The sky is again thick with infinite shades of curdled blue and grey. The rain has been frequent and fierce as of late and I fear our beloved Pops has been swept away by a torrential flash flood, along with our yellow, disposable camera. How else might his most recent lengthy absence be logically explained?
The time has come for me and the family (plus one) to head for higher ground and get the hell out of town.
The monotonous drone of routine, of life's ubiquitous pattern and sequence will halt, if only for a very short while. The family and I, plus one, will take to the road and head north toward familiarity, toward our previous existence of monotonous drone and ubiquity. A nineteen hour, arduous trek of fast food consumption, Motown music and sleep deprivation awaits. Bring on the coffee. Bring on the late night truck stop bathroom breaks. Bring on the monotonous drone of yellow lines, street lights and humming tires on asphalt. Bring on Plus One, Daughter's BFF, accompanying us on our northland travel adventures, because two arguing children in the car for nineteen straight hours are only two-thirds enough fun.
It may be far too late for Pops, but there is still hope for me and the family, plus one.
Ironically, 365 Days of Jazz Hands need the monotonous drone of routine, ubiquitous pattern and sequence to survive. Therefor, my next post shall occur upon my return to 42 inches above sea level, once the rains subside, a couple of short days from now.
Today's Jazz Hands are high and dry.
Day one-hundred and ninety-three complete.
The time has come for me and the family (plus one) to head for higher ground and get the hell out of town.
The monotonous drone of routine, of life's ubiquitous pattern and sequence will halt, if only for a very short while. The family and I, plus one, will take to the road and head north toward familiarity, toward our previous existence of monotonous drone and ubiquity. A nineteen hour, arduous trek of fast food consumption, Motown music and sleep deprivation awaits. Bring on the coffee. Bring on the late night truck stop bathroom breaks. Bring on the monotonous drone of yellow lines, street lights and humming tires on asphalt. Bring on Plus One, Daughter's BFF, accompanying us on our northland travel adventures, because two arguing children in the car for nineteen straight hours are only two-thirds enough fun.
It may be far too late for Pops, but there is still hope for me and the family, plus one.
Ironically, 365 Days of Jazz Hands need the monotonous drone of routine, ubiquitous pattern and sequence to survive. Therefor, my next post shall occur upon my return to 42 inches above sea level, once the rains subside, a couple of short days from now.
Today's Jazz Hands are high and dry.
Day one-hundred and ninety-three complete.
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