it could have all come out different though, i do suppose.
back in are en oh, and i'm findin all about what i already know.
you can never go home, but the more places you can call home the better.
first night here: trailer park, agoraphobia, and a vicious circle that leaves one finding solace and comfort in an illusion of reality, whilst everything outside of the illusion deteriorates, spawning a undeniable need for said illusion. panther valley.
first day here: 395 to the hallelujah junction, west on 70 past the plains into the pine needles. portland to portola, i've always been a sucker for alliteration.
next day: 80 west, up, over and past the final resting place of a failed emigration party. down into the valley. It's not a water tower, it's a propane tank. through the concrete and onto 99. pasture land, vineyards, and orchards. It's not an orange tree, it's a tangerine bush. into a land decimated by both a financial and identity crisis. Stockton. My grandparents and the heartbreak of old age. it's not the golden years, it's double-overtime.
driving back on 5, traffic lit up the sky in both directions. like an existential mobius strip with red devil taillights rushing towards hell, and heavenly headlights gridlocking their way into heaven. at a different time in the day, they're heading the same direction.
back in town and down the hall from everything and nothing. i myself can't tell if i'm in my own personal distorted heaven or a dreary crossroads of a hell. call me back in a week and hopefully i can tell you which.
more to come...
much more to come.