Loganthinks

Moving out from the Womb of LA. Pragmatism. Coming off the drugs.

Time takes longer, on the roads, in the large slow skies. Little towns bleach in the heat, and brick and mortar bones sink awkwardly in the dirt along the roadside. The sun has been cooking the country for weeks. We get baked in the afternoons and blown off the road at nightfall. Missed a picture of a funnel cloud, but caught a lightning strike. The wet brown earth and the silent shaded curtain of rain that tiptoes across the landscape. We both take pictures from the mesa. She fights with me during the day and wanders outside herself in the dark, painted in dashboard green at the tips of her lips and in the glassy wetness of her eyes. We catch southern Colorado at sundown. The night comes on with loud black rain crackling the windshield and we listen to Watership Down turned all the way up through steep passes and sharp turns that bend away into nothing. The next day the earth recedes to a grassy ocean floor and we blink past rust stains on a green landscape of corn. We are in Iowa. Continents of clouds and holy light. A white roof winks at us. We drift faster in our tiny red lifeboat.

When the rabbits cross the river, they see a fish eat an insect from the surface of the water, and one says, “so it’s this way everywhere”.

On the last night, in the hot asphalt breeze, the view from our Motel 6 is an overpass and a truck lot. Heat lightning, and wind in the grass. Everything from here on out is the wilderness.