My bag of snacks for the train ride fills slowly...
with the most heavenly peanut butter chocolate chip cookies. (!!! they're perfect!!!)
with tempeh salad sandwiches.
with carrots and grapes.
with apples and oranges.
I wisely decided to leave my clunker techno-leash at the house. I don't need to be plugged in, for fuck's sake, and I don't want to lug that white piece of plastic around. I'd like some tunes, but I've adjusted to not having them. I'll let the rails rock me to sleep, the sun and mountains wake me in the morning, and the conversation of fellow passengers to sooth my ride. A journal, some good pens, my camera and the new Jeanette Winterson books I scooped up at Powell's last night.
I've been itching to dive into those books, ever since reading her "Art and Lies," after my sister turned me on to Winterson with "Written on the Body." Such sensual (hot!) writing, beautiful language, artfully woven stories, especially the former. I picked up "The Lighthousekeeper" and one of her collections of short stories. Finally, a chance for me to get into short stories! Eeep!
The trip isn't as planned out as I would have hoped, but I have no doubt it will be a barrel of fun and surprises. Denver apparently has some decent mass transit, aka it goes to the airport, and other than that, I'm not too worried about the adventures in between.
Tonight: a fire queued up in the back yard, fresh cookies, a tall beer and friends. A heavenly spring is unfolding.
The long winter of my life slows to a crawl finally, as the smile re-emerges on my face. It mirrors the sun I see weekly, not daily. I haven't felt this inspired, this motivated in months, maybe even since the peak of fall and the fading summer; it could extend as far back as the summer after Paris, the romantic adventure that altered my path so positively and significantly.
Even on the vernal equinox white and gray clouds hang overhead and drip with a delicate drizzle. My empty bags sit at the edge of the bed awaiting the packing process for leaving Portland. My train rolls out of the station for Sacramento on Tuesday at precisely 2:25 p.m. PST. We roll down California, then shoot up via the California Zephyr through Nevada, Utah and then through Colorado. Winter Park, here I come, sweet wanderin' lady K, I'm on my way...
My blind trust in the future I'm creating leaves a satisfying feeling in my body, and warmth that drives away the chills of the day. No more, gray skies, no more, recreations of Southern shwank, sans friendly smiles and grins. No more, smooth light rail, no more, scandalous dirt rags full of filth. No more, misery.
Drink in the sun and light and beauty through your brain, like a strong tonic that eases your worries. Shut off the media, their impact is minimal now Miss Jane. Your strenght prevails in this change, the only constant. Head for the hills you know like the back of your hand, the natural habitat that little Laura Janes thrive in, grow in and seek the most change in. The volatility drives me out, the cravings for what I love the best that I have distanced myself from. A sense of home strengthened by 2,500 miles and a lotta love.
I wouldn't be me without this trip, without this adventure, and without these strong feelings.
And now, a blurb from my dearie Amy: "My friend Paul, in Portland, just sent me a text that says 'I will write a collection of short stories titled "The Bus That Never Came." Tales of sultry smokers, wet newpapers, half-eaten donuts, and spare change, all bridled with that sort of uncertain unease of being surrounded by other broke strangers. Waiting for the bus.' "
