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She has packed a book for the bus journeys and a couple of sets of clothes, a necklace and a sketchbook. She wants to spend the summer elsewhere, a city, another small town, just somewhere else. She hopes she can hitch a lift north-west, so she sits on the dry grass by the highway in the dry heat of July, waiting, watching the cars pass, headed in her direction without her. But she will not follow their trails; instead, she gets up, brushes the dust from her skirt and begins to walk. She beats the road with her boots and spells out her own spontaneous poetry through the asphalt ink ribbon, the landscape a fresh sheet fed into her typewriter. |
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CONVERSATION
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