September 13, 2015
A large blue sign is lit and it reads Trail Motel. Multi-colored lights dangle from the railings in a sort of half-assed attempt at looking whimsical.
The 1976 Mustang in front of me is covered in what I would describe as liberal paintings. A waste of a Mustang.
A dew lingers in the air, which is warm. This place has a genuine sweetness to it because it is snuggled in a valley in the mountains in the most unassuming place possibly ever. I think that I wouldn’t mind staying here for a while.
I could buy the Mustang and have it be a joke with myself.
The man who manages the Trail Motel is named Don and he is across the parking lot smoking a cigarette right now. He told me he has been here, doing this, for a year. Chain smoking and cleaning rooms.
My first impression of Don is he feels nothing towards everything. I like this about him.
White, is his hair. White, his shirt. White, his pants. White. The ashes of his cigarette. Don is vibrating high in all white.
Maybe, just maybe, Don is a holy man. I’d like to imagine so.
And maybe, just maybe, because I am staying at the Trail Motel that Don has managed for a year, yes, maybe, I too am holy. I’d like to imagine so.
Holy me in a holy place with holy Don.