What I Wrote With A Stolen Pen and A Pad From A Dive Motel.

8,472 miles in 30 days.

My body hums with the music of the road
even when I’m still.

As I’m writing this
it is close to 4am.
I sit in the corner of a truck stop laundry room.
Hoodie up.
Legs tucked under me to keep warm.
The payphone on the wall is my only witness.
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I don’t know what state I’m in.
It doesn’t matter.
Sometimes it’s fun not knowing what the name of the land I’m passing through is.

We are anonymous in this night.

And yet all of this feels like home.
That’s how long it’s been that we’ve been out here.
The stars.
The Big Dipper.
The sunrises and sunsets.
The desert.
The cornfields.
The Badlands.
They make me feel.

Many miles have been crossed and
I know that wherever I currently find myself…
it is far colder than the desert heat from this morning’s sunrise
that I regrettably left behind me this morning.

I left a lot behind in that desert.
Pieces of a blue dress
white crinoline
old postcards
An abandoned waterpark and its highest tower
that has seen me dead and alive 48 times.

But I am here now….
more alive than ever in this truckstop in a land I do not know by name.
I contemplate getting a hot shower for $12.
It would feel good.
But I decide against spending the $12.
The coffee from a truck stop machine is 4 quarters.
I get it and hold it against my face and bare legs until it gets cold.

I watch as my buttercup vintage yellow slip dances in the dryer.
I know I won’t wear it tonight.
I will be buried in my reincarnated pink coat and a sleeping bag in the bus,
but just having that pretty slip in my life right now
makes me feel fancy.

30 minutes left on the dryer.
I close my eyes and lean against the pay phone.
When I open them again – there’s 19 minutes left.
I lost 11 minutes with my eyes closed…
slipped into someplace else beyond this truck stop.
And in the time I was sleeping
a man appeared in the corner with a coffee and the paper.

“You hitchhiking?”
Nope. I said. Going cross country doing my dream.
“That sounds nice,” he says in the way someone says to someone else – ‘I think you’re on drugs’.
He never looks up from his paper.

It gets quiet again.
I think about the fantasy of hitchhiking across the country.
I imagine me doing that.
I could be Jack Kerouac
in a rambling train of thought twisted adventure of my own.

And I think about the 13 others sleeping on the bus outside
the ones who came aboard on this with us
and know we are writing our own adventure
and that one day…
I will ache for the comfort
of this truck stop in the early morning
in a nameless place.

The dryer buzzes.
I get up and stick the upper half of my body in the dryer and lean in it for a good full five minutes.
I am in heaven.
I don’t want this time to ever end.
When I finally emerge there is another trucker standing there waiting to put his clothes in the wash.
He doesn’t bat an eye.
It’s the road.
It’s outlaw.
It’s weird.
And sometimes
you might just find a girl with half her body stuck into a dryer at 4am.


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