And as I stand here spinning around the middle of my room, going in
circles for a solid 15 minutes. Making sure, absolutely sure that I am
not forgetting anything. Although I will remember at 10,000 ft above I have
forgotten the very thing that I am standing here trying to remember.
I recognize a voice. Its Jackson Browne . I could spot that voice
anywhere, low with melodic power, the highs are deep, and the tonal
strength is suppressing. It was coming from my house mates room,
either he has it too loud, at 12:30am.. Or my hearing hasn’t been as
compromised as I thought it had. Because that voice could bring me
down anywhere. So I pick up the 80 pound suitcase and wrap my key ring
around my index finger. Its time to fly.
“Guncrazy” (1992) & a snuggie at 2am on the couch. Boston covered in the
first snowfall at 4am, convenient.
Its been a long time since I’ve seen the sun rise anywhere other than
my bedroom window in the woods. But now I see it from a different
light. Two things are certain, the sun will always rise in east and it
will always set in the west. And for the first time, it will all be different.
I have displaced fields and mountains for trees. And now I’m on the
other side, things feel different as different as they look, as
different as they are. And now its time to face my demons and walk it
out. The rest of this will end, and now I musnt be selfish to fight my
own battles, and leave the side of the passanger seat, let me drive
the rest of the way. Because its my home, not yours. And they’re my
problems, with all my own pieces to pick up. We’ve gone and left now,
the places where cops drive mustangs, and the indians smoke their
cigars. Its not safe to drive like this, with every hour believing the
last was better than the next. We can’t breath as deep back east -
because the air is crowded. I learned that about the west.
It’s vast, and there’s more room to think things through. Where the time isn’t counted by hours its measured by miles. Where the hills really are purple, and now you understand it, you will always understand it now. But you will leave what you saw where you left it, and take what you learned in an image. And that photo may last you as long as the trip itself, but the black and white dreams are all you carry on with.
Its down to the last hour, and this is the longest one. Every last
hour of every end of every few thousand miles has been the tongue
bitter. What will the next town bring. What does the next city hold
for us. Well this one is different, this one ends it all. No more
miles to count, no more songs to turn down. Were done checking in, and
I’m over checking out. We’ve sped past our last exit, and there is no
more turning around. Could the songs be sung one last time, can we take
that picture over again because your smile wasn’t quite right.
We have spread arms over the length of the country, west to east. And
farther it goes on. The last hour is dwindling faster than the others,
I thought this might happen.
Where the stars are airplanes, and the sky holds the rest of the world
in its perils, in one glance. The meteors over Nevada can’t be
redeemed, and Ill never forget the tears in your eyes when you heard
that song. I couldn’t understand it then on the 80 but I understand it
now.
The one thing to make me cry is sitting right in front of me. The
clock, like a timer, ticking to explode. To end it all. Every tear is
shed with every moment that digresses.
And its all gone in the blink of an eye. Like the displacing of the trigger, into park.
And without notice, the roads change, and its Sunday- it was naïve of
us to think that we wouldn’t need chains. But when the girl speaks,
the sheltered boy never listens. He has been taught everything he will
ever need to know, and the little girl could not tell him otherwise.
So she sits back in silence, telling herself everything she would like
to say to him, but out of respect, will not. Rain that doesn’t stop,
its the type that mists down off the sky- not the angry wind strong
rain that makes me tired. But soon enough, it will gather in the
roads, and the wipers will be overwhelmed. It will turn white, and he
will realize he was mistaken. The girl she will continue to sit there,
and gather her corrected thoughts in the passenger seat. Because he
wouldn’t listen anyway.
Does it hurt any less on this highway,
than it does back there? As headlights in the blind spot fall over the
back seat, I wonder.
I am not as figured out as I figured I was. And I knew somewhere along
these highways it would come to me, the dawning of the future-
shadowing my unforgiving past. The rain turned to snow, and it went
by like a blink of an eagles eye. Paralyzing all nature among the
sides of the freeway. It goes on forever, but isn’t that just like
life? The highway of this, and we’ve been stuck in a 16oz. Bottle for
95% of the past 3 weeks, and I couldn’t starve for you, so why would
you pretend to do so for me. Its unjust to keep going on the way we
have cared too.
