kick it for the third time

8 Sep

Living on a farm road
Takin’ all your time slow
Cheerin’ from the bleachers
Don’t you wish your life was gold?
I bet you do

The Virgins – Hey Hey Girl

Sometimes when you live in the country you have to dance and yell to grab the placidity and lethargy by their throats–tell them, “I love how you let me act like a freak without becoming a spectacle.” Then, the fact that you could just walk into a dry, yellowed cornfield off the farm road, and see its repetition for hours on end as you walk–to be put in a trance simply by walking in that environment for a good chunk of time and know nothing will happen but a rush of wind with the consequent rattling of the leaves high above in the distance, which are on the threshold of a coming autumn–it’s like a cold drink of water. The high of running to nowhere on this expansive rural trail, with no necessary plan or time frame, feels intense and surreal out here; you’ll lose sense of what should be gone, and gain back what you needed, even if you don’t know what those things are. It’s a process with surreptitious, borderline mystical, components. They may make a city girl out of me yet, but the urban nectar is one that I cannot imbibe.

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