Half way between the West and The East, trucking towards Erie, Phish is only a breath or two away and we might not make it!
      I yearn for words to be formulated, calculus style, as a formation of thought an jargon into brief moments of genius, let these formations, much like the universe itself, still plague those trying to understand it's birth, it's construction, it's meaning. These words mumble from his mouth, at 75 miles per hour, drafting a Semi, down route 80, or 90…god knows where we are right now. Words like springingly; the delightful verbosity of the under achieved, and sleep deprived. Yakima; as in Ah, Yakima, (within it's use, the realization as the second word comes from the mouth, of it's inherent connection to the first!) These gifts brought forth by over indulgence, and under the influence of caffeine, and solely caffeine, are the gems of our trip, of this other wordily resurrection of understanding, that this country we live in, is sometimes more alien and foreign than countries we have never stepped foot in. Take for instance, Iowa. Little is known about Iowa; and I mean little in the sense that in my recollection of geography, of history, of topography and all the other graphy's that were bundled together into a nice little sixth grade ball of a class…mind you, taught by a teacher that you sort of like, and hope to get to know, only to realize that his disinterest is not just in the subject that he teaches, but in those he attempts to teach it to. Digression of sorts! Iowa, that's where we are, and now what I learn about Iowa is that they put up signs on the highways, just like other states, where there seems to be road work. The signs are diamond shaped, orange, held up by stands that seem to waft in the wind of the minivans, and other assorted vehicle-americana that pass: But, oh and this is one of those but's you place in the beginning of the sentence, capitalizing the first letter, and maybe all three letters for all to see; for all to think you are going to write BUTT, but don't: BUT in Iowa these signs pertain to a drug check. Yes, sir, yes ma'am, yes yes yes, a drug check. Now, I am sure we are far away from any borders, except that one going into Illinois, the one that now cannot come fast enough though I cannot speed, as State Trooper after State Trooper patrol the area, some scouting for possible victims, some with dogs, sniffing, growling, grunting, seizing the paraphernalia of a 2000 Dodge Grand Caravan, as kids and parents wait on the side of the road, with their mutt in tow, watching as another of it's kind, who has prospered and been put to real use, searches, sniffs, marks, seizes! Matthew's eyes are straight ahead. It's as if we are walking through a crowd of people, trying not to be too obvious about our billboard signs around our necks stating "We have drugs, whoo hoo!" But when you are driving in a 1999 Volkswagen Beetle, adorn with Thule Rack and Storage Bin, denoting each and every state, as well as band you travel the country yearly to see, like a dunce cap that once seemed such a singular monumental token of achievement, now just down right dimwitted and the eventual down fall of your existence, when you are in this portal to the penitentiary, this vehicle to your demise, this…wait did we just make it to Indiana…holy motherfucking shit was that a close call.
      Those motherfucking cops didn't even think to stop the walking billboard…our bearded protagonist amped on Sobe Adrenaline, leg bouncing heavily to the beat of some unknown music that seemed to be formulating, in tight staccato licks, somewhere between both his ears, this dreadlocked young lad, in shambles from a twenty hour jaunt with highways and byways, flirting with veers and curves of the road--from Montana, now into Illinois, only part way through what will be a record setting ground attack, just flirted with the first real brush, the stroke of heavy paint laden brush…but the only ones stopped were the minivans, relatively un-obscure, normalcy of Americana, scattering a family of five, their "not pure bread, and their gear (check, 1 family size tent, CHECK, 5 his-hers-kids-matching camping chairs, CHECK 4 kids sleeping bags, adorned with their favorite cartoon character, Dora, Diego, Dark Wing Duck, CHECK 1 double sized, cushioned and insulated adult camping back DualSleeper, CHECK 1 doggy kennel with false bottom hiding 1 kilo cocaine?!?!, CHECK 5 matching short cut straws with red stripe piping used to…) Matthew's hair is adorned in a less than fashionable dread-tie up, tendrils of loose hair standing straight on end, and occasionally, as the waft smell of smoke ceases, escaping as it floats toward the cracking window, smoke shutters in it's drifting cloud with the winds entry through the now-open window, and is pulled from the vacuum of the vehicles cabin, occasionally, sometimes we are treated to the faint smell and subtle nostril singe of dried, dying fetid hair, lost in the globule that is the dread. He watches the road as he reaches, somnambulist, sleep walker (these are his words, that Philosophy/English Major getting good use at least in his vocabulary) and grabs for another heater, that energy boost, Mario's Blinking Bouncing Star, leg shaker of a beverage. Side note: we have two coolers in the back seat; like passengers themselves, one stocked with a myriad of beverages, Sobe Adrenaline (akin to red bull, but the taste is welcomed), stocked too, with Beer from far away lands, land seeming almost foreign, even in their most down to earth, back country american ways; lands where subtitles would be of benefit to some of the slack jawed, hootenanny, hound dog, rock-a-billy-jargon being pushed past the gap of missing rotted teeth, with complimentary Our dreaded chauffeur's idea of careening the country lends itself poorly to those who want to get out and explore. IN marathon pace, we have had more liquid meals from the cockpit of this now claustrophobic, part home, part vehicle, part food truck, part camping accoutrement, part hospital bed, part smoking section! His hair is as hard to follow as my thoughts as I cling to one like the deep brown facial hair that adorns our protagonist. This cooler, hand now inserted and scrambling through what is left of ice, dirt laden water, comes across an empty energy drink, then, EUREKA, another 8 ounces of, quite possibly, Cancer Causing Agents! Matthew's eyes are not quite blood shot, as we approach a Weny's prying lot, they are glazed over, marbles distinct now with use and wear, that he needs glasses but does not where them should be of concern, but when in a situation like this (what situation you ask. On a cell phone hunkered down between the passenger seeting, in the cup holders filled to the brim with smoked cigarette butts, cause the mother fucker won't litter them (littering your lungs, think of that lately) the cell phone, turned to silent has missed calls from the passenger's father begging for us to stop at a hotel, paid for by his credit card, so we may be safe, may rest, may make it through to another day.) That parenthetical situation; with another parenthetical situation tucked neatly between the sheets of the first parenthetical situation. But let's get back to the beginning. I am now a breath away from Phish!

3.5 from 4 users


Popular posts from this blog

Aloha Friday Motivation | Fuji Edition| #21

Aloha Friday Motivation | Superstitious | POST:101323

Aloha Friday Motivation | Perspective | POST:090823