..Remember Breadloaf..

(There are references to pages. They are incorrect, due to the original being handwritten. Please forgive the numerical mistakes. The original was four pages, even.)

Kagoatweed’s Rant: R&R, and be inspired, but please, don’t steal ideas.

I had the sudden urge to sit down in the middle of the road and write, despite the decent possibility of being plowed-down by a tractor. I would’ve too, even with a tractor making a u-ee as I thought, but my bladder reminded me that I had yet to take a much needed break.

Fortunately, on the way back, I realized that even with the mountain breeze, the sunlight and a rocking chair were too irritable to ignore. Now, even as my fingers freeze, I am happy. Contented.

There’s a bird in the tree above me whom I can hear quite clearly, and he is twittering along with every other echo in this valley. I get smiles from people as they acknowledge my advantageous spot. I laugh inwardly.

Even for me, an optimist who writes morbidly, the controlled tempo of the rocking chair is too perfect. Combined with the murmur of people I’m only half listening to, even I can’t think of anything dark. Even dark green is too dark, unless it’s one of the pine trees on the horizon. And what a rolling, tumbling horizon it is. I have an urge to describe it as the breasts of a woman, but that is vastly overused, so I shall suppress further elaboration on that point.

There isn’t a single cloud in the sky. It’s pure blue, just a hint lighter around the mountains. It perfectly accentuates the rare purity that emanates from this place. The air is so clean here. Home, five hours south, isn’t particularly dirty, but here it smells… serene. I know that’s not really a smell, but hey, artistic license, right?

Ohhhh, there’s a smell. Wood fire. I don’t know where it’s coming from, but if I could just bottle it up, oh! I love that scent. I’m not the only one, you know. Some of my friends and I once mentioned that if ‘wood fire’ was a cologne scent, not only would we wear it ourselves, but tackle anyone else who wore it. But, I guess that would take away from the specialty of it. The scent alone, slightly bitter and forever fleeting, is attached to memories for almost anyone. Girl Scouts actually have some good stories when you get them all together late at night around a fire.

Well, there’s a mood breaker. A silver tube barreling down a road I almost forgot was there. FEED COMODIDIES it reads in black capitals. With its 18-wheels, it is a beast. It doesn’t belong here among the gurgling of some insect behind me, and that same little bird, now hopped to a different tree.

There’s a breeze coming through. You can actually hear it before you feel it. It travels through the mountains, whispering, then through the field, running like I did last night in my journey for firewood.

All the buildings here are painted butter yellow, for lack of a better adjective. Plus, the window’s shutters (which I’m sure don’t work) and the same dark green as the trees. It’s a striking contrast that is startling at first, but becomes reassuring as you adjust to it. Evidently the color combo is tradition. Maybe it has something to do with Robert Frost. There’s a lot about him around here.

Everyone is so unique here. I’m sitting here in a skirt (with jeans under it), and two people just walked by that were drastically different. One girl had a winter hat on and a thick jacket to match. It was buttoned all the way up to her neck, and she still managed to look cold. The other girl was barely half-clad. Her blue short-sleeved shirt was rolled up and tucked under her bra, and she pulled her hair up in a tight bun. She even dared to wear flip flops. Some people are complaining of the cold. She says it’s perfect.

Myself, my fingers are stiff and I keep getting goose bumps, but that’s no fault of the sun. It’s the wind. But the warmth that is donated but the sun is the perfect contrast, allowing me to be neither hot, nor cold, nor bored.

I just realized now that I have three pages of perfectly pointless prose, and a single sentence swarming with alliteration. I don’t really know what I’m doing, or why, but I suppose this piece will be fun to look back upon. I just have this need to write.

The dorm houses here all have names, but I have yet to see a pattern. At first, it almost makes sense. There are three identical dorms in a row dubbed Cherry, Birch, and Maple, but that’s where it ends. Cornwall, Earthworm, Tamarack, and Larch are all here, too.

This place just begs to be inspiring. Plus, I swear the birds around me are having a feathery orgy. They’re all tweeting like they just sniffed the fumes of something they shouldn’t have. Besides that, they’re chasing each other about in an oddly human way. They were just chasing right above me, but now they’ve moved on. They’ve probably migrated to the big pine tree across the road, where they can have rampant bird sex in peace.

Ah! They’re back! Wow, that was quick. There has got to be some girly bird rapping her feathers at her boyfriend who can’t make it last.

I think I’ve sniffed the same stuff these birds have, since besides this being completely pointless, it’s wrong on more levels than Tamarack has floors.

There’s a spider I just tortured that I just realized is missing two legs. I swear it wasn’t me.

To be completely honest, I really want to stop writing this. I feel like there is another really good story I could be writing, but my pen just keeps returning to the page. I s’pose this would be a good place to end, bottom of the page and all, but I dunno. It’s gonna be hard – I’ll really have to concentrate. Let’s try.