America Breathing

Short prose. A drive in a small town.

Author's Note: There are weird capitalizations and words and phrases all throughout whatever this is. I did it because I wrote it the way it came to me, and this is how it came to me, grammatical incorrections and all. I'm not sure if this is poetry, or a short story, or something that would be better off in my journal. But it's here, and I like it.

We went to the mall today.

They always set up these flags on Independence Day. There are little white crosses at the bases of them, and they have the names of people who died in different wars for different reasons so that America remained either the Free or the Beautiful, or maybe just the Land of the Brave.

There's a series of orange signs by the side of the road whenever we drive to georgia. They enthusiastically proclaim that the Best Beef Jerky in the world is just ahead. Why the Best Beef Jerky in the world is just sitting by the side of the road is beyond me. Or why there is so much of it. You'd think something so wonderful would eventually run out. That's the Rule about good things, isn't it? i've never seen anyone buying any of it. i reckon it just sits there in it's Wonderfulness, on the opened tail-gate of a rusty pick-up, like all the Mysteries of the universe waiting to be revealed. Maybe one day i'll try It. Maybe one day i'll discover all the Mysteries of the universe.

My grandmother drops off recorded church services on vhs tapes to what are called the Shut-Ins, the people who are too old and sick and unhealthy to go to church on their own. i've watched one of them. The sound isn't as good. Even the people who supposedly have angel voices sound like shit on those crappy vhs tapes. What the Shut-Ins get is a crappy church service filtered through an even crappier modern convenience. But they live and die for those fucking recorded church services. They sit up in their musty recliners in their plastic breathing tubes waiting for my grandmother to bring them their used jesus. Yeah, it's depressing. i never go in. They always want to see my grandmother's beautiful grandchildren, but we refuse to go in there. It smells like smoke and piss. It makes you glad you're fifteen years old and your biggest, hardest problem is not wanting to read that stupid little pamphlet so you can get your permit.

Sometimes i think that this place isn't so bad. When you drive down the old country back roads you can practically hear the twang of a slow country song seeping out of the pine trees and the bean plants, in neat rows. The world slows down just enough. Enough for what, i'm not really sure, but this place goes slow. i don't suppose it has any reason to go fast. People speak slow, people drive slow, people work slow (but hard), people walk slow, people think slow. It's a Slow Atmosphere, and sometimes i tell myself that i'm fast. Which probably isn't true. I grew up slowly, i have no reason to think i'm fast. i think slow. i think like fog rolling, lolling around, a slight misty film carefully swimming above the grass, pissing dew.

This place may be slow and boring, but you can see the Stars, even when the street lights are on.

July 4th, 2001 Savy-anna Manhattan Love Story