Marc
The Air and Everything
It almost never fails. Everytime I go home for an hour or two it always seems to be bright and sunny, with spotted cumulonimbus clouds (sp?), and mild temperatures, and happy neighbors watering their lawns, and children riding their bikes down the streets, and so on and so on. Home seems to have taken on this 1950s persona, where everything appears to be perfect on the outside, regardless of what lay underneath. Maybe it's just the persona that the neighbors present as they walk through the doorway. Maybe it's just my imagination. Either way, it's kind of nice and kind of creepy all at the same time.
One thing, though, that really bugs me is the fact that I always seem to be taking off back to Blormal just as the sun starts to dip down beyond the horizon, and only when I'm out on the thirty-five mile long country road. Straight. Narrow. Bordered on both sides by corn. The sun is absolute breathtaking almost everytime I drive home, and I'm amazed that one of the reasons for this beauty seems to be pollution, which I am in fact contributing to as I take that nice little drive away from everything that appears to be nice. Once I get to Normal it's a different story. Road construction. Shitty apartment buildings. Tall, brown towers (that, btw, are under absolutely no pretense of any kind of attack whatsoever, no matter how much that one guy is convinced that they are). Blah blah blah.
Coming through the window: some dude yelling at some other dude to get "tha fuck out" ... and still ... and still ... this seems intense, but I refuse to pull back either the blind, or the blanket I have over the blind, to see what's really happening. It's a lot cooler in my imagination, I'm sure. I'm picturing swarthy Italian type taking on defenseless Albanian type. Confrontation over -- stolen pea pods for a homemade split pea soup that the defenseless Albanian type was going to make for his mother once he saved up enough money from work. He works at -- PIP Printing in the Bone Student Center here at ISU and steals nickels and dimes out of the register when his boss isn't looking. He also charges people for copies of instructor's packets, from time to time, without ringing it up on the register. His "Momma" misses him very much, especially since his father died in that horrible train accident last year. She lives in a hut on a hill near a run down old coal-mining town. She has a goat ... and the guys have stopped yelling. See. I told you my version was better.
I could go on a lot longer, you know, but I won't.
The Air and Everything
It almost never fails. Everytime I go home for an hour or two it always seems to be bright and sunny, with spotted cumulonimbus clouds (sp?), and mild temperatures, and happy neighbors watering their lawns, and children riding their bikes down the streets, and so on and so on. Home seems to have taken on this 1950s persona, where everything appears to be perfect on the outside, regardless of what lay underneath. Maybe it's just the persona that the neighbors present as they walk through the doorway. Maybe it's just my imagination. Either way, it's kind of nice and kind of creepy all at the same time.
One thing, though, that really bugs me is the fact that I always seem to be taking off back to Blormal just as the sun starts to dip down beyond the horizon, and only when I'm out on the thirty-five mile long country road. Straight. Narrow. Bordered on both sides by corn. The sun is absolute breathtaking almost everytime I drive home, and I'm amazed that one of the reasons for this beauty seems to be pollution, which I am in fact contributing to as I take that nice little drive away from everything that appears to be nice. Once I get to Normal it's a different story. Road construction. Shitty apartment buildings. Tall, brown towers (that, btw, are under absolutely no pretense of any kind of attack whatsoever, no matter how much that one guy is convinced that they are). Blah blah blah.
Coming through the window: some dude yelling at some other dude to get "tha fuck out" ... and still ... and still ... this seems intense, but I refuse to pull back either the blind, or the blanket I have over the blind, to see what's really happening. It's a lot cooler in my imagination, I'm sure. I'm picturing swarthy Italian type taking on defenseless Albanian type. Confrontation over -- stolen pea pods for a homemade split pea soup that the defenseless Albanian type was going to make for his mother once he saved up enough money from work. He works at -- PIP Printing in the Bone Student Center here at ISU and steals nickels and dimes out of the register when his boss isn't looking. He also charges people for copies of instructor's packets, from time to time, without ringing it up on the register. His "Momma" misses him very much, especially since his father died in that horrible train accident last year. She lives in a hut on a hill near a run down old coal-mining town. She has a goat ... and the guys have stopped yelling. See. I told you my version was better.
I could go on a lot longer, you know, but I won't.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home