Rolling on the river

I've been to town,
I've walked the highways
and in the suburbs too.

I've done some things
I never thought I'd ever do.


Now as I stand here
looking down at you,
you ask me why it is I frown.

I guess it's 'cause I've been to town.


I've been to town
beyond the boulevard
and down the beach,

I've learned some things
that only time can teach,

For instance,
love is more than just a speech,

It's got to find a common ground,

I know 'cause I've been to town.


Don't tell me any more,
I can't waste any more years,

I've seen my image in your eyes,

Dissolve in disappointed tears.


I've been to town,
you ask me do I know the Milky Way,

I do, and furthermore I'd like to say

It isn't milky white, it's dingy gray,

Especially when your world breaks down,


I know because I've been to town.

        -- Rod McKuen, 1969
At the end of just about any endeavor, there’s a tendency toward waxing philosophical. One doesn’t want an enterprise that has consumed time and other resources to have been insignificant.

And yet, after all of the sound, fury and scurrying from place to place, so many episodes in my life – including the current road trip which is ending in about a week – seem to signify little, perhaps nothing.

Sitting within reach of the finish line (I could abort the final week’s itinerary and be home in five or six hours), I’m wondering when the trip will really end. Will it be over when I shut off the engine in Merced? Will it take longer – days, weeks, perhaps months – to reach “closure? ”

Perhaps, since my thoughts have turned more and more toward what comes next, the trip has already ended.

One of my favorite stories is from the time I worked at a small-town radio station. The station manager and sports guy decided to broadcast a downtown parade from inside the radio car. My duty was to manage the broadcast from the studio.

It was only after the entries began moving that our broadcast team realized that – from their vantage point in the middle of the line of march – they couldn’t actually see the parade. They ended up reporting on the parade route, describing the crowd and the buildings along the way.

Needless to say, it was an entertaining narrative – I was rolling on the studio floor.

Speaking of parades, some 2600 years earlier (before Socrates), a Greek philosopher named Heraclitus is reported to have noted that it is impossible to step into the same river twice. Asserting the opposite – that no river can pass through the same place twice – seems axiomatic.

Does being the river (or the parade) – and moving through time and space in a somewhat deliberate fashion – offer an improvement over staying in place alongside the river and dealing with the flotsam and jetsam that drift past?

Being on the road certainly provides the illusion of having control over things. Wanderers are in charge of their speed and direction; but much remains out of their control. Those who remain in place can insulate themselves from much of what courses past – but there is no protection from some impacts.

Good grief!

How did I ever get to the point where my quotes and catchy phrases are coming from Heraclitus? 500 B.C., For crying out loud.

It’s a good thing that I’m almost home.