Driving on Route 179, alongside the curves of the snaking Farmington River, I see the earth shedding its scales in great shale slabs that land precariously tipped against the cliffs, the raw unweathered wound brighter, cleaner than its rainwashed host.
Oh boy, I really gotta find that tape recorder to use while I’m driving. Aside from two ugly orangey-pink cars, there was so very much to see and think about in a simple fifteen minute drive to the grocery store. One good thought, although my friends may truly start looking at me funny, is that as with learning Spanish, if perhaps I speak my thoughts out loud when I get them, it may improve my verbal articulation problems. But writing is so different for me–it just comes naturally, like little mouths upon my fingertips.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology