literature

4-22-14

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Literature Text

         The sky is a heavy but soft, gray and our hotel is seedy, sketchy, or maybe just old, beaten up by time.  The toilet tank's top is cracked in the exact same way as the hotel room on our way out of South Carolina, the one that seemed normal but had the type of murder scene bathroom expected in a gruesome B horror movie, no, better, maybe at the Bates Motel.  I mean the first Bates Motel, not the syndicated cable channel series one.  That place is behind us now, and the newest bedbox has windows that run the length of the front wall face, only divided from the door by a scant metal frame.  

         My hands done over in a skin cartographer's rough-cut topographical work look like the beginning of what would promise to be a very memorable journey down leprosy lane.  Don't worry though, they're only beaten up from working without gloves... and with gloves, you know, whatever.  So I suppose this is life right now until I exit back to Virginia and decide to set down (or up) somewhere else.  How strange, and at the same time not so much, maybe my parents somehow taught me adaptation after all, or I picked it up on my own more likely, and they like that so they cheer us on.  I wonder what vinyl is made of and how it's made up in such a way as to be used in clothing, siding for homes, and electrical tape.
so much from the road goes unsaid and is still to be released from its notebooks, but reading over each entry is like going through these days again and 

the weight can be a lot to take.
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