I hate the road

585 words

I love festivals. I love their charm, their ramshackledness, I love the way festivals morph and distort reality. I love how they take a load of salary earners and squeeze magical moments out of them, whether it’s boiling hot or raining sideways. Festivals, to me, are giant interactive symphonies to the enjoyment of life.

One of the specific reasons I love festivals so much is that there are no roads at a festival and as such there are no cars nor traffic jams at a festival.

Gone are the wasted hours of our lives stuck going somewhere we don’t want to be, for the sake of jobs that make no discernible difference to anyone or anything.

The places where we live and where we meet are liberated. The centre of our town, our village, our homes are set free from the grip of these dirty old machines.

I can walk around the local neighbourhood and feel at ease that nothing is going to run me down. Of course, it helps that no-one has to work and my mates are all here and we’re all drunk. All of these factors play important roles in the experience but I also adore having grass under my feet, not concrete. No need for road surfaces that can withstand 42,000 Toyota corollas and 60,000 transit vans rolling over them every afternoon.

These fields lie fallow around here; the land is green, not grey. Sodden turf filled with the makings of drunken memories and moments of wonder. The highlight of the year coming into bloom. A rare flower being fed chips, booze and beautiful tunes.

I can cut through it if I like, through the hastily hatched refugee camp. Down through the shantytown of fluorescent-preen as far as the eye can see. Through the rat racers on holiday from the mainstream. Tourists looking for a good time, craicing wise with the neighbours, infusing the air with good vibes. Redefining the meaning of why one might fight so hard for life; before Monday comes and they all abandon their campsite in shite.

New ways of living come to life as the passers-by say “hello” and I can actually hear them. What a novelty, to not have to shield my senses from the roar of the road. Opening the outside-world up, spending some quality time with my fellow strangers. Getting to know the other flowers in the field in the ways that were promised. Free love, peace and happiness for a couple of hundred a punch. A wrist band to a promised land where I can finally hear myself think. A little oasis from the incessant, insecure and constant natter of the ad-man.

A place where if a brand wants me to buy their bollocks they have to put on a proper performance. An exhibition that we can all stand back from and see, how these nonsensical perverts’ idea of “an immersive experience” really stacks up against the artists and performers who would do this for free.

A land where the road is not King. Where humankind is not squeezed onto the margins of the mainstream, between the high street and the ever-growing need for ever-more aimless speed. A place where I don’t have to feel like the second-best beast on the food chain to overgrown and oboslete machinery.

But I get it, you have to get from A to Z but don’t anyone dare tell me that this is the best answer we have to the question:

“How do you move around the world freely?”

Because there’s no such thing as free when you’re tied to these old, damn, dirty machines.