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.
I’m taking a shower in a Hobbit hole. That’s the lead I came up with as the warm, delicious water washed a day of caves off me. Contenders were The hobbit hole has heated blankets or No wifi in Baggin’s place. The one ring to rule them all is embedded in our bed and I look forward to falling asleep in Middle Earth, or a reasonable facsimile thereof.
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.
My life-partner left me seven years ago this month. It’s been a difficult time since the breakup, to say the least. Severe health issues and two or three jobs later, I still miss our connection.
We were good together. Sure, we had our quarrels. They were understandable given the passion, the love. But we experienced a whole lot together, traveled to incredible places and were invited to witness the entire gamut of the human condition from the slums of Port au Prince, Haiti, to the opulent mansions and castles of the world’s richest elites.
We spent time with presidential candidates, toured prisons and flew in balloons & helicopters together. It was a great relationship.
But then it ended; I got dumped.
My grandfather used to say that before 1916, the world was ruthless. My grandmother, Ruth Harris Adams, was born in 1916. If the world was ruthless before that date, I can only guess that afterwards it was ruthmore, ruthful? Ol’ granddad passed on before completing his silly pun. Grandma Ruth lives on.