Ideas like the trout in that river in Montana. If you don’t catch them, they’re going to someone else.
Somewhere in Utah they’re building a utopia for the thinkers and the makers, and it’s a glittering little vein that runs through everything I think about.
I used to worry a lot about where I was going and who I was going with, but everything feels settled right now. Settled in the sort of way right before a storm rolls through. I am in the pasture picking daisies. It’s a glorious kind of stillness.
At the market that reminds us both of Mexico there’s a certain thrum in the air and a uselessness about the event that excites me. Bundles of flowers and waxen tomatoes and broken electronics and shoes no one will wear line the ground of easy-up tents and tarps hung between cars. Lately I am so taken by being with you that I want the entire world to stop moving and be as in love with you as I am. It makes me ache. I want to reach out and run my fingers along the piles of mangos and papayas and chilis.
But it slips by and before I know it, we’re off to something else. And the music dulls in the background, and the parking lot is just a parking lot from a distance.