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Sunday, June 23, 2019

Eight Hours to Frisco

Some things I write flow out of me. Some things have to be pushed. And some things require a continuous effort of will, like a painful bowel movement.

But the words have to come out somehow and some way, because they otherwise swirl around in my head and clog up my other thought processes. Yes, that toilet metaphor was absolutely necessary.

"Route 20 to Calamus" fell into the third category. It was an idea in my head that took keeping a couple of extra tabs open in my browser to make sure it was in some way rooted in reality. I'd hate for someone to get on my case about the geography, because it bothered them too much to pay attention to the rest of the story.

And a lot of the personal details are true too, like when I fell in love with the Smart car. There's also a point in my life I can easily label as a turning point, where my choice was fairly binary, more binary than usual. It was either Get Help or Run Away. I chose the former, but it could just as easily been the latter, and though I took some liberty with the timeline of when I actually discovered hammocking, I can't help but wonder if I would have found them if I'd gone with the second option instead.

There are some small details to my life, including the forked road I just described, buried in "Route 20 to Calamus," and I doubt anyone other than me will get them all. I may even forget most of them in the weeks and months after writing it. That's not unusual for me, for all the things I've written that have the tag "encoded message" that I couldn't tell you what I was actually trying to say.

Some of them come back to me as I go back and reread them, and others are lost to the miles of driven road.

You can read "Route 20 to Calamus" on my written art blog.

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When I wrote the above, "Route 20 to Calamus" was a one-shot. In the coming days, I discovered there was more to the story. And while the first part may have required pushing, the following parts fell right in line of their own accord.

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