Sometimes it would just flow and flow, as the day’s light faded and his destination edged nearer. He’d see himself flying a jet, being an explorer, winning the day, gaining revenge, getting into a fistfight. Sometimes it would coalesce into a narrative. In his mind, all of these questions and thoughts would mix with what was already sloshing around-the movies he’d seen, the stuff he liked to read about space exploration. Some figures standing outside: What were they doing? A plane up in the clear sky: All those people, where were they going and what were they thinking? The couple in that car as the Greyhound passed, the guy by himself in the truck, that station wagon loaded up with kids in the back, that locomotive on the train tracks … A house would flash by he’d imagine who lived in it. He’d see a barn, wonder what was on the other side. He’d watch the broken sine wave of the telephone lines, looping on and on and on for miles, then veering away, then rejoining the bus’s path. Sometimes he read a little, maybe a comic, maybe a book, but mostly he’d stare out into the passing world. Those journeys, they released something within him.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |