Long Rambling Journal For a Long Rambling Trip
The train makes its way slowly across the landscape. My mind was reeling, and images kept floating by the window. Images of other lives I'll never lead, more information that I can't know about. I'll spend the day in a slow state of half-sleep, wondering whether or not I'll be picked up on time. The train rolls by gas stations, and over behind broad warehouses, alongside interstate and behind more businesses, all locked and dark, their windowless backs facing the tracks and looking all the same. It's like splitting a person open and looking at the muscles and sinews below the skin, seeing how they really work, but not knowing them.
Another train passes, obscuring my view. Coal, coal, and box after box of unknowable substances. I keep watching and hoping for home, but instead I get industry, the kind that this area is famed for, and then parks, empty parking lots, office parks, and row after row of streetlights, little orange dots on the horizon, not illuminating anything at all. Just showing themselves off, like a metaphor I can't think of right now. Perhaps a simile, as well.
The lights become more distant, the billboards and signs hard to read. Does that say Industry? No, Catering. More trees intersperse themselves between the lights and the train, but some neon makes it the through. Half a Raddison sign, something far away that I can't read. Bryant something college. And then on to the DPW, heavy hauling, and the lights of a car that waits for us to pass. It will be nice to watch the world wake up, to babysit the sunrise. Just when I think we've left the cityscape behind for dark forests and dark trees, a little urbanity pops into vision, and we're back. Thought we were crossing a river, but just a flood of lights, up and beyond, and into the dark forest night. The trees are even darker silhouettes against the purple early sky.
Moving on to more orange lights, but indifferent constellations than before, keeping me interested. All that humanity, all those lives, all that concrete. I think part of growing up is admitting that you can't know everything, that you can't experience everything, and that you can only know what you’ve seen emerging along the path you've chosen.
Darker now, with bright halogen flood lamps lighting the night white, just for a second as we stream by, and off past more industry. We're hurtling east through darkness and fog, though that hardly matters to a train, into the rising sun, shortening the night, or so I'd hope to believe. Thinking of my wife, driving home for an hour, tired at 6 in the morning after no sleep after a hardcore road trip across the country. I worry, did she make it home, and I text her. If she doesn't text back, like if she's already warm and asleep on our inflatable mattress, I'll worry. Should I turn back? Should I call? How early is too early? My stomach is roiling, but I know that it's from lack of sleep, and not true hunger.
If the wife's hurt, do I turn around right away? Or do I keep going, stay out my week-long trip to see my parents that a separation as large as the US has kept me from seeing in over a year, since my wedding, rally. And my grandmother's going in for "tests," since her 90-year-old frame is showing signs of finally aging.
The train keeps moving, on toward Erie and Buffalo and points east. Are we slowing down? Will this be a stop or a crossroads? If the internet worked, I'd check our progress on a map somehow, triangulating the few signs that I can read onto Google maps. More muscle and sinew of the Body Amerik. More ugly little reminders of how civilization handles itself. And the trees, and the quiet motion of the train through the dark. Lights winking at me through the trees, a shed at a crossroads. I'm praying no one's stupid enough to get hit by this train. Not because I care about them. Never that. But because I don't want to be delayed by their stupidity.
This is going to be a long trip. 6 hours, which would seem quite long to just about anyone, but Kim and I just moved across the country, and sometimes stayed in the car for 13-15 hours or more. Watching the landscape roll by. The skin of the earth, not the muscles. This is a different kind of trip.
I could have driven, but my whole let, mostly my right knee, locks up on my, painful after only 1.5 hours, unbearable just after 2.5. You find these kinds of things out on a long car ride. The short rests we got didn't do enough to heal, so the intervals would sometimes get shorter. But the wife picked up the slack, driving longer and longer shifts, singing along to her music while I slept beside her, 20 minutes at a time before snoring myself awake.
