“It wasn’t a great day to drive east west, or in other words, perpendicular to the mountains, with the wind gusts, the flood waters, & the fog. Except maybe you’d say that as soon as you drove into anything, there you were, driving out of it. And after the dried up creek beds last summer, it was a rush to see the water take control, just short of out of control. Village streets drenched in low hanging clouds, the white clapboard of churches & town offices almost disappearing. Could be any century, on a day like today. Wet cattle in the field standing in muck, looking up as a car goes by. Yellow squares of barn light, small & cold. Then more valley, stretches of it weighted with some kind of portent. Add that to Christmas, & it stirs up all the questions again. Which is why I like to move, rev the engine, test the gear ratio. I’m not going to stop long enough to get bogged down, just long enough to let assholes pass. Taking a left at the old hotel, I feel sorry it’s turned off its neon, but the ugly “Central Vermont Gas” sign is just up the road. The dark marble yard surrounded by piles, the somber summer camp looking undesirable: friendly sights I look forward to, anticipating change & decay. Whose lights are on in the 2nd floor apt. over the “Good Food” placard? Why are there so many people I will never know? Doing all the things that I would do, in houses not unlike mine. Why any of us gets left out or abandoned, truly makes no sense. On any night, I guarantee, whole armies of lonely people are sitting home, and if only we could pick us up and take us to each other. To cook or sing or hug or just listen, & repair what’s broken. I would like to stop and find a book, and buy a muffin. And maybe if I keep driving, the stores will open again, and the shops will let me in. But for those who think the answer is more closeness, we will have to wait. And while people tailor their speech and conform to restricted norms, the mysteries of the land thunder into me, speaking louder and louder by the day. Drawn by Texas Falls on Christmas, to the waters of life where turbulence is proof of citizenship, where there is no play acting at danger just decidedly lethal depth; here I make my way, crossing slush & ice to lean hard against rotted fence rails for a shot of the rapids, breathless, respectful of everything gone rogue; confident, at last, of our mutual divinity.”
