John Mee

The corrugations shimmered over ochre sand dunes and vanished into the boundless blue skies of an Australian outback. John tucked a gleaming new Simon Anderson 6'5" Indo gun underarm to board Garuda flight GA16 one-way to a new adventure.

He stared into the thundering boneyards of a boiling Sunset Beach reef from atop twenty-foot swells. He criss-crossed the slate-grey concrete ribbons of American heartland in a brown two-litre fuel-injected 1979 kombi. In a marblestone mall on the bank of an open raw sewer in Surabaya-Indonesia, he dominated all-challengers on the local global arcade phenomenum: Street Fighter II. He composed the first tracks on the pure white sheets of glorious snowbound Monashee dawns. He met masses, and ate with them.

Today the silent bluegrey of the console stares back indifferently into the vanishing points of far-away eyes; the aftermath of another 10–15 hour dash on it's codebases. The yesterdays, todays, and tomorrows blend, blister, blur. It's adventure of a different kind. Slumbering horizons sleep. Brooding. Patient. Dreaming.

Dreaming of the next adventure. A tyke Jap motorbike burbling into the scents and sounds of a jungle toiling with tribesmen; Fierce whistling solaces, white-tipped Himilayan sentinals, speckled absently with porters and their jangling Yak trains; The riotous color swirling in the bazaars of staccato chattering arabian merchants; Languishing awhile in a teeming town square of ancient stone where the pommy peasants and mustachioed burgomeisters set down their beers to pontificate amidst precocious parisien princesses tapping for attention upon their cafe table.

Time ticking...

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