Phoebe, I lost my cell phone in Texas, which is why I haven’t called.
But I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I’ve been thinking about Evan and Texas and what happened to Karen and more and more I’m coming to the conclusion that life is short. Even differently biotic life is short, it seems. Some of us—zombies, I mean, but I guess trads too—act like we’re immortal. Nothing could be further from the truth. We disappear a bit more every day. I’ve been thinking a lot, Phoebe.
I’ve been thinking of you.
I know you’re with Adam now. Adam is my best friend in Oakvale; he’s the first trad guy to stand up for me and I’d never do anything to hurt either of you. He gave his life for you, and I will always owe him for that.
But Phoebe…things weren’t over between us. You know it and I know it. I may have stepped aside, but I was lying to myself. I was lying to you. I thought that time and distant would change the way I felt but if anything my feelings have only grown stronger.
I think you know what I’m talking about. I think there’s a part of you—and maybe, right now, it is only a tiny, fragile part—that feels the same way.
When I’m done here in Washington I’m going back to Oakvale. I’m going back to Oakvale because there’s a lot that I have to say to you.
Please listen.
T.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Memphis
We rolled into Memphis the day after a week of heavy rains. The river swelled against its banks, and again I had to fight the urge to leave the van, to leave my friends and just start walking towards the river, and keep walking until the muddy water covers my head.
“What’s with you?” Ty said, just after slapping me in the back of the head. “You look like a zombie.”
I turned towards him just as he lets loose with a manic giggle. Truth be told, Ty is the one that looks like a zombie. He’s been driving for the last six hours, a during which time I watched him consume two cans of red bull and eat two large Snickers bars. There’s only three living kids still traveling with us, and all three of them seem to regard ferrying the rest of us around the country as some sort of holy mission. There’s an odd sort of symmetry among the three—Ty, Chris and Kyle all wear hats or bandannas, all three have tattoos on their mountain-bike hardened calf muscles, muscles which are always visible because all three wear cargo shorts constantly. All three are addicted to the new Stone Sour CD (Ty, when the others are asleep, will sometimes put Hendrix’s “Valleys of Neptune” on the dashboard. They are the sort of athletic, easy going sort of guys that you can totally picture running two dozen miles over rough terrain to get medicine to an injured party lost in the woods. They are the guys you’d want with you in a fight.
“Sorry,” I said to Ty. “I’ll try and look more alive.”
Ty laughed his jangly laugh and tapped me on the back of the head again. Affectionately, I think. Ty was a basketball player; that’s what basketball players did on their way to the bench, tap each other on the head. Before my one-play football career with the Oakvale Badgers, I’d been a baseball player. I think the basketball guys had the better idea.
“We going to try and find Elvis?” Ty said. “I hear he's dead like you.”
“Funny,” I said. “I think his followers believe he never died, which is a little different.”
Ty shrugged. Kyle and Chris were helping our dead friends out of the van—for some reason they thought stretching was as beneficial for us as it was for them.
We made a few stops. Most everywhere we went people were supportive and kind. A girl gave Chris her phone number. An elderly couple brought three dead kids to us and asked that we take them with us, which we were glad to do. The girl who gave Chris her phone number painted a hot pink heart on the side of the van and I started thinking that the world had possibilities again.
We went to the Lorraine Hotel before we left town for D.C. The hotel is a museum now, and if you don’t know what it is and what happened there you need to look it up on Wikipedia. Hard to believe that happened within my mother’s lifetime.
On to Washington. Wish us luck.
“What’s with you?” Ty said, just after slapping me in the back of the head. “You look like a zombie.”
I turned towards him just as he lets loose with a manic giggle. Truth be told, Ty is the one that looks like a zombie. He’s been driving for the last six hours, a during which time I watched him consume two cans of red bull and eat two large Snickers bars. There’s only three living kids still traveling with us, and all three of them seem to regard ferrying the rest of us around the country as some sort of holy mission. There’s an odd sort of symmetry among the three—Ty, Chris and Kyle all wear hats or bandannas, all three have tattoos on their mountain-bike hardened calf muscles, muscles which are always visible because all three wear cargo shorts constantly. All three are addicted to the new Stone Sour CD (Ty, when the others are asleep, will sometimes put Hendrix’s “Valleys of Neptune” on the dashboard. They are the sort of athletic, easy going sort of guys that you can totally picture running two dozen miles over rough terrain to get medicine to an injured party lost in the woods. They are the guys you’d want with you in a fight.
“Sorry,” I said to Ty. “I’ll try and look more alive.”
Ty laughed his jangly laugh and tapped me on the back of the head again. Affectionately, I think. Ty was a basketball player; that’s what basketball players did on their way to the bench, tap each other on the head. Before my one-play football career with the Oakvale Badgers, I’d been a baseball player. I think the basketball guys had the better idea.
“We going to try and find Elvis?” Ty said. “I hear he's dead like you.”
“Funny,” I said. “I think his followers believe he never died, which is a little different.”
Ty shrugged. Kyle and Chris were helping our dead friends out of the van—for some reason they thought stretching was as beneficial for us as it was for them.
We made a few stops. Most everywhere we went people were supportive and kind. A girl gave Chris her phone number. An elderly couple brought three dead kids to us and asked that we take them with us, which we were glad to do. The girl who gave Chris her phone number painted a hot pink heart on the side of the van and I started thinking that the world had possibilities again.
We went to the Lorraine Hotel before we left town for D.C. The hotel is a museum now, and if you don’t know what it is and what happened there you need to look it up on Wikipedia. Hard to believe that happened within my mother’s lifetime.
