Open Boxcars

With a curl of his wrist as he pours the steamed milk, a foam heart falls onto my latte.  Descending from the desert, I pass through northern Texas and continue east, through the cold, shadowed streets of Oklahoma City, into the open windswept plains of the Wichita Mountains Wildlife Refuge.  Herds of wild bison wander through the meadows, half concealed by the amber grasses.  South through Texas, into the lonely farmland, avoiding the cities for a reason unknown to me, once again on the fringes of society, lonely and embracing the loneliness as I drive past long trains with open boxcars.  In a café, a stranger recognizes me as a traveler and buys my coffee.  I finally surrender to the gravity exerted on me by Austin, and Melissa welcomes me into her home.  Sleeping in the dust and under the stars, they are the same no matter where I go, and then suddenly I have a bed to sleep in, a glass of red wine in my hand, and we cook a dinner that we invent.  The next morning, after Hilary takes me to the park to read in the sunshine, I find home in a café with Bon Iver in my ears and this wrist-curled heart in my latte.  But I don’t know what to work on today, I don’t know what to write, because this notebook is almost filled, but this period of life is not almost finished, too much to fit into these few remaining pages.  Maybe I should start writing smaller, or maybe I could abbreviate words, I could eliminate vowels—sometimes one needs to write without vowels, or, I could turn this journal over and write on the back of every page, so that it would become like a circle, you could start reading anywhere and if you kept going long enough, you would end up back where you began.  But I don’t want to arrive back where I was when I began this notebook, I don’t want to arrive back in November, back in ‘maybe I should just put all my stuff in my car and start driving but I don’t know why,’ and anyway the pages are too thin, the pen would bleed right through, it would make it impossible to distinguish the front side from the back, the new words from the old, maybe I should use a red pen to write over this blue and black, and just write on top of the old words, to read it you would choose one color to see at a time, or I could write in the blank spaces, if you think about it, most of this filled notebook is still blank.  The margins, I have left those spaces empty in deference to calligraphic custom, or something, I never considered the words they might hold, never thought they would want this emotion-smeared ink within their borders, there is also the top of each page and the bottom, spaces typically reserved for titular or enumerative purpose I suppose, but I could use that space, what about the white between the words?  There really is space everywhere, I could go back and forth through this notebook with all different color pens until no blank space remains at all, the notebook would be heavier, each page soaked in ink, dripping wherever I carry it, leaving a trail of words behind me as I walk, another way I could find my way back, or maybe a way for you to find me here.  Day bleeds into evening, ten thousand miles away the sun is rising, I have a latte heart in my stomach.

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One Response to Open Boxcars

  1. drea says:

    stream consciousness writing = liberating

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