Blogs of our Lives

I'm on I-90 West cleaning my ears out. You'd be surprised what you find time to do on a 5-hour drive home. I seriously think the music just got louder too. I'm de-waxing at about 74. I probably deserve a ticket, but it'd be really great not to since already this week I've got 2 parking tickets and 2 relationship offenses under my belt...and it's only Thursday. I'm sitting (as I have been for the past 3 hours) with my book in my lap hoping I'll be able to read this scribble scratch later since my eyes are mostly still on the road. I'm listening to the "A Fire So Big The Heavens Can See It" Search the City album for the 3rd time this trip (I love it!) and watching my mental picture of them performing these songs. There's all this to do, plus text Zachary and Matty B., continue changing lanes so I don't have to interrupt the cruise control, AND look out for cops. I don't care what you say, Timmy, I cannot honestly profess to be a safe driver. I'm also monitoring the roadkill output to determine my trip summary. I just saw an obliterated bunny so my mile marking is decently in favor of my upstate home. Silos and gray skies stake out the distance as well. Then there's these guys who keep speeding up and slowing down just to give me a wink. I think Nicky C. would be disappointed in the abuse they're showing their fuel injection, and I give them the same look I give Mike when I want him to know I am completely unamused by his behavior.
I've seen 4 trains in passing today. When I was little, I decided I wanted to be in charge of my own luck and so declared that seeing a train was good luck. Something about their unbreached movement captivated me. I never knew where they were headed, but I wanted to go too. Today I wonder if seeing a stagnant train is something of different luck. I wonder if the 2 have separate meanings. I guess, though, that's up to me to decide.
4th time listening. This time through is for thinking about all the times past that I've had this album playing: on the streetlighted Front St. coming back from Rob's, divulging with Kevin parked in that parking lot, singing that one perfect song that I swear was premeditated for Cantatore confusion. And ripping at tendons in a dark dance studio because it hurt less than the ripping in my chest. It's funny how an album can be your best friend. It's funny how sometimes you can't be your own.
Nicky mentioned last night that he didn't understand why I didn't just sell Helena and get a sick Mustang. I gave him a blank look, not wanting to waste an eye roll on that comment. I realized that Nicky and I have our cars for different reasons. Mine is to take me places, to get me the hell out of where ever I've gotten myself into. Helena is my get-away car; my Batmobile. Nicky's car is to keep him grounded, to hold him to a place he doesn't want to grow away from. The Cobra is a homebase; Nicky's secret lair.
Today on the GW Bridge I got sliced between a terrifying big cement barrier and a speed racing Mack truck. I thought for a second that I should be cautious, afraid. But then I realized that I wasn't scared in the least. I was the one driving my car. I had control of my situation. I feel a lot of people I've been holding company with are scared of an impending ultimatum like this; either jump into the speeding powerhouse lane or smash nose-first into a halting wall. What we're forgetting is the control we have. We're all driving cars over this bridge into unknown territory, but we each say how fast and how straight in which lane. Just buckle up, we can do this.
I saw my first tractor in a month and my heart takes a relieving sigh. I let out all the breaths I've been holding and let my eyes melt into the bleak horizon goodness. I get off my Westmoreland exit and begin to recite the tour I've practiced in case I ever do get one of those band boys up in my neck of the woods. "There's the dirt track I spent every summer Sunday at and here's the field that knows the bottoms of my feet better than I do." Then I catch glimpse of a big white van and feel excited butterflies though my head knows there's no touring bands up here, and I am reassured that somehow I belong in both places. If I clean my ears out, I can hear both voices of reason.


...Ricky.
"In This Scene You're Just An Extra" by: Search the City