Thursday, August 11, 2016

August 11: Charleston

The memory is apropos of nothing, but nevertheless it envelops me, shakes me, is gone: a cloud in an airplane's path.

I'm in downtown Charleston West Virginia, afire with adrenaline, the only guest in a rattling, musty B&B.  Within the year, it will close,  its owners tired of of the work.  It's 6:00 PM, late July, and the sky plays its hand: light, light light.   I've levered myself out of the car, every muscle seizing.  I have driven alone for hours and hours on the Interstate, a thing that was, to me, a ribbon of fear.  I have left my home state behind, for good.

My car is full of my things.  At that time, they seem to me to pin me down.  I have burdens, responsibilities, promises, a cheese grater and a printer.  I need to find dinner somewhere in this lazy maze of river-bound streets, and I need to bring in my instruments from the car -but for a moment I lie flat on the bed and stare at the sky.  I am light, light, light, though I do not know it.    

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