We've been driving for just over three hours now, with three still to go before we make our first transfer in Knoxville. I tried to pass some of the time by sleeping. I have the entire row to myself and a book bag to use as a pillow, after all, but I'm not tired. I guess I'm still wired--maybe just nervous. For the most part, I know I'm home free, but part of me still expects the bus to be pulled over by the highway patrol or something. I can imagine myself being led away in handcuffs, for some reason.
I've been thinking it over, though, and I might need to arrange another form of transportation--or at least another form of payment. I may be the only one who can check my debit card records, but I wouldn't be surprised if my aunt and uncle find some way of forcing the bank to hand over records. The bank may do it, too, given the circumstances. For all they know, I could be in trouble, and I'm sure there'll be a missing persons report to back up any argument my aunt and uncle make. They're lawyers, after all, so I'd expect they'd know this stuff. When we stop in Knoxville, I'll have to check with the agents at the station. Maybe I can get a partial refund and pay for my ticket in cash, instead. I'll come up with an excuse before then, I'm sure, but for now, I'm not worried.
I've already had a lot of time to read. I finished a couple more chapters of Murakami before I switch back to Rushdie's Midnight's Children, which I've almost finished. I'd started Rushdie first, before the Asian interest kicked in, but they're both basically magic realist works and flow surprisingly well together. Somewhere at the bottom of my book bag, I have several other books, just waiting to be brought out of the dark canvas and devoured. There's another Murakami there--The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, which I've heard is his best. There's also a worn copy of Coin Locker Babies by Ryu Murakami (no relation to Haruki, apparently), a small hardcover copy of Italo Calvino's Invisible Cities, and a paperback collection by Kenzaburo Oe titled Teach Us to Outgrow Our Madness. There's more than enough here to keep me busy for awhile. At this rate, though, I may catch up on my reading pretty fast. I'll probably have to find a bookstore once I get to LA.
I've decided to take a break from reading, though, at least for a little while. I pulled out the little MP3 player I keep in my bag and listened to music while I looked out the window at a world I barely recognized. It was a large window--a couple of square feet, if I had to guess, and the trees and hills rushed from the left edge to the right, keeping in perfect time with Radiohead's "Paranoid Android." I lost my focus a few times, daydreaming while another world appeared in my peripheral vision. It was an electric landscape of blues and golds, an enormous circuit that existed for only a few moments until I remembered who I was and what I was doing.
I've had to pull out my journal to keep me busy, so I write, that I may hide from a world that doesn't exist. It scares me to think about it too much--maybe only because I let it. Someday, I tell myself, I'll let it in. I'll take a long, hard look at what I see just underneath, and I know it'll be something terrible, something beautiful. But not today. Today I run. I run to make that introspection possible. Maybe I'll turn it into a book one day.
I've been thinking it over, though, and I might need to arrange another form of transportation--or at least another form of payment. I may be the only one who can check my debit card records, but I wouldn't be surprised if my aunt and uncle find some way of forcing the bank to hand over records. The bank may do it, too, given the circumstances. For all they know, I could be in trouble, and I'm sure there'll be a missing persons report to back up any argument my aunt and uncle make. They're lawyers, after all, so I'd expect they'd know this stuff. When we stop in Knoxville, I'll have to check with the agents at the station. Maybe I can get a partial refund and pay for my ticket in cash, instead. I'll come up with an excuse before then, I'm sure, but for now, I'm not worried.
I've already had a lot of time to read. I finished a couple more chapters of Murakami before I switch back to Rushdie's Midnight's Children, which I've almost finished. I'd started Rushdie first, before the Asian interest kicked in, but they're both basically magic realist works and flow surprisingly well together. Somewhere at the bottom of my book bag, I have several other books, just waiting to be brought out of the dark canvas and devoured. There's another Murakami there--The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, which I've heard is his best. There's also a worn copy of Coin Locker Babies by Ryu Murakami (no relation to Haruki, apparently), a small hardcover copy of Italo Calvino's Invisible Cities, and a paperback collection by Kenzaburo Oe titled Teach Us to Outgrow Our Madness. There's more than enough here to keep me busy for awhile. At this rate, though, I may catch up on my reading pretty fast. I'll probably have to find a bookstore once I get to LA.
I've decided to take a break from reading, though, at least for a little while. I pulled out the little MP3 player I keep in my bag and listened to music while I looked out the window at a world I barely recognized. It was a large window--a couple of square feet, if I had to guess, and the trees and hills rushed from the left edge to the right, keeping in perfect time with Radiohead's "Paranoid Android." I lost my focus a few times, daydreaming while another world appeared in my peripheral vision. It was an electric landscape of blues and golds, an enormous circuit that existed for only a few moments until I remembered who I was and what I was doing.
I've had to pull out my journal to keep me busy, so I write, that I may hide from a world that doesn't exist. It scares me to think about it too much--maybe only because I let it. Someday, I tell myself, I'll let it in. I'll take a long, hard look at what I see just underneath, and I know it'll be something terrible, something beautiful. But not today. Today I run. I run to make that introspection possible. Maybe I'll turn it into a book one day.
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