I would write something substantial but calculus has dominated my life. The reason I’m not doing well in calculus is because I sit and write poetry. I wrote this today while my teacher was lamenting the market crash.
and we all thought it was safe
and we all thought we were at the top of our game
and then it all came crashing down
and we searched the ground
and there was no money to be found
potential song lyrics?
Truck stops. Cars stop at truck stops. They stop so that life can keep moving. Passengers refuel. Drivers drink drinks, eat snacks. They wipe salty chip dust on their khaki pants and pile into the Subaru with their family of four. Little kids press greasy unwashed fingers on windows and ask about the big trucks. The dad laughs and explains that maybe they can go see the big trucks one day. On the inside he knows it’s not a possibility. He lies to his son for his benefit. He can’t be realistic because the boy is just a child, so he leads him on a bit to nothingness. He can’t tell the boy that at the end of the day, he won’t see the trucker, but he can’t tell him he will. He just tugs him along a bit, never letting on to the final destination. When the kid asks where are they driving to and if they are there yet, the dad just responds
“Soon.”
Soon, the trucker will slam a vial full of crank into his vein. Good meth too, made by bikers. Not that white trash sudafed shit. In the thirteen hours that his heart will be jerking, he will make it to his destination. Somewhere in North Carolina, he’ll unload, and load back up. He’ll score some more crank, and make his way to Minnesota. From there he’ll get his next few routes. His company always gives him a few routes in advance, but never a yearly schedule. They lead him on a bit, hinting at California or Florida or somewhere warm. But they never tell him his final destination. They can’t tell him that at the end of his life, he will be sad, alone, and drug-addicted. But they can’t tell him he’ll find love or fulfillment either. So they tell him, he’ll find sunshine and sandy beaches in Miami, Florida. He is old enough to never ask “Am I there yet?”
He just keeps on trucking. When he starts to question, he shuts himself up with some speed. When it gets darker, he switches on the headlights and stares out into the blackness. The lights don’t show the road way up ahead, just a little patch of blacktop. The trucker stares out into the blackness, not knowing the final destination. He doesn’t ask either.
The little kid stares out the window. The road and the monoxide are making him sleepy. His mother, on the other hand, is nervous. She stares ahead, not knowing where they are going. She turns to her husband.
“Are we there yet?”
The husband, not knowing where ‘there’ is responds,
“Soon.”
I used to joke with my friend Steve that I never wanted to have a blog where I just blogged about not updating. Both of us ended up doing that. I’d really like to change that. This blog definitely had a heyday, but, like the american economy, it has started a steep decline. Perhaps I need a stimulus package. If I were taking a personality test, I’d say I’m self-motivated, but I don’t think that’s the case.
So maybe I’ll resolve to write. Raymond Carver suggested that one should write everyday, multiple times during the day. Seeing as how it is Lent and the economy sucks, and we have a new president, and it’s my senior year, and the planets are aligned and shit, I will write everyday. It may suck, it may show clear lack of thoughts, but I need to get in the habit at least. I’ve been sober of writing for a few months now, and I do not like that.
