Truck stops of the mind...
Friday, May 27th, 2005 03:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
orange_crushedHow is it that when I want a road trip, instead the werewolf gets one ?
"...Not the early one
That you can wish upon;
Not the northern one
That guides in the sailors."
-Joni Mitchell, "This Flight Tonight"
He has never been more careful. They have not taken the train except under heavy glamours, or stayed in any expensive hotels. Truthfully, they have not stayed at any places which would write your names down in a book; they have slept at a few where clean sheets cost extra. They change suitcases and packs once in a while, and coats, and Sirius has bleached his hair and dyed it back again.
It’s started to be fun.
Sirius has stolen the lobster bib from a greasy dinette at the waterfront, and now he is running along the quay, shouting frightful epithets at seagulls and waving it over his head like a flag. Remus cannot help but watch him run, while the birds scatter and shriek. The western sun trembles along the edges of waves and the outlines of ships in the distance; the edge of the earth arcs like the blade of a saw. It would be romantic if it weren’t silly.
Off in the distance, Sirius has stubbed his toe on something. Remus thinks about calling him back; but there’s no need. The evening is fair and the night will be clear, and they have come much further than they expected these past few days. He will set the wards around their room tonight, and they will sleep deeply, full of fried haddock and cold beer and some small hope for the future.
Sirius is tying the bib to a stick of driftwood now, and hurling it out to sea. He is either signaling ships or attempting to claim the entire ocean; neither of which sounds unreasonable. Remus is tired of making him come inside, be quiet, wear a hat, for God's sake keep his voice down. He wasn’t made for secrecy or for silence, they have learned that so well.
Sirius Black, king in exile, he sighs, and steps onto the sand.
"...Not the early one
That you can wish upon;
Not the northern one
That guides in the sailors."
-Joni Mitchell, "This Flight Tonight"
He has never been more careful. They have not taken the train except under heavy glamours, or stayed in any expensive hotels. Truthfully, they have not stayed at any places which would write your names down in a book; they have slept at a few where clean sheets cost extra. They change suitcases and packs once in a while, and coats, and Sirius has bleached his hair and dyed it back again.
It’s started to be fun.
Sirius has stolen the lobster bib from a greasy dinette at the waterfront, and now he is running along the quay, shouting frightful epithets at seagulls and waving it over his head like a flag. Remus cannot help but watch him run, while the birds scatter and shriek. The western sun trembles along the edges of waves and the outlines of ships in the distance; the edge of the earth arcs like the blade of a saw. It would be romantic if it weren’t silly.
Off in the distance, Sirius has stubbed his toe on something. Remus thinks about calling him back; but there’s no need. The evening is fair and the night will be clear, and they have come much further than they expected these past few days. He will set the wards around their room tonight, and they will sleep deeply, full of fried haddock and cold beer and some small hope for the future.
Sirius is tying the bib to a stick of driftwood now, and hurling it out to sea. He is either signaling ships or attempting to claim the entire ocean; neither of which sounds unreasonable. Remus is tired of making him come inside, be quiet, wear a hat, for God's sake keep his voice down. He wasn’t made for secrecy or for silence, they have learned that so well.
Sirius Black, king in exile, he sighs, and steps onto the sand.
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no subject
Date: Friday, May 27th, 2005 09:07 pm (UTC)There is something both exuberant and awfully sad about Sirius acting like an arse on a beach. (And omg the Jack Sparrow-drunk images are coming hard and fast.) Honestly, I'd read your grocery list and remark on its beautiful sychopated phrases.
no subject
Date: Tuesday, May 31st, 2005 07:07 am (UTC)I wasn't really certain where I was sending these two, but you're right, it feels like America. Maybe some lonely New England clam bar. I will send them to the Southwest and give them sombreros and burro rides. Or not.
Oh, and:
-scouring powder
-bread (rye ? no, don't like rye. wheat.)
-elegant broccoli
-onions
-HA !
Couldn't resist ;)
no subject
Date: Tuesday, May 31st, 2005 07:47 am (UTC)...was that "HA !" an exclamation against the sheer healthiness of the previous items? (Broccoli looks so strange and foreign in italics.)
Mine would need a separate column devoted to varieties of ice cream. :)
no subject
Date: Tuesday, May 31st, 2005 08:13 am (UTC)So, make mine:
-butter pecan
-caramel sauce
-kettle chips
-fried chicken
-hospital stretcher for imminent food coma :)
no subject
Date: Thursday, July 7th, 2005 01:06 am (UTC)totally american, a bit more reserved, a little beat-y as well, which is what it's all about...
no subject
Date: Sunday, March 30th, 2008 10:15 pm (UTC)"The western sun trembles along the edges of waves and the outlines of ships in the distance; the edge of the earth arcs like the blade of a saw."
God, just amazing.