trace

Today at work was silly. This damn judge wouldn't sign for his own damn package, even when he had it in his hands. I came back three times, but his clerks were never back from lunch.

This morning, at my second drop of the day, at 700 S Clinton, I got locked in the building because the locksmith who was working on the door was across the street getting breakfast. We all stood around for a while until finally the manager walked me through some long office and out the side door instead.

Looking at all these maps and lines and sketchy outlines of plans, it gets my blood flowing and my head whirling and there are so many roads and so many destinations so let's just spin blindfolded and point and head in any random direction we choose, til we hit something big and beautiful or just small and lovely like the dirt beneath our feet.

In high school, I taped maps to my walls with my route across the country traced in hot pink highlighter. It faded in the sunlight, but I still know which roads to follow with my finger along those dusty walls.

(Do you remember how easy it was being drunk and lonesome and brave?)