The journal of Paul M. Watson.

Thursday, June 23, 2005

Off to see the desert, the wonderful desert of Nam

Namibia that is, not Vietnam.

Tomorrow I pile my gear and myself into my trusty Tazz and begin the drive up to Namibia. The first day's drive will get me to Springbok which is just on the South African side of the border. From there it is anybodies guess where I will end up.

My only fixed date is the 28th of June when I have to be in Windhoek to pick up a friend, Sibylle. Around that date though I am as free as I want, which is very free. No bookings, itinerary or plans, just my wheels, tent, sleeping bag and camera. That is how I like to travel. If I see a nice looking spot I will stop and stay for as long as I want.

Places I want to see though are Swakopmund, Etosha, Soussesvlei, the Skeleton Coast and every single dune I can climb. I may see them all, I may see one and stay there for a week, who knows.

Formula Farce

The saddest part of Sunday's farcical U.S. Grand Prix were the pig-headed perspectives that put adhering to inflexible rules above the events of the day. Rules which clashed with a situation. That adults of such experience and genius could not come to a solution that produced a race is quite disheartening. It truly has become a business and not a sport, shades of prime politics too.

I want a race, not a reality series.

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

I woke with the echo's dying

From the pounding in my head and the crawling nest of pain in my shoulders, I knew that I had overslept. It was a common failing since my denunciation. Sleep had become a refuge for me, as wine is for other men, and like them I surfaced from an excess of it in a state of alarming decrepitutde. Where is the poet who will sing the body's agues, who will fit words to the agonies of the imprisoned spirit? Nothing can be said or written that has not been said or written before, one hundred times in one hundred tongues, about the mayfly, Love. Yet if ecstasy of the blood is a fit subject for poetry, why not is distemper also? All of humanity experiences the latter; the former passes many of us by.

From Arts and Wonders by Gregory Normington.