“I know, I know, I know! Look, you buy the wood when you have the money & before it’s sold out, right? So I did. And I’m not scared of a wood pile. But these two are stuck betwixt and between, as my closing date keeps getting moved. Am I living here? Am I living there? No matter. I’m not going to feed fear into uncertainty. Flying down Route 107 for the umpteenth time, the glittering of every molecule of river bank, boulder, water, and weather flood my state of consciousness, along with eclipse data, then the solstice itself. The information overload of what is real, as opposed to the manufactured consent of screens, comes as beacon, talisman and cohort. I invite every moment of it, making a last minute decision to take a side road, to get a better look at a smaller side road, that someday, I hope to climb on foot. Having looked at maps, and gleaned a blurry shot off realtor listings, then drifted over using Google Earth for an unsatisfying landing into the one, spare field at high elevation, I’m wistful and longing as I catch a glimpse of the nearly hidden sign: “Larmie Rd.”. These fantasies of utopian property come on the heels of how many obsessive affairs, where we projected our dreams onto straw men. And as realities split, and we are coached to live in parallel with those once trusted & turned to, we, the unseen, push the accelerator pedal down, to get out. Anchored by a travel mug, sustained by every seasonal bump & mountain condition, our land rolls with us. The traces of recent snow still glistening in strips on the asphalt, unmelted under the north facing slopes, turning fluid, sometimes icy on the southern exposures, each ski area, town library, lumber yard, boarded up store front and fallen fence line races in my pulse, as I pass through rapid fire responses: of joy, grief, elation, & questioning: why not this place, why not these roots, why not this panorama of beautiful views, this righteous life of simple rural living and selfless service? Slowing down to 30 mph going into Rochester VT, with my window cracked I can smell the cooking from Sandy’s Bakery, and my memories of playing shows there among the cafe’s cramped tables and bookshelves, almost hurt. Past the bike shop where I bought my son a bike, followed by the curves where Hurricane Irene created an island around the village, not but a stone’s throw from a long ago garden party, and the festooned holiday gazebo that no longer hosts revelers - this is all part of my ritual unbelonging - as is the lonely stretch going northward into the next powdery, conifer wilderness, past familiar names of roads heading towards endings to be avoided, & my tire studs grip the cracking, heaving tarmac, taking flight, rising above the great green frozen river, until thrown convulsing onto a gap; engine smoking, half way in, half way out, I’m merely driving whatever it is that’s unfolding, to keep up with what’s slipping away.”
