MtltoBeaufort

I run across the blistering highway into a decaying graveyard in my candy-cane sundress and flip flops. This poor man’s cemetery is a hot mess: all dappling light, buzzing wildlife and crumbling stone, overgrown with massive, live oaks, dripping with Spanish moss, teetering over the edge of the marshlands, bone deep in the American South.

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Writers breed here, and no wonder. This part of the world makes me half-crazy with the treachery of its history, the beauty of its vistas and the swirling vernacular of its people, sweltering charm.

Flashes of the buried, I dance with the dead.

Vultures, with aching squalor and wanton desire cry.

My eyes and camera swoop up, my back arches and my heels sink into the composting earth.

I hear a low voice: be careful, B, we’re far from home.

My husband always has my back, but I studiously avoid reason when it doesn’t suit the story and in this swampy catacomb of drama, it doesn’t suit at all.

The vultures converge on the branches of a sky-scraping tree.

I wait for their take off, my burning skin, shrouded in sweat. My camera films patiently.

A wanton gust of wind.

Tall grass tickles the soles and ankles of my giddy feet.

I stand my ground for the money shot, ignore the creeping feeling and yoga-breathe.

The itch is wild, rushing up my shins and calves, interfering in this living dream.

In the land of the dead, it must be a ghost.

I look down. Red ants are crawling all over my legs and they are pissed.

The camera drops, the vultures fly and I lose the shot. I am standing on their hill.

Shoo! Ants! Grab the camera, point up and try and try again. Drunk on teeming life, I reel.

Beaufort, South Carolina

On the Road, Tripping is the first in a series of posts about a rocking road-trip I just took with my in-house composer, from Montreal to Miami Beach. A video, a real film, looks like it’s in the works. Love is an open road.

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GOOD NEWS FLASH: Laying the groundwork for an enduring movement, the struggle continues. No one said it was going to be easy.

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