PLACES
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Concord, NH Highway brothers Interstates 89 and 93 cut a swath through New England, together. Coordinating their efforts, they run from the Canadian border through Burlington, VT then onward to Concord, NH. After that it cuts across too many Massachusetts towns, each progressively more intent on selling their colonial qualities. So forget about everything after Concord. In the scientific fiction or intent screenwriters, it’s the stretch of 89 between Vermont and New Hampshire that’s of good worth.
After the picturesque New England fall, when trees flush themselves all bright hues before hibernating for the winter, there comes this extent of
winter that is all about fall, only without the leaves and the visibility and the tourists. First it gets damp, and turns the pretty leaves to squish, and then the wet kids start to give it all off (the colour). Maybe they pick it up by stomping about them on the shit-routes waying back from the Dreamwerks schoolhouses. Andy McDowell mothers and catholic nannies should be picking these children up (in three year old, matte coloured variations of the same auto), but instead they wallow in the rain, so that they get this blushed effect and so that the gray pants become a greater gray and the green blouses turn to green thread co-ops (sprawling to contain the threat of dear gnawing at the crops). What the fuck? And this all outside of “the” snack shop.
“Come home quick, the provolone is climaxing.”
That’s the message being left by a mother in the Concord laundromat. Why isn’t she home? There are thousands, in not hundreds, of dryers in this place. This could be the bread and margarine industry of New England. Provolone and Laundromats don’t seem to mix, but neither should a lot of other things. Fraying black dresses and flowing gray hair? Homemade dresses and motorcycles? Log-posted street lamps? Five grades of gasoline? Buffalo jerky at the counter? This is not even obscure stuff, it’s overt and doesn’t draw much attention. Nothing wants to draw attention in the middle of Concord. Specifically this woman and the provolone. In text, it’s hard to get the tone but it was said with the same enthusiasm as one of those long-distance plan marketers. The puzzling part is how the structure of her words eke out through the delivery. A way of life. That’s what the soda cans said. At least of the local supermarket brand (where are the chains).
Accidents are rarely fatal on the highway between Burlington, Montpellier and Concord. People drive too slow, harnessing their energy and acceleration for the pike later along. When people finally do make it to these New England towns, they seem administered by the spirit. In Burlington everyone is ambiguously hungry, so they wander about fittingly. In Montpellier, it’s easier to make three rights then a left so people stop for a soda. And they look like they want to help. And then in Concord, everything blends this paisley white. And despite this, the shapes of the flakes of falling snow are clear as clarity feel the form of the frozen mulch mush is a topographers fantasy.
It works dynamically in that corner. The interstates are really just a simplified vein structure to rechannel the constant E that runs through New England. Colour carries all through the year; it just changes its state.
The end of the peel...
... neopolitan seperatist ice-cream