At first she would not drive at night, and by the end it was difficult to get her to let me take a turn. "At first" refers to the first two days of the trip. Leaving Seattle and its wonderful weather behind and journeying across the Cascades, over the passes and around the lakes, down into the dry eastern half of Washington, where "Just Like Texas" would be a good slogan. No wonder this place is conservative. Since there's nothing out here to interact with, there's everything to be frightened of.
We stayed or first night just outside of Butte, Montana, just off I-90. It was a Motel 6, and nothing to scream about, but we got a good night's sleep. I had taken the time to lock the bikes up, putting U-locks on and chains to tie them more securely to the roof racks. This was the only time I bothered, because it was a pain in the ass and I'm not sure it would do any good. They didn't get stolen, and, removing them at the end of the journey, I discovered why it would was foolish to even worry. That shit was hard to do.
We're moving through the darkest parts right now, but we're rarely devoid entirely of light. Winks and flashes approach from the outside at intermittent intervals, but they're a welcome relieve from the ghost mirror image displayed on the window.
The second day, we needed to make it to Keystone, or thereabouts, for to witness Mt Rushmore in the early light of day. Finally leaving the highway and journeying through an area that had anti-meth posters in frames above the gas pumps, we made it as far as Custer, SD. That's one heluva long way. We stayed at the Rocket Inn, a throwback to an earlier time when a heated room was more of an option. We watched TV and hit the sack, and I slept poorly and had a terrible shower. They were nice people, though.
The third day, we stopped at a Christmas themed store near Mt. Rushmore and bought stuff to commemorate the trip. Then on to Mt Rushmore, by way of Crazy Horse. Then Wall Drug, Sioux Falls, Sioux City, Omaha (on the Iowa side), and on to about halfway through the state.
Stayed at an Ex-Comfort Inn, ownership so new that they hadn't even changed the name yet. It looked like the perfect room, with a huge bed and up-to-date facilities, and Stephen Colbert lulled us off to sleep on the TV. And then the fire alarm went off at 515 in the morning. Which was awful. And it was a false alarm, but frightening nonetheless. And then again after 7, and again while I was in the shower. I've been tired ever since.
Slept on the couch at the brother-in-law's place, then unpacked at the wife's parents' place. We made the extra room our own, and it gave a great sense of closure to the trip.
Now I'm on a train, moving east. I hope my mom remembers to pick me up at 1245.
Another train passes, obscuring my view. Coal, coal, and box after box of unknowable substances. I keep watching and hoping for home, but instead I get industry, the kind that this area is famed for, and then parks, empty parking lots, office parks, and row after row of streetlights, little orange dots on the horizon, not illuminating anything at all. Just showing themselves off, like a metaphor I can't think of right now. Perhaps a simile, as well.
The lights become more distant, the billboards and signs hard to read. Does that say Industry? No, Catering. More trees intersperse themselves between the lights and the train, but some neon makes it the through. Half a Raddison sign, something far away that I can't read. Bryant something college. And then on to the DPW, heavy hauling, and the lights of a car that waits for us to pass. It will be nice to watch the world wake up, to babysit the sunrise. Just when I think we've left the cityscape behind for dark forests and dark trees, a little urbanity pops into vision, and we're back. Thought we were crossing a river, but just a flood of lights, up and beyond, and into the dark forest night. The trees are even darker silhouettes against the purple early sky.
Moving on to more orange lights, but indifferent constellations than before, keeping me interested. All that humanity, all those lives, all that concrete. I think part of growing up is admitting that you can't know everything, that you can't experience everything, and that you can only know what you’ve seen emerging along the path you've chosen.
Darker now, with bright halogen flood lamps lighting the night white, just for a second as we stream by, and off past more industry. We're hurtling east through darkness and fog, though that hardly matters to a train, into the rising sun, shortening the night, or so I'd hope to believe. Thinking of my wife, driving home for an hour, tired at 6 in the morning after no sleep after a hardcore road trip across the country. I worry, did she make it home, and I text her. If she doesn't text back, like if she's already warm and asleep on our inflatable mattress, I'll worry. Should I turn back? Should I call? How early is too early? My stomach is roiling, but I know that it's from lack of sleep, and not true hunger.
