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| (visual by Ed Yourdon via this license) |
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dispatch eighteen
Split Montana Gold by Bart Schaneman
debuted 15 January 2010 | kept 864 times | click to keep
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1
Out and away then and down the stairs and onto the street. Shaky, heart flutters. Too much smoking. Looking for Charlie’s, someone told me about it, up the street. And thinking about her. And thinking about her. But gone.
So I’m taking my time crossing streets, alone in a town full of strangers. A town of people at the mid-20s frontier. Some men. Some girls. All out and all alive and moving in the same Emerson circles. If that’s not too obscure. I stop two guys on rollerblades. They tell me Charlie’s is next door to the venue. In my quick escape I looked too far down the street. Put long distance blinders on, a good walk anticipated.
Fuck going back down that sidewalk. Instead I light a cigarette and head to the Old Post. Now I’m writing there, drinking wheat beer at the end of the bar. So totally put together. Jack, buddy, I’m there with you. I’d scan this handwriting scribble and show you. I stop only for sips.
This place. Missoula. It resonates with the sounds of pickaxes and horses hooves, a sound of American history, of men carving out lives from the land and the mountains. Montana, especially this town, lines up with me. Feels good. And Jack says it. “It was the best of all moments.” It was the best of all moments. That’s a sentence.
I’m not lonely. My head is full of her.