As disparate a source as Waylon Jennings concurs. His songs are laden with regret and loneliness, and his lyrics often pin his troubles on his restless spirit. Be it trouble with the law or the loss of love, Jennings's wanderlust is the root of the problem.
The philosophers have little respect for those who cast big nets in the hope of catching something new. Sartre, in Nausea, demonstrates his disdain for those who seek adventure, a Buddhist would accuse the ardent traveler of unseemly striving, and Christianity . . .
Who am I to argue? My wandering lifestyle frays the previously clean cut edges of my life and consciousness, fills me with doubt, and erodes the person I thought I was.
I would suggest, however, that whether the jet engine consumes and destroys us or wings us on to fantastical destinations and experiences rests entirely in our hands. And so, dear readers, Hinterhands is born.
