| the Journal | the Cult of Saint Cecilia
2.33am - Jesus Christ, I've never seen anything like that. It was like the airline wrecks where you just can't even tell what anything is. It's just twisted metal and debris and body bags. At least three 18-wheelers, and two cars underneath them. It was funny when we first came up to them, because the first thing we saw was a Perdue chicken truck, with spilled chickens and crap all over the road. And then we rounded the tow truck (there must have been eight or so there, plus the a flatbed or two) and we saw what was left of the cab. I can't imagine ow fast it must have been going, but whatever it hit was solid and stationary. It was like the front had simply disintegrated. There was a boat involved there too, scattered in pieces all over the road. The final thing we saw as we were ushered down the highway was bodies being loaded into a big black truck.
I knew the DOT had large hearse-esque vans for large motor vehicle accidents. First time I ever saw one. It reminded me of the body clean-up crews they have in Baltimore. The neccesities of keeping the world moving supercede the niceties of Life (and death). Men with hoses come out. They wear yellow suits and wash the blood into the gutters and down the drains. They disinfect the side-walk with giant brushes, and they sweep away broken parts of people.
Heather: "I'm glad we didn't leave a little earlier."

The thought of a car accident with Heather really, really scares me. I Love her lots and it churns my stomach to think of her coming apart into the engine of another car.


Rest stop.



Found this this morning.

October 9, 2003.
This trip out just hasn't been very nice. The accident on the drive up took a lot out of me, leaving me in shock in a way. I hate the senselessness of it, knowing that it's all fun and games until someone drives their 18-wheeler through your passenger seat.
Heather and I have both been stressed out ever since leaving Maryland, and we take it out on one another. We both have been forgetting little things here and there, and we both feel stupid when we forget little things here and there.
Last night we'd almost recovered. An open mic at a spot called the Infra-red Lounge. It'd been hard to find - neon light covered by sheet metal, the front of the bar covered with a closed folding down security door - Heather had seen it, but I hadn't (colourblind people just don't respond to red neon sometimes, unless it's shaped into letters), adding to our tension.
But the talent inside really helped the night. The stars of the evening included an amazing performance by a guy named Mike ____ (I'll dig up the last name in a sec) who was a spectacular vocal cross of Chris Cornell in his prime and Jeff Buckley. He started beautiful and then struck out for those intense Seattle screams.
Another performer, Stu, was the epitome of aged rocker. Grizzled and yet youthful with a greying pony-tail, he played old rock style solos of guitar screaming agony up and down the fret-board. It's people like that that keep me hoping I can do this for a while.

table of contents | now | intro | back
  next | all contents © 1999-2016 rob hinkal and ilyAIMY