In Allister, there always resided a small nomad. Tucked inside, the nomad was quiet for periods of time, but when the terrain became familiar, when life grew tedious, the nomad would raise his voice and stomp his feet until Allister moved. This was not always necessary as Allister himself felt the constant need for motion. Like he was a tiny atomic particle zipping inside something much larger.
Though there are no records to indicate beyond a doubt (officially, the Cromley lineage could only be traced back to the late cro-magnon era), the Cromley family had always been a nomadic people. In the early stages of the Pangean breakup as the continents began their inevitable separation, the Cromley clan in all their hairy-hunched-over-early-man goodness, grunted at each other for days until they could all understand each other. It was obvious they wanted to spread and, likewise, it was obvious that the world was separating into pieces. These two bits of information seemed at odds to these little-brained Cromleys. The confusion of loud, obnoxious, inaudible grunting blocked out reasoning.
It took a wise old cro-magnun (for the time being, we shall call him great great great great great great great grandfather Allister Cromley, but who probably answered to something more like "Ogg:") to calm the disgruntled mass. The decision was made to collect along fault lines and, with sticks and clubs, urge the fault line into widening and snapping the land free, thereby forcing the Cromley clan into a migration of epic proportions, spreading Cromley around the world (at that time, it should be noted, the concept of a round world or a flat world centuries away).
From this first migration until the Allister Cromley we know, nomadic tendencies have existed in all Cromleys. For our Allister's part, he had lived in a cave, an igloo, an adobe hut, an air pocket deep beneath the Atlantic Ocean, an elephant's rib cage, and inside a canon at the site of the Bull Run memorial battlefield. Perhaps it was a longing for something. For what, Allister never knew. Or maybe he just never said. But, maybe he was not really searching for anything tangible. For all we know, Allister may have just been searching for the search itself. Redundant, most certainly. But truthful, most likely. I do know this. On a calm, cool day Allister would often sit perfectly still as calm and cool as the day itself. His eyes closed, he would imagine himself evaporating into a million little particles and floating away with the breeze. And it was not a macabre thought. This was not a suicidal fantasy. It was the idea of becoming one with it all, of being present at a million events at once, of being absorbed into a million thoughts, a million philosophies, a million new worlds. Of not having to say anything, but experience it all.
Though there are no records to indicate beyond a doubt (officially, the Cromley lineage could only be traced back to the late cro-magnon era), the Cromley family had always been a nomadic people. In the early stages of the Pangean breakup as the continents began their inevitable separation, the Cromley clan in all their hairy-hunched-over-early-man goodness, grunted at each other for days until they could all understand each other. It was obvious they wanted to spread and, likewise, it was obvious that the world was separating into pieces. These two bits of information seemed at odds to these little-brained Cromleys. The confusion of loud, obnoxious, inaudible grunting blocked out reasoning.
It took a wise old cro-magnun (for the time being, we shall call him great great great great great great great grandfather Allister Cromley, but who probably answered to something more like "Ogg:") to calm the disgruntled mass. The decision was made to collect along fault lines and, with sticks and clubs, urge the fault line into widening and snapping the land free, thereby forcing the Cromley clan into a migration of epic proportions, spreading Cromley around the world (at that time, it should be noted, the concept of a round world or a flat world centuries away).
From this first migration until the Allister Cromley we know, nomadic tendencies have existed in all Cromleys. For our Allister's part, he had lived in a cave, an igloo, an adobe hut, an air pocket deep beneath the Atlantic Ocean, an elephant's rib cage, and inside a canon at the site of the Bull Run memorial battlefield. Perhaps it was a longing for something. For what, Allister never knew. Or maybe he just never said. But, maybe he was not really searching for anything tangible. For all we know, Allister may have just been searching for the search itself. Redundant, most certainly. But truthful, most likely. I do know this. On a calm, cool day Allister would often sit perfectly still as calm and cool as the day itself. His eyes closed, he would imagine himself evaporating into a million little particles and floating away with the breeze. And it was not a macabre thought. This was not a suicidal fantasy. It was the idea of becoming one with it all, of being present at a million events at once, of being absorbed into a million thoughts, a million philosophies, a million new worlds. Of not having to say anything, but experience it all.
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