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FICTION MIXTAPE: “An Erosion” Pt. 1 to Meadowlands — “U8”

July 12, 2012


Fiction Mixtape, where reading and listening conjoin into one aesthetic. This three part series is written by Emma L. Rossen, a sheep herder and part-time writer from the outskirts of Laramie, Wyoming. The music accompanying her words is “U8” from the album Music From Mainzer Straße by Brooklyn’s Meadowlands. 

Press play to begin. 

       You’re not approaching anything, but your driving doesn’t end. There’s a valley to the east, but nothing really to cherish. Once, when you were six, your cousin said she’d give you a hundred bucks to find a license plate for every state. She handed you a map of America and told you to color accordingly. On your way to Maine, you finally found an Alaskan plate in the window of an Astrovan, and the colors were completed. But you never got the money.

       In the distance, a ridge and the sky seem to coalesce into a single form. These stories of myth, how we all relate. You feel alone but know you’re not – there’s Rhea in the backseat, and she’s sleeping soundly, a pillow nestled under her head. You’re not tired, and you’re wondering if just maybe you could make it to the end without resting. It’s impossible, you know it, but could they really imagine it when you tell them, that you actually did it?

       You’re not approaching anything, but your driving doesn’t end. And somewhere there’s a truck stop where other drivers can sleep, but there’s no use. You’re not tired. This energy, how it, even though you’re sitting while driving, elates you and can only be compared to the beauty of Rhea’s silent sleep. In four years, the both of you will remember this as if it were a movie, but something you can never watch again. Once it happens it never comes back.

       Your love is like an erosion. You can see it, but you don’t see how it’s working. In a few years it can either build or diminish, but there’s no use asking questions to answers you don’t understand.

       Rhea readjusts her body, and, in doing so, kicks the back of your seat. You know this feeling. When there’s nothing there, everything can be seen. Transcendence is a metaphor. Symbolism is just simile. When there’s no more anecdotes to share, the two of you mark miles by counting the number of road kill on the side of the road.

       You reach behind yourself and put your hand on Rhea. There’s a warmth here, something you wish would never fade. When she wakes, she asks where the two of you are, and you say it’s sort of hard to tell. You mention all the things you were thinking, and eventually, just as the sun rises over a prairie, she dozes off to sleep, leaving you by yourself, with just you and the space that’s available for anything.


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