What Direction Now? Life at the intersection…



Unlocked, a long-awaited landmark arrived in this moment no longer pending the added “R” to my two-year name, no one is to blame for what the newer you’s read here but me, and I will see the chains off of each post personally, though I will miss the daily Switchfoot shot in the soul, all vulnerable and unprotected now, but free to be seen without disclaiming every idle key stroke and offhand sigh…


I don’t know how a cold-weather city so old still can’t deal with snow, brown slush rivers flowing into lakes at the roadside, rising over my shoetops and  lapping out away from the curb with no ferry ready on which to ride across, this much is true, Ukraine has made it easier to leave with this sudden season madness, wet shoes make for dry faces, at least in this case…


Jeff was from Scotland, formerly from Boston, he drank alone but was friendly enough, and the drummer wore his sunglasses when he stood to take the picture with Grace and Val, the place called “Route 66” hung with American biker kitsch and jumping with the jams of  a cover band, the one with the singer screeching his way beautifully through AC/DC and the keyboardist who may not have known all the words to “Imagine” but tried his best to make it look easy enough, the garlic was piled on the homemade suharyky served with a southwest sauce and flair by the camo-clad beskirted waitress who was less impressed with all of us than the cowgirl hostess who may have thought Val was some kind of a celebrity—or at least more of one than she actually is—when she walked in with her rugged bearded boy-toy, both of them trailed by a black-coat behemoth who could only possibly be security, Pat and Chris hustled at the fooseball-pool tables, in the sense that they tried hard, but couldn’t quite win much more than a self-celebration contest, and while the smokers stood outside talking to Jeff before he left, Grace watched in some sort of rapture the long-haired, flowing man dancing with his short-haired lady-friend, Celtic was beating Spartak on the television screen and then they weren’t, and when she came back, Val couldn’t stop talking about how much Luhansk was such a blind nightmare for her…
The chains that hold me back inside are the prisons of my mind…

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What Direction Now? Life at the intersection…

About Andrew.

Andrew Cartwright grew up in Indianapolis, IN, but has lived over the years in such places as Denver, CO; Fairfax, VA; and Rivne, Ukraine. He is a former nonfiction editor for both Indiana Review and phoebe; he has also worked for the intersectional feminist journal, So To Speak, and the national literary magazine, Electric Literature. His work has appeared in The Normal School Online, Copper Nickel, Esquire Ukraine, Literary Hub, and Word Riot.

For more information about me and links to other writing, visit my author page at cartwriter.com





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