the eighties in Arkansas

What am I to do with all this ‘80s music, for it rushes me into an expansive golfo mistico of thought? I see us flying over dirt roads, fast as lightning, the pebbles crushing under the merciless gyrating wheels. And the dry dust arises, it always arises.

Left and right sprawling fields and woods give way to this tawny dirt road. It is impossible to look to the rear; the dust smothers it all in a thick, suffocating and odorous haze. I know it is all there, simply hidden temporarily from me. It is saying: look onward, that’s all there is.

And I press upon your right hand; worker hands that freely bestow gentle touches and so much love, endlessly smothering love. It drives me mad. I simply want to be free — to do, God knows what — but I also find myself wanting to be pressing upon those stubby little hands.

Will you, baby please, stop that soulful ‘80s music? Honestly, it is driving me absolutely mad; tickling me from underneath, turning upside down my dead soul. Heavens, oh my, why?

We never went to Tennessee: I dreamt of Memphis and told myself: thas is the sweet South; this is the sweet South. And I hated myself for it.

Now, I know none of it would have been what it turned out to be: a whimsical and frustrating instant of delight had your stubby little hands not been there.

Of a sudden we are flying upon built-up roads, making our way over bridges. Oh how many rivers and creeks lascerate this deliciously green land! Are we lost? What does it matter? Ah devil take me, this ‘80s music!

And I miss it terribly.