about a decade ago

by blake ellington larson

I decided, upon walking the street in a little town north of the mississippi river, to buy a van, to drive it home to oakland, to be a roadie for my friends’ bands. also, to get the fuck out of missouri. I was visiting my mom. It was a fight or flight moment. I mean, shit, the van was only five hundred dollars. what could go wrong? my driver’s license was expired, the van was not registered, had no tags, no license plates, it was a cold october morning and I said fuck it. on the way out of town, I stopped at my friends’ place, where he made me a couple of CD’s, for the road. I promptly bought a CD player and some speakers. And with barely enough gas money, save for coffee and peanuts, an engine and break lines that were slowly corroding because of the salt on the ice, think cold colorado, windy wyoming, utah’s mountainous cliff drops, think splayed freshly cut deer, in half, think hunter s. thompson incarnate, think death mission, think the walls are crumbling… and though I am not on an adventure, an adventure which, at the time, opened pages, for my writing, and headphones and scribblings and a faucet poured out, was it trauma was it losing myself was it what I had been searching for the whole time, I know not. but I wrote for months. and I found that If I could just keep writing. If I could just keep listening. I could make it home –