On to Washington. Wish us luck.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Companions
I know it has been awhile since I've written last. Texas...things happened in Texas. I can't even put them into words yet that's how terrible they were. The images are there in my head, like they were etched there by a ragged fingernail, but my body and my hands resist pressing the keys that would turn those images into words.
Our first few stops in Texas were pleasant...but nothing had prepared us for what was going to happen. Nothing. The look in their eyes...
That was weeks ago. We--those few that remained--stopped in New Orleans afterwards and although that city opened its heart to us we really couldn't enjoy the hospitality. The news never reported what happened; the story was squelched. When we tried to explain no one could really understand what it was like. Not unless you were there. I called Phoebe, and told her as best I could what had happened. If I don't find the strength to write about it soon--or if something should happen to me--I've asked her to help me get the story out. But without Karen to help her, and with everything that is happening in Oakvale, and don't know that anyone would listen.
All I'll say now is that the little caravan that we had has now been reduced to one vehicle, our hand painted van. There's only a few of us still traveling; some went back to where they were from, others we had to leave in Texas. We had to leave them in Texas and they won't be returning.
"I'd almost forgotten what it was like to not exist," Darius, one of the guys who'd joined us in Denver said when we were miles away from the attack. It was the first thing that any of us had said in a few hours.
We're on our way to Memphis now, a stop I swore we'd make to help three of our brothers and sisters who need our help. We're doing almost all of our traveling now at night, and during the day we have to be careful where we park so that our living drivers can get some sleep in the van. The miles roll past and I'll think about people I thought I knew and then I'll wonder if they were ever really there at all.
I feel like my whole life right now is staring out a car window, looking for something that that I'll never find.
Our first few stops in Texas were pleasant...but nothing had prepared us for what was going to happen. Nothing. The look in their eyes...
That was weeks ago. We--those few that remained--stopped in New Orleans afterwards and although that city opened its heart to us we really couldn't enjoy the hospitality. The news never reported what happened; the story was squelched. When we tried to explain no one could really understand what it was like. Not unless you were there. I called Phoebe, and told her as best I could what had happened. If I don't find the strength to write about it soon--or if something should happen to me--I've asked her to help me get the story out. But without Karen to help her, and with everything that is happening in Oakvale, and don't know that anyone would listen.
All I'll say now is that the little caravan that we had has now been reduced to one vehicle, our hand painted van. There's only a few of us still traveling; some went back to where they were from, others we had to leave in Texas. We had to leave them in Texas and they won't be returning.
"I'd almost forgotten what it was like to not exist," Darius, one of the guys who'd joined us in Denver said when we were miles away from the attack. It was the first thing that any of us had said in a few hours.
We're on our way to Memphis now, a stop I swore we'd make to help three of our brothers and sisters who need our help. We're doing almost all of our traveling now at night, and during the day we have to be careful where we park so that our living drivers can get some sleep in the van. The miles roll past and I'll think about people I thought I knew and then I'll wonder if they were ever really there at all.
I feel like my whole life right now is staring out a car window, looking for something that that I'll never find.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Desert Highway
Driving through the desert for seemingly endless miles, working our way back east. We stop every couple hours or so, so that the living among us can stretch their legs and breathe. There further we go the windier it gets, so that at our last stop you could actually see thin curtains of sand rising and falling away. The living people don’t like to stand out in it for very long, but I wish that I could feel the grainy air abrading my skin. We wear sunglasses, even at night, when we are outside. Not to look cool but to keep the sand out of our eyes.
I could look out at the desert sky all night and get bored. Sometimes I think that, rather than go on to Washington, that I should just gather up as many zombies as I could and more them all here to the desert, where there isn’t anyone to bother us. We could move into the Grand Canyon. Or maybe Death Valley would be more appropriate. We don’t need to worry about water, and while the wind, sand and sun would most likely take a toll on our skin, it wasn’t like we could feel sunburned. We’re immune to rattlesnake bites, too. We could find the ghost towns of the old west and move right in and create our own town.
The thoughts make me smile, because the idea of being able to get away from everyone that hates us certainly is appealing sometimes. But I know it isn’t the answer, not really. It might be nice to have a secluded corner of the world, but the world will always turn its eyes on you, eventually.
It would be great if zombies established some communities outside of “Normal” society—in the desert, at the poles, under the ocean. For all I know we could colonize the moon—we could go Anywhere we could be safe and free. But only if it was by choice, not because we were forced there or in hiding. Maybe if things go well in Washington we’ll have some of those options.
Those were some of the thoughts I had as we moved sleeplessly through the desert.
I could look out at the desert sky all night and get bored. Sometimes I think that, rather than go on to Washington, that I should just gather up as many zombies as I could and more them all here to the desert, where there isn’t anyone to bother us. We could move into the Grand Canyon. Or maybe Death Valley would be more appropriate. We don’t need to worry about water, and while the wind, sand and sun would most likely take a toll on our skin, it wasn’t like we could feel sunburned. We’re immune to rattlesnake bites, too. We could find the ghost towns of the old west and move right in and create our own town.
The thoughts make me smile, because the idea of being able to get away from everyone that hates us certainly is appealing sometimes. But I know it isn’t the answer, not really. It might be nice to have a secluded corner of the world, but the world will always turn its eyes on you, eventually.
It would be great if zombies established some communities outside of “Normal” society—in the desert, at the poles, under the ocean. For all I know we could colonize the moon—we could go Anywhere we could be safe and free. But only if it was by choice, not because we were forced there or in hiding. Maybe if things go well in Washington we’ll have some of those options.
Those were some of the thoughts I had as we moved sleeplessly through the desert.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Membership Drive: Success!
Wow! In just a little over a week, you helped us get over the 2000-strong mark! We're hovering at 2001 at the moment--thank you!
And there's always room for more...
And there's always room for more...
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