Sunday, March 9, 2008


We drove to Abingdon to see trains and snowy rains and some days we suffered impatience. We ran five miles on the Creeper Trail, drinking hard the dark, smiling in the light, and the ghosts did come... the ghosts did gather round, like the flies, but no one, not-a-one of us lied dead upon the ground. (Strike up the band.)
She said, "Here you are."
"That's not me!"
She adjusted her hat, pulling it tighter over her right ear. "Is so you."
"Is not!"
"But I'm sure of it. You're destined to be here."
"God damn it," said Brigitte, who never liked to take the Lord's name in vain, "it's not me." She took a deep breath and dropped her bathrobe. She'd forgotten her makeup anyway. What had she to cover up? It settled in the dirt. She was raw and exposed. She smiled, and looked around. She luxuriated, as they used to say, tracing her gentler fingers up and down her arms and bosom. "It's all me," she cooed, her hands finding her face. "I'm going to hell. What do you want from me?"
Then the song that no one, not even Jesus expects to be a Jesus song begins.... it's an REO Speedwagon song, and if those guys are Christians, I don't want to know:

It's time for me to fly; I've got to set myself free. It' s time for me to fly. That's just how it's got to be.

I make you love me; you make me cry; I believe it's time for me to fly. Yes, it's time for me to fly.\

I've got to set myself free, time for me to fly, that's just how it's got to be.

I know it hurts to say goodbye, but it's time for me to fly/

i lOvE bRiGiTte

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