Plainfield and Floyd

7-23-05
9:32 a.m.

There is an indescribable beauty today. I am on the interstate with Molly, Molly’s mum, Molly’s aunt, and Molly’s sisters. To the west it is overcast, but to the east the clouds all look like they’ve been sucked up by a vacuum cleaner… but I suppose that’s not a pretty enough image. They look more like they’ve been summoned upward by the will of the cherubim, so they’re all slanted toward the sun. The sun, while seeming smaller and paler than is typical, gives me warmth and light by which to write.
We are still in Iowa. The daylight is not full, but instead casts a thin beautiful luminescence over the fields of beans and corn. From the hilltops it seems as thought these fields, cast in light of chilling gorgeousity, go on forever. They look as though one could reach out, touch them, and be forced to marvel at their softness.
We pass a town called Plainfield that is tiny. Its visible components are one miniature water tower, a cemetery, a baseball diamond, and a field for American football. Typical Iowan small town. It takes us about two seconds to pass Plainfield, and we have returned to the middle of nowhere. The landscape is dotted with old white houses, huge red barns, and tall blue Harvestore silos. I think for the first time of home, because there by my computer I have a lamp shaped like a Harvestore silo.
Some people crave familiarity. I have never counted myself among those people. But I might be one.
Nashua is bigger than Plainfield, but still discernable over the treetops are the lights of the ball diamond. We are in Floyd county, and the instant my Coldplay CD finishes, I’ll listen to some Pink Floyd to celebrate.