The continents were unaligned while travelling northward. Through the Midwest snacking on donuts, moving farther away from home and closer to landmasses without real borders. The dog, Pyotr, you and I left with a case of water bottles. Our coats lay on the back of the seats. The car seemed to move infinitely leisurely even though we were going over the speed limit. It felt slow because every time I blinked, the same horizon was there, and I was still sitting exactly the same way before my eyes had closed. Although our position and the continents were barely shifting, it never seemed like the three of us did.
When we finally stopped, we hiked up the mountain hill and overlooked its neighbors. Spying on the backyards of giant boulders, the Labor Day BBQ of rocks.
Staring out, I only wanted to return to the car and keep moving. Because when driving 85 mph feels motionless, imagine what standing stagnant feels like. Even though the mountains surely are moving, I can never seem to feel it pull at my feet.
We leave and I drive. You fall asleep, so I turn on the music that I actually like. I wish to be more aerodynamic, tangling my hands up in a triangular position, just trying to make the vehicle go all the more faster, but as ever, it’s disappointing.
“You’re going to be okay. I’ll put my lab coat on and say it again if that will make it better.” You don’t hear me because you’re effectively traveling through space and time unconsciously. I mean it sincerely, regardless of the state you are in when it is spoken. Life has gotten the better of us recently. A funeral is not a reason anyone ever wants to be traveling east.
I focus on the road.
Where the ocean used to sit, now lays Kansas
The limestone build
The acidic response
I start crafting a work of writing in my mind and thinking of my geology class. It seems as if each professor believes his/her specialty of study is the most fascinating and relevant in the world out of all the other areas of study. As if, by climbing one branch of life, you could discover how the whole tree works. Every professor I’ve ever taken a class has been this way, with one exception: geology.
I grew interested in it or maybe it grew interested in me. Like a foreign object in nature and after a period of time, wildlife grows despite its intrusion. Somehow geology became the most interesting source of knowledge for its humility in recognizing that the history of the former earths are only as relevant as the mark it leaves on the present one. Maybe I’m not articulating it right, but there was something about all the movement in the world for millions of years that struck me as being both irrelevant and benevolent. The simple changes of time that I never saw, but i can feel the aftershocks. Like there are so many Pangaea’s in our lives. We’re always coming together in thoughts, in what we feel, in relationships, yet tectonic plates, earthquakes, meteors, changes in vegetation and security, volcanoes, and ash are always driving a new force to reposition us. We are moving constantly. I never feel it. But in a million years or a few terribly long seconds, maybe I’ll be able to trace over the where my geography shifted. I’ll see the landmasses that formed from one specific schism. Everything is geology.
You wake. Following my trail of thought, I ask.
“How do you navigate these peaks of discontentment and contentment?”
Your simple statement is unhindered by the sleep in your eyelids, “Probably with a map.”