I am on the drift again. The wending roads beckoning from my within, an untethering from my abouts.
Though the weather is still too warm still for such things, I drew on my fleece jacket, pulled up the hood around my face and over my head as I walked from car to my once-a-week-office-space and felt at home within the folds of fabric. My bare legs incongruent with the jacket over my torso, but I could care less. I used to half-jest that I was made for kilts — my legs have always been too warm and I still wear shorts at home in the winter when everyone else wraps themselves in thick blankets.
When I pondered on that walk at what I have been becoming, I recall that I have been making far too many jokes about Gandalf The Grey of late. I am betting I will eventually need a cane, my body delivers spite upon itself some days. But I don’t want one of those sensible, aluminum canes with the rubber tips and adjustable lengths, more often in recent years having four legs of its own for increased stability.
No, that’s not how I see myself. I see myself with either a sword-cane like one would find in those old-time British dark academia tales with polite not-quite-swashbuckling aristocrats — gentlemen adventurers — or I want to walk around with a staff like a Taoist monk (that doubles as a jo for personal protection). Or Gandalf the Grey, with a hooded cloak.
For that, I might need to grow out my beard to at least my chest. And buy a hooded cloak. Jury is out on the catfish mustache, which may determine if it is a small staff or a great staff. Sensible staff goes with outrageous mustache. Sensible wizard beard goes with large staff.
I want to pull a hood around my head and go back to drifting. I would rather follow my nature.
Do you drift? How?
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