Out there somewhere

As I've tossed and turned tonight, losing my ubiquitous battle with insomnia, I heard the whistling of a train.

Oh, not really. I think it came to me during a brief moment when I crossed over into slumber. But it reminded me of the wanderlust that often lies beneath the surface of my life.

I have long been attracted to the open road. I've told you before that the only other dream job I would want besides my own is the ability to travel the back roads of America in search of adventure and a good story. It's one reason I love Charles Kuralt's "On the Road," Kerouac's "On the Road" and the old TV series "Route 66."

Responsibilities and being poor add up to the reality that I often have to get there vicariously. Last summer in Asheville I bought a copy of Kerouac. I think I will read it when I finish Conroy.

Maybe before the weather turns cold I can scrape up a few pennies and gas up the guzzler. Maybe head down 411 or 27.

As it is, I think I will put on a DVD of Tod and Buzz's adventures, dream about seeking what's out there, and drift off to sleep while the black-and-white flicker from the TV casts an ethereal glow across the room.