Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Notes From Driving With Sara In Colorado
Woah, look at that view, the mountains eat the space, we’re in a freaking cloud, man oh man. If God were real, I’d be staring him in the face. You are real, pushing the gas pedal then letting up, then down again—climb, coast, climb, coast, curve, curve, curve. Still, the river is here beside us. Shhh, I think it’s trying to tell us something. I’ve never been this far west. You’ve had sand from both beaches sneak into the creases of your bathing suit, into the ducts of your eyes. Winds rolling off both oceans have shivered you into a jacket of goosebumps. Want me to tell you more about my friends’ bands playing punk songs in some guys living room? Want me to read you another poem that we’ll get rejected by a cool magazine? Roll down the window. Let’s listen to THE WEST. Wire fences hang over the rock at the road’s edge, keeping the rocks from tumbling into this rental car. Did we get the insurance? Thank you, fence. But wait, let them fall, swerve around them, like a game, collect them, like free souvenirs. You promise, we’ll get there soon. Six and a half hours and we’ll be looking at Utah’s stars. When I told my friends about this trip, I got six jokes about getting another wife. I don’t get it. I was hoping to see that Great Salt Lake and walk on water, like a summer Messiah. I was hoping to get a workout with the Utah Jazz. Did I tell you how Elysia is wanting to move to New Orleans? I knew this was coming, but I’m not ready to lose another friend. She likes the music, the tattoos, the circus sidewalks. Look, still the river, brown, like mud. You ask if there are fish in there. I’ve heard of the mudfish, maybe that. I stopped counting the trees at 1111334455 and the wildlife at 0. The speed limit around the Rocky Mountains is 75. In Indiana, the highway between my grandpa’s two cornfields is max 55. You looked at my face today like I was really old. Sometimes I feel that way. I thought I just saw rainclouds coming, but no it was more mountains, blue with distance. We’ve drank like 31 bottles of water, empties dumped in rusty cans at rest stops. I hate that part of traveling. I like sitting next to you, your breath a low murmur, like the purr of our old cat, like the purr of this new car. Did I mention how nice it is that your parents paid for this trip? In Kansas, we saw a field of sunflowers, the entire window full. I snapped a quick picture and texted it to Sadie. She didn’t respond. I remember before we left that her single sunflower had snapped under the weight of its own head. Hmmmm. I texted my mom to tell her how much my dad would love this part of the country. She said that he was throwing up in the toilet. I-70 is a long road, like it could be the title for a really long book or something. I’m thinking about the bookstore in Denver, how I want to relax tonight and read a book, how words are magic. A man is sitting in the boat being pulled by a truck. Who is driving? He just can’t wait. This country can’t wait to unfold, curve. Between mountains are cities. I just want to stand on top of a mountain, look down and see another mountain.
Posted by Tyler Gobble at 8:24 AM