We’re stuck. I think we’ll be stuck forever. We were making very good time and then a storm struck and Bermuda Trianglish threw us into a parallel universe of traffic. Red tail lights and road rage and a red minivan comes THIS close to my side-view mirror. We’d planned to come back this way, but looking at the construction and the likelihood that it’ll all still be here in a week and a half, I think we might just have to find another route.
We’re going to miss the open mic tonight, and it makes me angry. We could’ve stayed home instead of stressing about this and racing and worrying and. failing.
Bethlehem swings by the windows ever so slowly and I look longingly at one of my favourite towns, wishing we had more occasion to stop there. Christmas City, an old steel town, source of so many of my songs and John Gorka to boot – I know it’s beautiful in the rain but today I’m just going to have to visit it in my imagination.
On the road and roaring once again, wishing we had a camper, I’d climb into the back and perhaps take a nap and just pretend tomorrow was today.
