That long black cloud is comin’ down.

It is with great frustration and tenacious will that I greet this page, my mind having recently had a brush with it’s own personal utopia, proceeded by a panic in reguards to it’s delicate existance in my mind alone. The need to log it is overwhelming at the moment, for fear of losing it somehow has taken hold. I am not sure why I would be so concerned with it’s passing, for it is attached to me….however it is quite ambiguous, and seemingly tempremental in it’s state. Perhaps the brush I had with it wasn’t enough, and am seeking to dip into it further by storeing it away. Or perhaps I’m leaving a note to myself in the future, once I’ve forgotten about writing it and am in need of mental solalce…a place to journey in my dreams for respite.

Remember the ghosts in Amber. The way the modernized house with ceiling fans and a microwave was percieved by those who linger… the woman who put a bullet in her head after losing her husband in the war, her elegant cursive handwriting, the autumn yellow walls, and the crooner music coming from the static ridden victrolla… the gardener hanging in his shed, with green summer paths through the terribly overgrown grounds, and bees that whisper of murder… the boy in the lake, two sled tracks extending down a hill, across the ice, to a wet hole, while all else is eternally winter.

And now remember your own.

A roofless car on an endless two lane road riddled with cracks and tar stains, the eternal time forgotten countryside, sparse cotton clouds and yellow summer light following like a spotlight, trees and ferns and run down farm houses flying past, sweet lilac scented air circulating in great gusts, "knocking on heaven’s door" playing on the radio…one arm hanging out the window, another punching in the cigarette lighter and smiling at my pleasent companion; her hair whipping about in the wind. Pulling into the run down oasis dive bar, listening to the tires crunch to a halt on the gravel. Marty Robbins is always playing on the juke, and the bathrooms are damp blue concrete with cast iron plumbing.
"Where are you headed?" Asks the bartender.
"Into the future," I reply.
"Got a long way to go, I recken," returns the bartender. My companion giggles, and hops off her stool. I can see red marks on her young thighs, beneath her shorts, from the vinel stool covering. I hear the creek of the spring on the bar door as she nimbly ambles outside.
"Quite a long way indeed, we just set out this afternoon. Keep the change, we’ll see you a little farther on up the road."

Your utopia is innocence. That light ticklish sensation deep in your chest that you used to feel as a child, when very excited… the prospect of discovering something new and wonderful, just up the road a ways. The first contemplations of romance, and intimacy. Laying on a blanket in the darkness, enjoying the rich smell of fish, and the sound of waves…running my hands over a girl for the first time. Watching the moon through swaying willow trees from a slow creaking hammock. Slow motion visuals; the utter subjective carefree perspective, without consequence, without end, forever and ever amen. That is what you like about country music, and the south.

"And now I’m grown
And all alone
And wishing I was with you, tonight…"