chase scenes serial #22
passed by Chicago several moments ago and I have a wealth of supplementary episodes to implant in the frenzy of indelible ink. I have not determined yet whether I shall terminate composition at the end of the trip, when I reach Atlanta. Although it would give gravity to the project of writing this it would also sacrifice some episodes to memory, where they will disintegrate.‡ Medora was a ghost town. Apart from the Americinn and the Badlands Motel across the street, which appeared to be hosting the ‘Women’s Retreat’ at the community center, and the sole eating establishment, The Iron Horse Saloon, the town was empty and closed until the season began. We were dreadfully off-season. When we walked into the saloon, through a screened in patio on which were stacked tables and chairs, slid to the sides, the beerlights were covered with dust and the plank floor was uneven, the two women behind the bar looked rather put out and surprised, like when Dustin Hoffman first enters the pub in ‘Straw Dogs’ or when the Three Amigos first enter the pub in ‘The Three Amigos.’ Although, looking back now the whole state seemed to have a sort of cold “you should know how things work ’round here’ posture to it. From the young lady cashier at the Copper, no, no, the Trapper’s Kettle to the
‡ This is the penultimate page. The morning of your last day traveling is always, my last day traveling is always far different than the arrival home or the actual end of the trip. It contains a certain listless emptiness, a pointlessness to my actions, will any of this be remotely memorable, the trip is effectively over. It was like the afternoon before I left, a somewhat nagging fear of the flight bolstered by a localised ennui, this place, for the next few hours, has nothing left to offer me, and I can contribute little to it. So I find this penultimate note. It is Sunday evening, almost exactly the same time one week later as I penned the above lines on the airplane. As in all travelogues there is a sort of race, either with in situ writings where the text constantly chases you, me, through actions and locales while I jog in place, or the post facto writing in which you chase your memory. My goal, after deciding that my joy to be home last Sunday night should equal my thrill of being dislodged for three (3) days, was to make two (2) texts, or in fact one (1) that was three (3), the two (2) are in situ and post facto, but the materials they address and toy with are neither, they are a race against my greater memory, an attempt to latch associations onto more recent events so that they will not dematerialize. I don’t know what will happen to any of them. All of these moments they ride and the places they transfer over are in flight, they must land somewhere.
