Saturday, March 25, 2017

sam and willow revisited: To(ward) Tucson

because the physical act of writing somehow creates (and edits) "files" in some record-keeping location in my brain.

and what's ironic - by the way - is that to the best of my recollection the first essay assignment I had in high school, so it woulda been some freshman year composition 101 sorta class, was about my questioning the necessity of rewriting.

something prob'ly along the lines of what a drag, I got it right, right here. 

not, obviously.

made abundantly clear four years later (speaking of freshman years) when my comp 101 (or equivalent thereof) professor, the late joseph gilde, disabused of my notions of having-got-it-right on a regular basis, each paper, until, finally, the last one, the final.

that I aced, I guess, given how it changed the grade I had going into it.

I recall "nice" notes he left in the margins that had previously come back bleeding, so liberally had his red pen spilt upon my awkward syntax and dangling participles, too many commas and other weekly ailments.

I regret a little that I didn't seek him out for a conversation.

I suspect he might have seen a spark of talent he knew required discipline, and that I would respond or not.

anyway, back to effing rewriting. funny, ha ha, now I'm practically pathological about it.


so what came to me this morning (following a kind of reminder meditation about allowing for more of a hex. 2 approach, being receptive to being receptive) is that not only is sam circling the southwest in search of his missing 16-year-old daughter because that is where the burned-out car was found and because the detective with whom sam is in occasional contact is of the opinion of that probability, but because of a recurring dream sam has.

haunting, of course.

and he meets willow and her dog spike (micro-chipped, thus allowing shithead ex-boyfriend to track her down) on the road; they're hitch-hiking.

she's fled southern california (in ex's car), abandoned it, made her way to phoenix to hole-up with a cousin, gets job and starts saving enough money to get her (and spike) to austin. she's a singer/songwriter who can find a few chords on the acoustic guitar she carries around in its case. 

when sam picks them up he will remove from the rear-view mirror the miniature soccer ball we were made aware of earlier (at the middle-of-nowhere gas station, when the 18-year-old girl sam stares at while she's filling up, asked about it and sam's answer referenced his "daughter.").

willow saves a little, needs to leave earlier than she'd like, as cousin and cousin's boyfriend have a drug problem. she buys a piece of shit car that breaks down in the middle of the desert. sam comes upon that before he finds willow and spike farther up the road.

sam drives a few-year-old s.u.v., teched-out and plush.

willow's a little surprised at how immediately spike is cool with sam, 'cause spike doesn't really like anyone but me, she says.

he offers to take them back, tow the truck to tucson.

willow is thankful but wonders about spike in your ride. sam preps the back for the dog, who hops in, tail wagging. sam has bottled water, gives one to willow and fashions a bowl for spike to drink from.

(after sam assesses the likely malfunctions of the piece of shit car willow has purchased when he drives them back to it.)

and there'll be the scary encounter with the probably-not-so-helpful creep that pulls over where willow's car has come to its failure. spike ain't about him at all. when the man becomes menacing willow takes a picture of him and his car, says loud enough, "send." this and that and the guy leaves.

we meet the handgun willow has in her backpack when she removes it for easier access when she sets them to hiking.

sam suggests willow take a picture of him, his truck, the plates and send it to someone, which puzzles willow. but that's sam trying to ease whatever fears willow might have.

S please.

W okay.

and she does.

and away they go.

W do you live in tucscon?

S (two beats) no. 

and thus does the drive begin.  

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