Travel Notes //
—Crows are all in groups, their sharp beaks reminding me of scissors. I watch as they cut across sky and admire the patterns they paint. They are intelligent and much more than what I write them off as. I’m empathetic towards them.
—License plates exist from all over. A pretend Hawaii one, reminds me briefly of fields of pineapple. Nostalgia swims near and I smile. Zach points out that a lot of semi-trucks bare Tennessee ones. “Is car insurance cheaper there?”, he asks. I nod off a shrug and think about the way money rules. It leaves a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach and I try to forget about it, by reading my copy of Liars Club. It’s tattered and I’m currently at the part where Lecia and her sister just move to Antelope. Their mother leaves me in awe, and I imagine her with frail, red hair. The stringy kind with curls lapping over. A sort of Medusa.
—Lack of water gets me down, and I get mad dizzy. Then I think of the skeleton, the way bones shape and form you. It’s a dance through science, before I resurface and feel my thumping forehead. There is sweat and there is release.
—We stop for the night in South Bend, Indiana. In the hotel room, our dog sits up regal and handsome. Meanwhile, our cat explores. The adventure we’ve embarked on, seems fuzzy and out of focus. Sometimes I’m always surprised by where life takes me. I’m a fan of the road and a fan of the static that is dreaming, but like to remember the work behind every good achievement. Love is a strong force, that bites through the worst. I keep this in mind always.
—Coffee is had each morning and sipped at like it’s magic. Nothing about it resembles ‘what’s mature’, but there’s a special amount of ‘zing’ that relocates somewhere deep within. At about noon, the bad dash and crash comes. This is when food is craved after, and I nibble timidly at handfuls of a savory trail mix. Me and my boy hum to Langhorne Slim and make up our own music names. He’s Skinny Lyons and I’m Alora Fiscus. Being the quiet writer that I am, I’ve sometimes felt just as fictional as the stories I think of. Maybe there’s something to this, that I just haven’t decoded yet. It’s an abstract day-dream I have to sort through. I keep it all in my journals, and paint pictures of flowers and laugh.