Mapping The Territory (1)

MAPPING THE TERRITORY (1)

I had walked forty days with the sun on my back as I carried my life in an old canvas pack: the sun with its brazen and brilliant gold glow. 

My body was strong, but my spirit was low (though I walked without pause, I had nowhere to go). I was busy with numbers and figures and facts when an old hag appeared; stopped dead in my tracks.

'My child,' said the Priestess adjusting her bra, 'how dirty your face is, how weathered you are. How filthy your nails, how tangled your hair. Now, it's all very well to pretend you don't care but - and, take this from me - you should always look fair, for a time might occur when you want to go back. Do you have, for example, fresh pants in your sack? Do you have a perfume? Do you own any slap?'

'I just need a map,' I replied. 

'Tut tut,' mused the Priestess, 'you're tetchy, I see. Now do as I say and try mimicking me. You'll not find me rude; I aspire to be gay. So, what do you want with an Ordnance Survey?'

'Okay.

'I must study the contours of where I have been, and turn into symbols the things I have seen. I must navigate valleys of death and observe the high-peaks of joy and the mountains of love. . . '

'My dear,' said the Priestess (a terrible grin), 'it's time that you lost this pathetic chagrin. Just emulate me and you're sure bound to win. Self-love's not so awful a thing.'

I circumnavigated the bitch and carried on walking.