YOU WALK DOWN ALAMEDA SHUFFLING YOUR DECK OF TRICK CARDS
I'm in that fragmented state of mind that you find yourself in when you're about to leave on a road trip. You know you should do some of your work, or just get some good sleep, but there's nothing further from your mind. You try on clothes and pack things, listen to road trip albums you haven't dusted off since seventh grade, and plan your life as a soon-to-be rootless liver. I spend a lot of time thinking about truck stop sunglasses, the glowing, industrial areas outside of suburbs, and the parade of country stations between here and there. There's always a moment when a trip becomes itself, stops being planned and starts being something else, something with a concrete memory of itself. I believe that you become a different person about halfway there. On my last trip to New York with my parents during the August heat wave, the moment came while we were on I-68 in Maryland, driving though the hazy mountains around nine in the morning, and I got in an argument with my dad about how to get to the next town. We ended up driving through so many back roads that eventually the road just stopped in front of a house with a huge barn and lots of chickens. I insolently snapped my gum and felt a little better. I listened to Trompe Le Monde and rocked my ass out. Hopefully this will be like that.
I'm in that fragmented state of mind that you find yourself in when you're about to leave on a road trip. You know you should do some of your work, or just get some good sleep, but there's nothing further from your mind. You try on clothes and pack things, listen to road trip albums you haven't dusted off since seventh grade, and plan your life as a soon-to-be rootless liver. I spend a lot of time thinking about truck stop sunglasses, the glowing, industrial areas outside of suburbs, and the parade of country stations between here and there. There's always a moment when a trip becomes itself, stops being planned and starts being something else, something with a concrete memory of itself. I believe that you become a different person about halfway there. On my last trip to New York with my parents during the August heat wave, the moment came while we were on I-68 in Maryland, driving though the hazy mountains around nine in the morning, and I got in an argument with my dad about how to get to the next town. We ended up driving through so many back roads that eventually the road just stopped in front of a house with a huge barn and lots of chickens. I insolently snapped my gum and felt a little better. I listened to Trompe Le Monde and rocked my ass out. Hopefully this will be like that.
