I climb these narrow stairs to the top of the floor. Where the small cavern I call home opens up into the vast boulevards I see written in the dirt and grime.
Making my way down South in three days and I've packed the smallest things. New York is harsh. This air that hurts my lungs in the winter is tamed. I've made it my own inside my body and I trap it to feel alive. I trap it to feel the ice melt, to feel the continent's strength build up inside my flesh tissue.
It expands when the warmth comes in and I grow with it. So, it hurts.
Jocey (Notebook, 1965)
The smallest blonde canters in a rhythm towards our fast-moving car as we leave Wolf Trap. She waves a ballerina good-bye and disappears in a twirl of yellow swish alongside the heather.
Daddy says we're going Northeast now all along the coast. We will hit Washington, Baltimore, Philly, and the great twinkly one. New York City.
Adam
I will go south along the eastern coast to see some family in New England. To give me strength.
I have never been South of Edison, New Jersey and I anticipate the fields strewn with gold the heather the heaviness of the oppressive skies that sink you to the bottom of the earth and give you the generosity of perspective to sweep you up in one round move again. The breadth of the globe being on your side, coaxing you up from the warmth warmth warmth into glacial skies of blue that feel different than anything else felt at home. That feel alien and unforgiving yet understanding of the plight, understanding of the effort and steady.
Jocey (Notebook, 1965)
I stumble out of the car and touch Baltimore. Locust Point. Some industrial port neighbourhood wet with fury and uncomfortable with its gloominess. I don't remember if we are meant to stay here for the night or if we will get into Baltimore proper. Daddy holds mama close. He kisses her face over and over. I remember holding Bobby in the pool a few months ago but it all feels so far away. So much land and so much heather. We get into a motel for the night. Mama in a nightie. Daddy smoking on the porch. I want to smoke one with him, ask him the big questions and pretend I can wrap my mind around this move or why we've left the Sun blazin' in New Mexico. I don't. I tell Daddy how much I love it here and how big my room in Vermont is gonna be. I ask him about the big ships that are coming in. It's dusk and there is almost no point of contact except the heavy skies that don't change character. That have remained the same since Albuquerque. The same steel and strength in the sky that is expanding in my lungs now. This freeing fear.
Adam
I stumble out of the train and touch Baltimore. Locust Point. It's meant to be part industry part gloom. I don't want to stay the night here as I need to get into town where my cousin George resides. I close my eyes and I'm holding Ada close. She's with me. Ada in the shade. Reading a book. Sleepy. I want to smoke one but ain't got any. What is this longing? What is this love? Where are we? We are all on the same fixed point in the sky. The dusk disperses the clouds and shows me a crystal Coca twinkling Cola canvas. God it's heavy.
I see England. No. I don't. I see New England. The skies opening up but not enough to disperse the individualities of the face that keeps me up at night.
I seek anonymity in the desert. A heavy sky that drips heated disdain into a hellish carpet of sand. I won't rest until I'm mixed with the rocks and the dead aztecs. Won't rest at all.
I don't want to be man.
I want to be land.
I want to match the sky's armoured shield with a foreign, unwelcoming terrain.
Ruin this, I yell.
Because I know it's ruined already.
And, ruined, it stands true and strong to match the sky half-way.
Making my way down South in three days and I've packed the smallest things. New York is harsh. This air that hurts my lungs in the winter is tamed. I've made it my own inside my body and I trap it to feel alive. I trap it to feel the ice melt, to feel the continent's strength build up inside my flesh tissue.
It expands when the warmth comes in and I grow with it. So, it hurts.
Jocey (Notebook, 1965)
The smallest blonde canters in a rhythm towards our fast-moving car as we leave Wolf Trap. She waves a ballerina good-bye and disappears in a twirl of yellow swish alongside the heather.
Daddy says we're going Northeast now all along the coast. We will hit Washington, Baltimore, Philly, and the great twinkly one. New York City.
Adam
I will go south along the eastern coast to see some family in New England. To give me strength.
I have never been South of Edison, New Jersey and I anticipate the fields strewn with gold the heather the heaviness of the oppressive skies that sink you to the bottom of the earth and give you the generosity of perspective to sweep you up in one round move again. The breadth of the globe being on your side, coaxing you up from the warmth warmth warmth into glacial skies of blue that feel different than anything else felt at home. That feel alien and unforgiving yet understanding of the plight, understanding of the effort and steady.
Jocey (Notebook, 1965)
I stumble out of the car and touch Baltimore. Locust Point. Some industrial port neighbourhood wet with fury and uncomfortable with its gloominess. I don't remember if we are meant to stay here for the night or if we will get into Baltimore proper. Daddy holds mama close. He kisses her face over and over. I remember holding Bobby in the pool a few months ago but it all feels so far away. So much land and so much heather. We get into a motel for the night. Mama in a nightie. Daddy smoking on the porch. I want to smoke one with him, ask him the big questions and pretend I can wrap my mind around this move or why we've left the Sun blazin' in New Mexico. I don't. I tell Daddy how much I love it here and how big my room in Vermont is gonna be. I ask him about the big ships that are coming in. It's dusk and there is almost no point of contact except the heavy skies that don't change character. That have remained the same since Albuquerque. The same steel and strength in the sky that is expanding in my lungs now. This freeing fear.
Adam
I stumble out of the train and touch Baltimore. Locust Point. It's meant to be part industry part gloom. I don't want to stay the night here as I need to get into town where my cousin George resides. I close my eyes and I'm holding Ada close. She's with me. Ada in the shade. Reading a book. Sleepy. I want to smoke one but ain't got any. What is this longing? What is this love? Where are we? We are all on the same fixed point in the sky. The dusk disperses the clouds and shows me a crystal Coca twinkling Cola canvas. God it's heavy.
I see England. No. I don't. I see New England. The skies opening up but not enough to disperse the individualities of the face that keeps me up at night.
I seek anonymity in the desert. A heavy sky that drips heated disdain into a hellish carpet of sand. I won't rest until I'm mixed with the rocks and the dead aztecs. Won't rest at all.
I don't want to be man.
I want to be land.
I want to match the sky's armoured shield with a foreign, unwelcoming terrain.
Ruin this, I yell.
Because I know it's ruined already.
And, ruined, it stands true and strong to match the sky half-way.
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