Running with Moleskines.

Li! Do you remember how we wrote up daily key points of our Austin impressions in our Moleskines (because we’re real writers) when we visited last spring? I’ve reached the end of this particular notebook and I figured I’d lurch a bit down memory lane before archiving it, and came across my notes. Which is convenient, since I don’t have much else to say at the moment (not that this ever stops me). So, here they are!
 

Spring Break 2011: Austin, TX

Thursday, March 31 (impressions as dictated by Li):

Sitting around waiting to die in Orlando; Spooky Kids and Texas gents; plane crackers in a death embrace; zombie drive on I-35; broken toilet and deluxe T.V.

Friday, April 1:

Transcendent soyrizo; let’s go malling; university heat stroke; hibiscus with a kick; ballsy old folks line dancing; classic cars; toddler lust

Saturday, April 2:

Get lost; Hill Country; beetle with an oil-slick back perched on Pizza Hut and scuttling; I missed my Fortress of Solitude but stood before the gutted mouth; motorcycle men with a view; carnitas soaked in milk and Coca-Cola; bat songs and Strange Sex; Thursday: addendum: bra infomercial with Riki Lake

So, looking over these outstandingly coherent first impressions, it’s no wonder I moved here.

And since I’m transcribing things, this was written on the drive back from California to Idaho after Jackie’s wedding:

June 27, 2011

Sitting in a motel room off I-95 North, en route to Boise, mountains jutting dramatically (those drama queens!) into the sky, an unplugged sort of evening, reading, writing, eating strawberries (and Cheetos!). I want to be at peace with imperfection: with my sloppy haphazard scrawl across the pristine pages of this Moleskine (a Moleskine!), my sometimes not-ideal posture (or is it posturing?), the way that physical and mental grace sometimes seem like too much damn effort. Winding roads, towering pines, birds of prey, too much road kill, billboards for the Wild West Saloon (truckers welcome! Exit 178), the way the fruit sits in the bowl, and a mother’s love, generosity, warmth, and quiet strength infuse a house. Wind chimes, silent nights, hardwood floors.

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So there you go, posterity. You can thank me later.