From the little green notebook, pt 1

Mar 25, 2008

On weekends and weekdays we lose our minds to thoughts we had crushed mere months before for our own good. And I am lost within a forest of tall, pointed trees that all look the same and drip gobs of sap to the needle-covered floor below.

My hands don't move as fast as I want them to.

Folk music makes my blood pump faster, my skin feel tighter, and my eyes see clearer.

I am finally there, where I can see everything just as it should be. I know where I'm meant to go. My words mean something. They make sense this time. I'm meant to do this for the rest of my life. Everything else is just practice. Sunday is just practice. Almost there.

Cut to us.

We are in the the tiny car, me in the back, windows down halfway and air swirls around our heads. It's music with old guitars and young voices hardened by whiskey and packs upon packs of cigarettes. I can't help but lean my head back onto the rest to stare at the ceiling.

The trees above us are like shadow puppets shaped with fingers trying to grab at the moon, violent white and shining on the sky like a movie projector.