in which dreams are formed

 

It was only a few minutes, nothing really to speak of at all – but for those few minutes, that brief moment this past Wednesday – I was home again. Where I feel best, where I feel I belong – with 454 cubic inches of motor singing its sweet, throaty song next to me in the driver’s seat of my motorhome.

 

Wednesday, 6:30 am and the alarm on my phone went off, my eyes barely opened as I lift this hellish thing off of my dresser and be certain I touch ‘dismiss’ instead of ‘snooze’. It’s not a noise I wish to hear again. Of course, the night before I had found the rare parking on Hyde St. which *didn’t*  have street sweeping this morning, but they were unable to start my girl the day before and needed the space for a 50 foot trailer that was coming in. Not expecting to find such ideal parking I promised that I would be there at 7:30 to move her…

It’s been a while – perhaps well over a month since I’ve been to the East Bay, as with fuel prices and bridge toll it’s not a trip I can make too often, and besides, except for just opening the door and sitting in her, there was little reason to go visit my motorhome.

I felt her welcoming smile as I opened the door and stepped inside again after so long – it was like visiting a dear old friend. Some may understand this; those people whose vehicles become, after a time, much more than just something to use in order to get around in – they become, in a way, a part of you. Part of your history, part of your future, part of dreams both realized… and yet to come.

I climbed into the driver’s seat – *my* seat – and sat there for a minute or three, just looking out the windshield with my eyes closed, imagining the roads we would someday travel, then with a bit of massaging and a small simple trick I turned the key and her heart roared to life, a deliciously low rumble as her blood was sucked up from the oil pan and started circulating again, feeling her strength & power as I pressed lightly on the accelerator pedal, checking the gauges to be sure all was well and, after far too long, moved the lever on the steering column to that sweetest of letters: ‘D’.

DRIVE.

I didn’t go far, just out the rollup door and around the building to the other side, but it was still a sweet little spree and reminded me of what I had been missing.

In those few short minutes, I was home again.

 

Perhaps some may think I’ve gone off the deep end in writing about a motorhome with such romance – words that are usually saved to paint poetic images of and for loved ones of the more, shall we say, *human* nature, and well, perhaps I have – but dreams are still dreams, regardless of what form they take or the way in which they are realized, and Serenity, my motorhome, is the way in which my dreams not only are formed – but can also become a reality.

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The White Rabbit

It’s now official – I have named my motorhome “The White Rabbit”.

I’ve been vacillating for months on if that might be the proper name for her, but with the recent (soon to be, need to wait for my monthly check) purchase of a piece of art that was created by Raven Ebner for a beautiful production called “Looking Glass’ by Cera Byer & Damage Control Dance Theater, I decided that must be the name she is supposed to have.

The print is perfect for me, for my dream of just going and taking whatever turns & directions feel right, and seeing where I end up. Putting my trust in the Universe & finding alll of the adventure there is to find along the way. I’ve been in one place now for far, far too long, and my lust for movement & forward motion needs to be appeased – just as soon as I get through the year of Interferon therapy, a shot a week, which I need to stay here for…

Only eleven months to go, and in the meantime I’ll be able to do the things I intend to do, such as paint the outside white (The Beige Rabbit? oh, hell no), and continue to create & re-create the inside of my perfect sanctuary, my home. Something I’ve always been incredibly adept at, and something I’ve always loved doing. It’s coming along, a bit here, a bit there almost every day…

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In other news, I am ecstatic that my new bow finally arrived the day before yesterday. A simple recurve, which will let me get back to traditional archery – no friggin’ sights, nothing but instinct, which as a boy being shipped off to camp I was perhaps the best of my group, earning shitloads of treasured patches & medals that dear old mom threw away. Now, I’ll just earn them all back and keep them in my heart – a place that she is not allowed to go anymore.