Thursday, June 25, 2009
When you drive into Montana from the west, you pass some trees then a center opens into a vastness and depth that can't be captured with a small, digital camera. Words like boundless and god come to mind. Words like blue and clean and reset. I've spent a great many years driving and working labor across the states, but I've never driven east through Montana in the daylight. For the first time in what has to be a decade I feel almost great.
Meg and Chico sit up and stare over the cliffs and valleys. I drive and sip my coffee, turn the music off and watch what's around me. The sky is blue and it fades into cobalt blue, and then it fades into a concave canvas. I reach over and rest a hand on Chico's head. He sniffs at the air coming in from the outside through the vent as Meg jumps to the floor. It occurs to me that I will be 39 this year. It occurs to me that I haven't been married or had children, or even been engaged. It occurs to me that I might just close the shop alone, which is fine. I mean, if the past is any reflection of the future, then I'm better off that way. I don't know how to put my finger on the pulse of what I want to do. I only know I want to write books and keep pushing, keep myself young and without the ugliness of being under any type of control.