Road trips. Who doesn't love road trips? Me, for one. But I guess there not so bad, now that I've grown out of my wretched propensity to get disgustingly car sick and keep a bucket in reach at all times. And as for being able to read in the car? One sentence and I might as well have just put myself in one of those Anti-gravity simulators and then got on a roller coaster. Horrible inconvenience.
Fortunately though, some things we can outgrow. I've been in the car for the last bazillion hours. I've read a hundred pages of The Agency #3, written this and a bit of something else, and I have nary even a bit of a headache. Don't tell me there is no God.
I'm sprawled out almost comfortably in the backseat, with the sultry sounds of Dario Marianelli, The Civil Wars (their new album...sooo good), and Passenger coming from my little blue box which is obviously bigger on the inside, with the gently rising countryside of northern Alberta gliding past my smeared window.
Hay fields that are bailed but still green, wheat fields a shade of deep gold flecked with yellow-green, canola now faded from it's brilliant yellow, thick patches of emerald forest and royal blue hills in the distance reaching up to meet a crystal blue sky scattered with pearl and smoke grey clouds waving a storm threat at us.
The entirety (give or take...mostly take) of the Mater's family are trekking up into the great(ish) north to celebrate great-grandpa's 100th. What must it be to have seen 100 years? How heavy his eyes must be. And yet he can still beat my dad at crib. Easily.
|I made that ipod case out of some fake leather I disemboweled a weird hair scrunchy for. Applaud me.|
|'tis a fawn who swam across a river and then attempted to climb a cement wall, which it succeeded in doing the second try. Bravo, Bambi.|