I’ve been working pretty hard on the book these past two days. Today I have been transcribing the Jeff Mueller interview from Chicago. I think it might be my favorite as far as substance goes, because we really got into the inner-workings of the city. It’s what I hoped I would be able to rap with everybody about, but I can only dictate the course of conversation so much. Even if I lead certain folks into talking about the state of their city, their responses were more comparative and general. Either they weren’t truly in touch with where they’re living, or they just don’t care. Still, I’m trying to get everything in order before I head down to Muhlenberg to speak with a professor who will hopefully share sagely advice and lend me some direction. I’ve also been sick for the past few days, a consistent cold that visits me as the change in seasons nears. Last night I went to see Grizzly Man, it was pretty harrowing. Not for the weak of heart. Werner Herzog was way too present in the documentary. I’m excited to see that the Claridge House is showing Pretty Persuasion soon. That’ll be a neat flick.
Tomorrow I’ll post some interview snippets, for now here’s a creative writing piece I wrote one morning on the road before breakfast.
JULY 24TH, 2005
“A man brought his wagon west through Abilene. Although the area had greatly advanced since the era of it’s settlement, he thought himself a pioneer or trailblazer. Buoyed by his heart and the zeal he felt for a particular maiden, he steered off the beaten path to hunker down for an evening. He lit a fire that crackled through the night. Embers popped and faded as they floated up into the infinite blackness. He called out between the mountain chains, “Echo. Bravo. Echo. Bravo,” and there came nary a reply. The reflection of his tenor rattled across the plains back through Appalachia. It took a few sweltering July days for his communique to reach her sunburned ears. Red and fiery, glowing like a fuse, she perked. “Echo. Bravo. Echo. Bravo,” she heard the ringing of his voice. Her eyelids fluttered. The sound coaxed tears from their ducts. She wiped away the salt water from the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand. She looked out over the Midwest and saw the sun dip below the horizon. When the first beacon began to shine in the night sky, she stepped out onto her porch to bathe in its glimmer. A shiver crept down her spine and her frail arms twitched. Cold. She reached around her sides to hold steady. Teeth chattering, toes curled, she whispered, “I am with you, Evan.” The words left her lips with a kiss and set out over cornfields and sleeping streetlights on foreign freeways. Their warmth, their solace, they melted the Rockies and gained momentum as they sped south toward the desert. When they arrived the campfire was but a smoldering heap of cinders. Wood charred to black and soot abound. The spirit was exiting. This place was dead. The wagon trails led west so the words started after him. They wound a path past adobe homes, rodeos and telephone wires. The cacti offered water. The pacific grew near. Days later they reached the shore, the ultimate conclusion to this land that they shared. There he sat, toes buried in sand, watching waves form and crash, birthed and dead in a cycle. His seared ears perked up and the faintest of voices moaned, “I am with you, Evan.” And he sat and he wept.