If the wife's hurt, do I turn around right away? Or do I keep going, stay out my week-long trip to see my parents that a separation as large as the US has kept me from seeing in over a year, since my wedding, rally. And my grandmother's going in for "tests," since her 90-year-old frame is showing signs of finally aging.
The train keeps moving, on toward Erie and Buffalo and points east. Are we slowing down? Will this be a stop or a crossroads? If the internet worked, I'd check our progress on a map somehow, triangulating the few signs that I can read onto Google maps. More muscle and sinew of the Body Amerik. More ugly little reminders of how civilization handles itself. And the trees, and the quiet motion of the train through the dark. Lights winking at me through the trees, a shed at a crossroads. I'm praying no one's stupid enough to get hit by this train. Not because I care about them. Never that. But because I don't want to be delayed by their stupidity.
This is going to be a long trip. 6 hours, which would seem quite long to just about anyone, but Kim and I just moved across the country, and sometimes stayed in the car for 13-15 hours or more. Watching the landscape roll by. The skin of the earth, not the muscles. This is a different kind of trip.
I could have driven, but my whole let, mostly my right knee, locks up on my, painful after only 1.5 hours, unbearable just after 2.5. You find these kinds of things out on a long car ride. The short rests we got didn't do enough to heal, so the intervals would sometimes get shorter. But the wife picked up the slack, driving longer and longer shifts, singing along to her music while I slept beside her, 20 minutes at a time before snoring myself awake.
At first she would not drive at night, and by the end it was difficult to get her to let me take a turn. "At first" refers to the first two days of the trip. Leaving Seattle and its wonderful weather behind and journeying across the Cascades, over the passes and around the lakes, down into the dry eastern half of Washington, where "Just Like Texas" would be a good slogan. No wonder this place is conservative. Since there's nothing out here to interact with, there's everything to be frightened of.
We stayed or first night just outside of Butte, Montana, just off I-90. It was a Motel 6, and nothing to scream about, but we got a good night's sleep. I had taken the time to lock the bikes up, putting U-locks on and chains to tie them more securely to the roof racks. This was the only time I bothered, because it was a pain in the ass and I'm not sure it would do any good. They didn't get stolen, and, removing them at the end of the journey, I discovered why it would was foolish to even worry. That shit was hard to do.
We're moving through the darkest parts right now, but we're rarely devoid entirely of light. Winks and flashes approach from the outside at intermittent intervals, but they're a welcome relieve from the ghost mirror image displayed on the window.
The second day, we needed to make it to Keystone, or thereabouts, for to witness Mt Rushmore in the early light of day. Finally leaving the highway and journeying through an area that had anti-meth posters in frames above the gas pumps, we made it as far as Custer, SD. That's one heluva long way. We stayed at the Rocket Inn, a throwback to an earlier time when a heated room was more of an option. We watched TV and hit the sack, and I slept poorly and had a terrible shower. They were nice people, though.
The third day, we stopped at a Christmas themed store near Mt. Rushmore and bought stuff to commemorate the trip. Then on to Mt Rushmore, by way of Crazy Horse. Then Wall Drug, Sioux Falls, Sioux City, Omaha (on the Iowa side), and on to about halfway through the state.
Stayed at an Ex-Comfort Inn, ownership so new that they hadn't even changed the name yet. It looked like the perfect room, with a huge bed and up-to-date facilities, and Stephen Colbert lulled us off to sleep on the TV. And then the fire alarm went off at 515 in the morning. Which was awful. And it was a false alarm, but frightening nonetheless. And then again after 7, and again while I was in the shower. I've been tired ever since.
Slept on the couch at the brother-in-law's place, then unpacked at the wife's parents' place. We made the extra room our own, and it gave a great sense of closure to the trip.
Now I'm on a train, moving east. I hope my mom remembers to pick me up at 1245.