desert wind

I27 south of Amarillo is the flattest, deadest stretch of highway in the flattest, deadest landscape in Texas. Out of this blasted moonscape, our bus carries a load of Democrats to more hospitable climes. As we pass into Tulia, I remember that I have a copy of Nate Blakeslee's book in my messenger bag. It is a totem - like the candidate signs, the buttons, and the t-shirts, a reminder of the type of corruption that we hope to begin to defeat.

I havn't smoked in years, but, outside the bus, when Leslie hands me a Clove, I struggle against the gale to light the thing. We're standing in a huddle with blue Hillary shirts. A clove cigarette, a vote for Obama: nothing ever goes quite as planned for anyone, but that doesn't mean we can't all find a way to win.

Spacedark