What was this park, anyway?
We stumbled upon this place a little earlier than we expected to, calling a six hour day rather than a seven hour day, on our way from Iowa City to Florence, AL. Here we had our first taste of the south’s humidity and the cacophony of night critters.
Taken on Film in downtown Mansfield, IL during a pit stop on our drive from Missoula, MT to Iowa City (and we didn’t stop there).
The ladies across the street said we looked like we were enjoying ourselves and just needed a fat blunt, and she’d let us know when they rolled one.
Day 8 on the road: Sam Parr State Park in southern Illinois to Nashville to see Jordan and Katy.
Pork loin sandwich at Sutliff, pretty milk cows and new farmerly friends. Today we begin our own adventure! On, to Tennessee.
Matt and I left on a seven week road trip two days ago. We stayed at his mom’s in Billings the first night, and camped in Wyoming.
“Kerouac was a writer, in that, he wrote.” – GInsy
It’s pretty hilarious how stereotypical your writing can become when enrolled in a “Literature of the Beat Generation” class. Yes, Kerouac is an archetype now, and Ginsberg is almost hilariously over-hip. These guys, they changed things. But how can we see that now that those things have been changed? During class, I write bad poetry. Outside of class, I write bad poetry. Poetry is one of those things you can be good at or bad at and sometimes it’s impossible to see which, but either way, it can be fun to do. So who’s to judge?
Small secret notebooks
worn smooth / stained
with beer, smelling
of smoke / bits
of umber tobacky
cling in the binding –
I’m afraid of everything,
hot heart left behind
by your mind altering God,
canvasses dripping ink
on rented carpet,
mirror shards slice her hard
sweaty palms.
Where was I?
Crying in the basement
of an ice cream shoppe,
forming crystalline structured
walls against
his world.
A concrete box to stay in,
anxiety to strike, footfalls
on wet cement following boys
who want to fuck my friends.
Is it because of my concrete rules,
my rejection of your pillpopping trends,
of the tea you brew
giddy in cracked cups?
Yes, it is a Saturday night, and yes I am doing homework. But today Syd and I escaped Missoula to soak in the Jerry Johnson hot springs, and it is very fitting that I should be reading poems about women experiencing nature tonight.
Or is there not
A tongue in every star, that talks with man,
And woos him to be wise? Nor woos in vain:
This dead of midnight is the moon of thought,
and Wisdom mounts her zenith with the stars.
“A Summer Evenings Meditation” by Anna Barbauld, 1773
Hot springs, friends. Peace on the night of a game day in Missoula. Learning stuff. Each thing is more unlikely than the last.
Is this real life? 