A babbling brook on a hot summer’s day turns out to be a 100 degree geothermal creek. Mud bubbles up into pools with the smell of either bean and bacon soup or, more succinctly, farts — as the ladies say. These cracks in our perception of the way the earth should be are magical and meaningful. Welcome to Rotorua.
35 years ago my not-yet roommate was belting a song on our college quad about a guy who died in a South African prison. “Who sings about stuff like that?” I wondered.
Peter Gabriel sings about stuff like that.
On that same quad, someone’s radio was playing a boppin’ song from a British band and to this day I remember my introduction to Sting as he sang with his band The Police.
Sting also sings politically charged songs. Peter Gabriel also sings boppin’ songs. They’re on tour together and I got to witness their synthesis last night at The Palace.
“Buckingham Palace?” my cousin Keith joked via text. No, although they’re both British, this was at The Palace of Auburn Hills, Michigan.
It’s 4:34 am.
I call this time “heh.” I’ve written about it in the past, back when my digital clock seemed to be chuckling at me. Turn 4:34 upside down and it says hEh.
Heh, you’re not sleeping. Heh, those thoughts racing through your brain are going nowhere fast. Heh.