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27th April, 2014.

DESTINY is a feeling you have that you know something about yourself nobody else does. 

The picture you have in your own mind of what you’re about WILL COME TRUE. 

It’s a kind of a thing you kind of have to keep to your own self, because it’s a fragile feeling,

and you put it out there, then someone will kill it.

It’s best to keep that all inside.  – DYLAN.

Before falling asleep last night, I laid hands on my body and healed some roots of anguish. Kept my eyes closed to the thunderclap world overhead, though every part of me wanted to open. I have to give myself a break. Later, some different witchcraft moved me to the window, and showed me her luminosity through broken blinds.

It’s 8.30am now, at the Polk Motel. The rampant storm untamed through the night, a morning sky still punches her flashes across this electric parking lot. Rain drums the coffee from two foam cups, down my wrists, down my sleeves. Rain like it is everything we ever needed, forever. In room 7 my darling friend is cleaning her teeth, practicing ukulele chords. We have been asleep for eleven hours, smoothing out weeks of exhaustion. We have languished in separate beds, white sheets, had baths, brushed hair, separated laundry from unseen clothes. Today we will be Sunday school scrubbed and smartened. New women.

I have apologised to my body for the whisky double nights. I think maybe we needed to unravel, be drunk, unclean, sleep in our car, in our dirt, just so we could feel the renewal of this morning.

Nashville was an unclean moment. All our paper plans flew up into the air. We sat with tension and discussion, pacing over new moves. Watched the papers fall down again in new order. Tried to see each other’s point of view. That becomes the new intention, always – and we both take it to heart. We are the same nomadic body on this journey, and kindness is strong, even in division. We are each other’s more important half.

When we left the Mountain a few days back, we ran over my guitar. I knew it was my fault – I propped her up against the boot, as my intuition danced circles behind a forehead that was too faraway to hear. Her body put up a fight. Harper believed it was her fault – she was behind the wheel. It didn’t, doesn’t matter though. We felt no panic. Maybe it’s just time. 

A banjo picking man walking by said, We’ve all done that. It’s happened to the best of us, and we loved him for it. Besides, you’re on your way to the city of music.

In Nashville, as the sky is fading, Harper insists on paying for half of my new guitar. I feel sick about it, and make her promise she will learn to play it too. Learn the dulcimer, the banjolele and ukes we’ve been picking around the store. Become a country music star with me, and live in one of these sprawling mansions with trees all around it and porch-drapes rippling in the breeze.

Nashville skyline, Nashville evening. We dress in the street, I wear a short skirt. Buy beer, watch music, have nowhere to go, be, or stay. Drive around, feel the city’s vastness, get lost. Search for country music in the wrong districts. Dive into the belly of the beast and start to dance in Layla’s Hillbilly Tavern. Three hours later, four, five?, we are still there, still moving, arms flailing, smiles plastered over cheeks. A lady comes and tells me, keep dancing, it makes everyone smile. I think of Shua at Twin Oaks, and his body movement theories. This is the best therapy we could have found tonight.

After the music dies we turn down an offer to stay at the keyboardist’s apartment, and wander to the underground parking lot at the Hilton hotel. Tuck legs under steering wheel, pull sleeping bags around us and dream in the concrete underworld until car alarms and voices welcome in the morning. Above us the guests pay $400 a night to sleep. Our total comes to $20, and as Harper laughs, that was not the worst sleep I have had on this trip.

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