It’d be easy to pin it on the rebellious nature of smoking cigars when your whole world frowns upon it. Or maybe it’s the picture in my head of bohemian intellectuals and what they’re supposed to look like and how we looked an awful lot like them, feet on the dash, seat leaned back, cigar in hand, unmatching jewelry, no makeup. Regardless, the way it felt last night, riding home in the passenger seat of my 98 Ford Escort, was what I imagine Chris McCandless must’ve felt like driving west, leaving behind the sometimes invisible fishing line-thin absurdities that bound him to the life he’d known. It was the windows rolled down and the dog standing on the console, cute floppy ears limiting my vision to the front and side windows nearest me. Finding the perfect radio station: 100.3, Denver. It was being completely comfortable with the car’s other occupant. So comfortable that silence was okay, along with ridiculous laughter and loud, un-self conscious singing. It was the moon, big and yellow and werewolf-luring in the sky and the lightning storm bantering in the west. It was just… glorious. I tried to remember the feeling of it, which I hope will last long after the details of the trip fade from my colander brain. I’ve written this entry to help me if I forget.
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