The term to err, derived from the French errer, that is, to roam, to wander, better reflect my soul’s inclination. Neither are drift, peregrinate, vagabond, (the less precise) stray, range, roam or rove (Byron’s lyric comes to mind) too inferior candidates. The Russian бродяга/бродить (or the figurative лавировать) still leave me uncertain, unlike the Spanish andante (errant, ie errant knight = cavallero andante), the Don Quijote refrain of questionable use in modern vernacular. Though can the same not be said of errant? Who errs nowadays, if not by roads of fallacious arguments? If not by cults of fallacious conspiracies and credences?
Bohemian is that other nomenclature immediately associable with the buffooneries of Baudelaire, Verlaine and Rimbaud. Bohemia is made the frequent subject of their perilous existences. Bohemia emanates within their verse (both in property and matter) and of their verse.
But I’d scarce consider myself bohemian without the abundant cabaret frequentations, «cynique prostitution», absinthe, opium, haschisch and debaucheries I lack the propensity to articulate, less undertake.
Errant is the best I can aspire to, if not for the noblesse satirized in Quijote’s exploits, then for the marginality in a severely industrialized panorama.
I once lounged by the balustrade of a cargo ship deck in the company of two vagabonds. (Not bohemians.) Their decorative textile manoeuvres mingled with my idle industriousness: astir in mind, immobile in body, errant in spirit.
Questions, comments? Connect.