Stories.

Last night, I watched Wild At Heart, and tonight I watched The Straight Story. One celebrates youth, and love, and the power of the unknown, the belief in the intangible, the throwing of caution to the blouses of the gods. Two throbbing bloodsacks tearing down the highway with the top down and everything to look forward to. It made me teary, and it made me believe in romantic love again, as the end credits rolled, and Sailor serenaded Lula on top of that beautiful old car. Sometimes I forget, and am cynical. Sometimes I am realistic. Sometimes I think I should buy a snakeskin jacket and fuck off to the dust and the bak-ed earth over West.

Sometimes I figure I'm doing just fine.

The Straight Story, in contrast, is about one old man's journey to make his peace. It is about family. It is about kindness. It is about humanity, from cradle to grave. An old man traveling 300 miles on a lawnmower with a trailer full of wienies and a box of cigars. It made me miss my Granddads and the old lady who taught me a little piano when I was very little. It made me remember Dyffryn Nantlle, like I haven't before. It made me want to phone my grumpy little brother and tell him I love him. It made me want to look at the stars, and listen to the night. But there is just the old orange glow, out here in Stokey, and the whir of machinery.

I like it, the glow, the machinery. But they are tricks, tricks we played on ourselves in this recent age, and they will be gone soon enough. Then it will just be bloodsacks and old men and the stars and the dust, like before, and one day even the bloodsacks will burst, and the old men will lie down.