I filled up the gas tank of the old focus at the dusky Valero en route to the house I grew up in after a 10-8 shift at the flavored vodka factory (where factory means marketing engine, settled nerves, crazed expressions of self-worth, and eventual quiet where everyone in the board room meeting looks down at their hands or flickers their pencils until start blurring and looking rubbery). Lines in my head from Edward Abbey, although I must question some of his tasteless terminology, his ideas about the reason for wilderness, the immersion into the raw experience of life that every other (unpampered) creature must entertain for themselves to remain alive is an exhilarating reminder of why one has whims to remove oneself from the bubbling potions and screeching garbage trucks to move away and into the otherwise unknown beyond. Beyond.
The desire to be elsewhere found itself settled onto my heart at the gas station. The probably gas station where Mike bought me my first cigar, when I was sixteen and not supposed to do such things, but such cool older friends and kept it to myself later how young I will die because of the decisions I made in high school ( who said that, a camp counselor? ) no one said anything about that other than statistical data base computers, and the people who run them for the morgue, the health service, the hereditary alcoholic research group, the liver control board, the mash tank stopwatch kept under close watch, because profits, always because profits and never for consequences, because profits can be spent before consequences catch up.
I imagined the car and the gas pump in a different locality, a desert offshoot somewhere it was crucial and not just a dumb little chore. Somewhere the next gas had to be factored in for the drive, a kind of odometer of the sense, the feeling of lurching toward a new freedom from want, but always finding more want when getting there.
Drive the car its 275 miles before it is dead and leave it there for the vultures. What then? Well, pick up some quality boots before this time of crisis and slowly drain that stupid savings account, the one meant to be spent on music equipment and later travels. Drain now, what are you waiting for, winter is encroaching and removing the summer of its plans, it becomes a cold blur and something without sunrises or sunsets just a factory with indentions of being between the beams of conscious nightlessness and letting go of other inhibitions, in the sultry consumerism of a growing little city, the kind of love affair that lasts until He is done and let the capitalization mean everything possible to you, to you with your ego driven pesticide spraying on the beaches and shorelines of a beautiful estuary we all share, the sea stars, the humans, the sand fleas, and the herons, the great blue herons forced to search for a new rookery and the conservative anti-nature lobotomists who actively (frighteningly actively) believe in the removal of such “pests” for the benefit of condo views, uninterrupted housing developments, and flavored vodkas in the more to top on their bacon raffle tickets.
The title of this post refers to a Manchester Orchestra song of the same name. One that I heard on my way home and listened to three times in a row and this whole thing spun out of that experience and others. The base experience at $99 plus tax and the advanced experience, the one you get to take home, is an additional $49 plus tax. You need to fight the battles that matter to you personally and not get caught fighting against swine who will fight among themselves anyway.