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2002-01-24 || 1:46 p.m. || 67 miles per hour. without alarm clock. without mirror and comb. || truck driving and walkie talkies, spilled sacks of grain and cigarette smoke. in this city there were blind corners everywhere, hedged in by hedges, by deciduous and evergreen trees. there were parks surrounding great masses of cement forming the shapes of states. diners. coffee stores. dogs on leashes and old people. you could hear the knitting needles clicking there, the warm smiles, the ridges in the asphalt growing deeper and deeper under the weight of us, us moving. we created trails. we made tracks. we drove right over the orange cones and the policemen's admonitions because it's an adventure after all, we're not even eating our daily allotment of vegetables. it got to be wearing stripes and plaid simultaneously, forgetting to brush teeth, making rude gestures at fellow drivers visible only in the rubbed at parts of fogged up windows. our hair was snarled from the lack of combs and mirrors. you had begun to take on the more obnoxious parts of my laugh. the back seats were full of things that weren't meant to be a part of this journey, weren't meant to be a part of us. they sat there, seatbelts unbuckled in plain daylight, smiling with the innocence of forgotten appendages. it's not an arm it's a pink sewing machine and yes, i need it. that's the styrofoam plane we found in the indian casino parking lot. those are the hats we bought with bridges and windy weather and late night driving in mind and these are suitcase full of paper. they cross borders with us. they grow wrinkled or take on lines from folding like our faces. your arm is sunburnt on the driver's side and this jacket has a cigarette burn and oh, i love you. oh, please don't ever let us stop traveling. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |