Dust dreams

Somedays when the heat becomes so unbearable that my hair plasters to the back of my neck  or other days, when not even the thickest of wool socks can keep out that bitter chill, I find myself slipping into a day dream.

A dream of an old orange vw bus, with seats covered in worn sheepskin, with a sagging dash 

and crooked right side mirror.

 On those days we hop into our van, stow our belongings in the back and

 head for the open road. 

He drives, shirtless with only a faded pair of denim cut offs to his name.

 His long fingers tap rhythms on the steering wheel to the blaring of the tape deck, while his other arm sits, slung out alongside 

the rolled down window.

I sit in the  passenger  seat, dirt covered toes propped up on the dash, leaving dusty prints on the smooth glass of the wind shield. 

my hands plunk out tunes on the old banjo, perched precariously on my lap to the tune of the rubber wheels spinning over the tired asphalt.

Our hair grows wild, filled with wind, dust and sunlight. Our bodies grow leathery in the hot sun. 

Every so often we pull over, to explore some small town, to buy a handful of groceries and perhaps a postcard or two. 

Sometimes we throw our tired bodies down in the soft moss of a towering forest or on the smooth cement under a highway bridge.

Every night we lay underneath a sky filled with a million stars after filling our bellies with slightly burnt tasting suppers cooked over the coals of a rock fire.

I hold the map as we drive, pointing out all the sights to go see. There is no such things as a detour in this drive, as
the only destination is adventure. 

We belly laugh and begin to form our own language. Bathroom sinks become our showers

 and 

cool lakes, 

our bathtub.

Windswept fields and cool mountain tops whisper our names. We avoid big cities and socialize with the ocean waves instead. 

Our feet dangle over the spare tire as we sit atop the back, and the sun sinks into the west, making the sky bleed red and soft pink, 

painting our arms and legs in its glow.

We curl up together on the old foam mattress and secrets float through the night air.

In my dream, there is no such thing as the

 internet, cell phones or television. 

Letters are scrawled on the backs of napkins and loved ones are called 

from bug filled phone booths.

The bookcase behind the drivers seat is constructed out of driftwood found 

on a secluded beach.

We like to pretend that the pieces once belonged to an ship, 

destined for somewhere grand.

The bookcase is filled with our favourite titles, some old and some new, the spaces stuffed with

 shells and rocks from our travels.

We meet all sorts of folk along the way, partaking in many meals and bonfires.

I photograph each one, and the photo's 

line the walls of our small space.

And still we drive on.

Yours,

K

(Film photo taken by me)