Five miles down the road from my house, is the piece or road known as the S curves. When you round the first turn, heading towards Missoula, there is a bare piece of mountain exposing the layers of sandstone and limestone that has formed and faulted over the centuries. Its a cross-section that my geology professor would know a lot about; to me, it is just piece of history staring me in the face every morning. Today, the orange rock is muted from the fresh dusting of snow, but the cracks are still prevalent.
Its 7:42am. Eighteen minutes until I have to be at work, and I still have twenty miles of icy roads to go. Traveling at eighty miles an hour down a freeway, passing semi-trucks, and swarms of Subarus, my little Saturn struggles to stay in the left lane from the northern gusts. It isnt foggy today; the sun is rising through the thick snow clouds above, casting a pink tinge to the gray. From a distance, you can make out the borders of the Rocky Mountains.
Years before I moved to Montana, my relationship with the Rocky Mountains was just a short affair: I had visited in Colorado for a few days to camp in the Denver area whilst President Clinton met with world leaders. The mountains were sharp and frosted with white powder that could have been there for decades. The Rocky Mountains were the physical border of experience and adventure, and I was straddling the summit. In a few weeks, I was booked on a plane to Oregon, but all I wanted to do was live next to the river and hunt for gold.
Missoula is situated in a prehistoric lake bed surrounded by the eroded peaks of the Northern Rockies. There are no dramatic peaks in the valley: those are saved for the Mission Mountain Range, to the north, and the Bitterroot Valley, to the south. As I drive past the billboards for motels and chain restaurants, I imagine Missoula as a small town I used to drive through on RV trips with the family: I recreate the idealism I once had to small stores with guns on the walls and running tabs; I pretend to have that feeling of jealousy for all of those families that live in the historic homes next to the University and have white picket fences; I imagine to relish in the idea that their lives will never be my reality.
Clock in at 8:04am. The entire day is spent chatting about real things with Beth, my one lesbian friend in Missoula. She is brilliant. She is beautiful. She is who I want to be in ten years. She is moving. I find it interesting the reasons why people leave: even though her ideals say for her to stay, she finds herself pleasing her partner and moving to a conservative city in the middle of Montana. I will be alone.
At 3:00pm, I find myself longing for adventure and think about driving to a random location. I decide that destroying the printer would be more logical; I dont do either.
My mother gets really upset when I say fuck in public. Even though shes right next to me, I feel the word slip out in front of two elderly women wearing coral blouses. The smile. I scorn. My mother blushes. Since then, my internal monologue only consists of strings of fucks. I only wish those ladies could hear me.
Its 7:42am. Eighteen minutes until I have to be at work, and I still have twenty miles of icy roads to go. Traveling at eighty miles an hour down a freeway, passing semi-trucks, and swarms of Subarus, my little Saturn struggles to stay in the left lane from the northern gusts. It isnt foggy today; the sun is rising through the thick snow clouds above, casting a pink tinge to the gray. From a distance, you can make out the borders of the Rocky Mountains.
Years before I moved to Montana, my relationship with the Rocky Mountains was just a short affair: I had visited in Colorado for a few days to camp in the Denver area whilst President Clinton met with world leaders. The mountains were sharp and frosted with white powder that could have been there for decades. The Rocky Mountains were the physical border of experience and adventure, and I was straddling the summit. In a few weeks, I was booked on a plane to Oregon, but all I wanted to do was live next to the river and hunt for gold.
Missoula is situated in a prehistoric lake bed surrounded by the eroded peaks of the Northern Rockies. There are no dramatic peaks in the valley: those are saved for the Mission Mountain Range, to the north, and the Bitterroot Valley, to the south. As I drive past the billboards for motels and chain restaurants, I imagine Missoula as a small town I used to drive through on RV trips with the family: I recreate the idealism I once had to small stores with guns on the walls and running tabs; I pretend to have that feeling of jealousy for all of those families that live in the historic homes next to the University and have white picket fences; I imagine to relish in the idea that their lives will never be my reality.
Clock in at 8:04am. The entire day is spent chatting about real things with Beth, my one lesbian friend in Missoula. She is brilliant. She is beautiful. She is who I want to be in ten years. She is moving. I find it interesting the reasons why people leave: even though her ideals say for her to stay, she finds herself pleasing her partner and moving to a conservative city in the middle of Montana. I will be alone.
At 3:00pm, I find myself longing for adventure and think about driving to a random location. I decide that destroying the printer would be more logical; I dont do either.
My mother gets really upset when I say fuck in public. Even though shes right next to me, I feel the word slip out in front of two elderly women wearing coral blouses. The smile. I scorn. My mother blushes. Since then, my internal monologue only consists of strings of fucks. I only wish those ladies could hear me.
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