salxtina
Well-known member
So I realize there's not much chance of me ever meeting these people again, but I feel the need to at least set this story down tonight and release it into the world.
Last April, I was hitching up to Montpelier, after getting caught in a late snowstorm in upstate New York. A couple pulled over in what I believe may have been a red minivan, and asked me where I was going. We started talking, and in the moment I told them my birth-name. I don't know why I did. I'd been making up names the whole way from Kentucky. The woman in the passenger seat turned around and stared at me, and said that was the name of her close friend who had just lapsed into a coma.
The man and woman lived, I think, in Montreal. They'd been down in western Massachusetts visiting friends, but they were, at that moment, headed back to Burlington, where their friend was in the hospital in a coma. I was exhausted, and when they let me out of the car, I left my sketchbook in the back seat.
I don't even hope to get it back. It contained things I'd drawn and written in some of the most profoundly-altered mental states of my life. And maybe they were meant to have it somehow, maybe it would mean something to them at that particular point in their own journey. Maybe not. But if I could ever meet those people again, just for a minute, that would be a gift. Who knows? Small world.
Last April, I was hitching up to Montpelier, after getting caught in a late snowstorm in upstate New York. A couple pulled over in what I believe may have been a red minivan, and asked me where I was going. We started talking, and in the moment I told them my birth-name. I don't know why I did. I'd been making up names the whole way from Kentucky. The woman in the passenger seat turned around and stared at me, and said that was the name of her close friend who had just lapsed into a coma.
The man and woman lived, I think, in Montreal. They'd been down in western Massachusetts visiting friends, but they were, at that moment, headed back to Burlington, where their friend was in the hospital in a coma. I was exhausted, and when they let me out of the car, I left my sketchbook in the back seat.
I don't even hope to get it back. It contained things I'd drawn and written in some of the most profoundly-altered mental states of my life. And maybe they were meant to have it somehow, maybe it would mean something to them at that particular point in their own journey. Maybe not. But if I could ever meet those people again, just for a minute, that would be a gift. Who knows? Small world.
