the midwest cut me down at the knees

This morning there were grey clouds overhead and rain sprinkles on my windshield but I was out on the prairie so I could see that forever to my left and to my right was bright blue sky. This is a thing about the plains: you can watch weather in panorama, you can see what's been, what is, and what will be.


Blue Sky to the left was one of those blues so bright I think "It's amazing you're real, if somebody painted you I'd think you were fake and I'd look for the cherubs about to bust from your fluffy clouds." But underneath it are some quiet miles of farm fields. Which is almost the opposite of the fake blue sky, I used to think it was boring. But I learned as I grew older that there's a primordial hold land has inside of us if you are willing to .


In the fall it bowls me over. I throw up my hands, I surrender, I've fallen, North Dakota, you've got me. I won't ever leave you (but I will)–I love this quilt of bleached wheat and dark earth. I love your lace lines of trees.


Oh, I will leave you. We both know it. What's happened here? I feel drawn on to a career in media and research fields which keep me moving, never settling. And I like that, I want to see places, to change. Perhaps it is my generation or, at least, definitely certain subcultures of all ages, where we've perceived the blindness that can happen as you settle. Things are your way, they must go your way, why are others doing things differently? You must stop doing things differently.


I feel I should lose myself in another country, force myself to adopt different customs to instill in me the knowledge that other ways are good. As if my doing this will add understanding and some kind of karmic healing to the collective unconscious of the world. 


I also feel I don't belong here. In many ways. I could also disillusion you of any Stars Hollow notions you have faster than you can say David Lynch. These are topics for another time. 


So I'll leave.


But I'll come back.
To visit, at least.
Well, I'll always love you.
I'll always dream about the fall.

P.S. The rockstar/mythological figure debate continues. My mom votes Mick Jagger as Narcissus.