three months ago – a man on a bike? Finding truths of the road, filling up that tank so I could go go go baby go. The sky was fresh, the horizons new. Sunsets crashed down in the West, sunrises flew and grew. I was happy, and free, and simple, and clean. There’s a lot to be said for all of that jazz. Davis was right – I will remember April, how different it was from May. My oh my what a change. From the Ritz to the rubble I fell from the gears, finding independent motions from my new surroundings.

But now I’m back. Ritz again. It sucks here. Everyone wears makeup. Everyone has frowny faces, like they’re concentrating something hard, and that something is stumping them in an awful way. I’ve turned to caffeine. It makes me feel wonderful, powerful enough to push through another day’s worth of puddings. Spotted dick be damned. Maybe I’ll bust out, escape once again, soar above the dome. Then again, maybe not. What I do know is this: I will never lift myself up and onto the rim of the tin, will never peek over the sugared crumbs of canned pudding if all I do is write about it. Escape is found through both words and action. Till then, till I find the energy to push atop the heavy medium, I’ll just be content to stare at the sweet crystals as I pass through another day.

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