All great truths begin as blasphemies.
George Bernard Shaw
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There is nothing to read here. The content is over there, to your right.
I may, however, at some point, put something here. Some day. Eventually. No pressure.
roadside attraction
I have a folder on my computer simply titled "Text". It's where I toss words I like or phrases that appeal to me. Sometimes full sentences or even a paragraph or two will get thrown in there. This one started as a written journal entry a few months ago, part of so many others that are based on memories brought back by music. I couldn't finish it with pen and the keyboard hasn't carried me any further. The song for this one is Terence Trent D'Arby's "Wishing Well".. which, with what I've written so far probably doesn't seem to mesh well. Let me just add that I was 16, crazy about the guy I was with, ready to dance and get naked in the rain. As I've said before, backseat of a car at that age - so cliche. At any rate, it's unfinished and I'm tired of staring at it in the folder. So this is where it gets put for now.
(I still get the urge to dance when I hear this song)
Those roadside turnouts will always be my downfall.
Do you remember?
It was so hot. So hot. We weren't even speaking at that point, having frayed our last nerves arguing over the radio. Flushed, sweating, angered. No air conditioning. You were pointedly not looking at me, using the excuse of eyeing the slowly rising engine temperature gauge to avoid my scowl. I made a show of drinking the last of our water and tossing the empty bottle into the cluttered backseat. At least another two hours before the next truck stop and any coolant for either you or the car.
You saw it first.
The thunderhead rolling towards us, deep swollen black. Maybe it was the thought of relief at last that made you say it.
"So heavy, dark. Looks to rain ink, not water."
Impending respite from the heat soothed me enough to appreciate the poetic imagery of your words. "So long as it's wet and cool, the sky can write whatever it wants on me."
You smiled a bit at that. Caught me glancing so you threw in a wink, too. "Promise?"
I had no idea what you meant. Shrug. "Why not?"
Oh how it poured. So hard that for the first few minutes, we could see small puffs of dust being pelted off the road. Mother Nature beating the dirt out of her rug with a great grey broom. Steam off the car hood, a low-lying mist we created and drove through.
Then it started. Drops became sheets. The windshield wipers couldn't keep up and you were forced to slow down. Crawling.
Roadside Turnout 1km
Lightning.
one onethousand two onethous-
Thunder. A gunshot reverberation that surrounded the car. So loud.
You inched us along onto the turnout, relaxed once you had us in park. "We'll wait out the-"
Lightning.
One onethousand two one-
Thunder everywhere.
"-worst of it here."
(I still get the urge to dance when I hear this song)
Those roadside turnouts will always be my downfall.
Do you remember?
It was so hot. So hot. We weren't even speaking at that point, having frayed our last nerves arguing over the radio. Flushed, sweating, angered. No air conditioning. You were pointedly not looking at me, using the excuse of eyeing the slowly rising engine temperature gauge to avoid my scowl. I made a show of drinking the last of our water and tossing the empty bottle into the cluttered backseat. At least another two hours before the next truck stop and any coolant for either you or the car.
You saw it first.
The thunderhead rolling towards us, deep swollen black. Maybe it was the thought of relief at last that made you say it.
"So heavy, dark. Looks to rain ink, not water."
Impending respite from the heat soothed me enough to appreciate the poetic imagery of your words. "So long as it's wet and cool, the sky can write whatever it wants on me."
You smiled a bit at that. Caught me glancing so you threw in a wink, too. "Promise?"
I had no idea what you meant. Shrug. "Why not?"
Oh how it poured. So hard that for the first few minutes, we could see small puffs of dust being pelted off the road. Mother Nature beating the dirt out of her rug with a great grey broom. Steam off the car hood, a low-lying mist we created and drove through.
Then it started. Drops became sheets. The windshield wipers couldn't keep up and you were forced to slow down. Crawling.
Roadside Turnout 1km
Lightning.
one onethousand two onethous-
Thunder. A gunshot reverberation that surrounded the car. So loud.
You inched us along onto the turnout, relaxed once you had us in park. "We'll wait out the-"
Lightning.
One onethousand two one-
Thunder everywhere.
"-worst of it here."
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