The road burns fast! We made it out of Atlanta without a hitch, slightly behind schedule but yearning for the vastness of America. Asheville was, as usual, rife with twangy goodness and rich beer. Our host was a beautifully enthusiastic soul who danced with Marie and I, effortlessly, to Girl from Ipanema – on vinyl, no less! We twisted with the night.
The Blue Ridge Parkway loomed before us – jagged and ancient and endless mountains – they oxygenated us. We made a bedroom of the Milky Way Galaxy and were serenaded by the wild. In the morning, we baptized ourselves in mountain streams and bathed in the lakes that fed them.
The mountains became sparse – boiling hills interrupted by dilapidated farmhouses from the times before rust reigned. We found a pristine and empty church in the middle of a field where we danced atop bales of sepia hay.
Then we found Roanoke, a quiet town that held within it the life of a sad man. Within this sad man there was a happy dog (with a penchant for shredding doormats) and a glowing memory of the time he jumped from an airplane.
We drove through the weathered glory of south Baltimore before we got to the marble part, wherein we found a million arabesque brushstrokes of ancient fables. We drove south to my Aunt and Uncle’s house for the night, and I slept on the couch that was inherited from my grandparent’s apartment. I remember falling in love with the couch as a child, but it was out of place without the nostalgic musk of Wisconsin.
We came back to Baltimore tonight to drop off Arnaud and revelled in upturned bottles and rooftop opera in a house with a spiral staircase.
Five days worth of poetry are making their way up my spine.