An arts and culture aesthetic that has a certain unexplainable mood.
Bag
If you think about it,
plastic is a miracle—
a material malleable,
shaped to endless forms.
It can be hard or soft,
light as air,
bursting with color,
or clear as glass.
So in many ways,
it’s such a waste
to use it for something
as disposable as a bag.
Photo credit: Daniel Shipp
Going up, up, up.
And I’m feeling higher than a kite,
taken away into to the sky,
lost within the endless height.
Weightless, boundless, soaring free,
higher still—
gravity a weightless ghost.
Going up, up, up,
Earth—a memory slight.
Every town has a spot. It serves ice cream, hot dogs—sometimes chili fries, though here in Canada, that tends to be poutine.
Now, I know what you’re thinking: that sounds like a fast-food place. And yes, it is. But it’s a subgenre I can’t quite put my finger on. I don’t even know what to call these joints, but I know what you’re thinking—you’re probably thinking Dairy Queen. And you’d be right. Most of the time, these places are Dairy Queens. But sometimes, they’re not.
Sometimes, they have picnic benches out front. Sometimes, roller-skating teenage girls take your order, gliding up to your window, jotting it all down, then returning with a tray they perch by your door.
On Saturdays, you get the old muscle cars, engines revving, horsepower on display. Wait a little longer, and a younger crowd rolls in—the hot hatchbacks, the Ford Fiestas and Honda Civics. The ones who’ve watched a little too much Fast & Furious.
What I love about these places is the bizarre architecture—the kind you see nowhere else. Huge wraparound windows, buildings held up by thin little posts, lights blazing from every corner.
I never know what these places are called. I mean, yeah, fast food—but what do you call this subgenre?
The burgers always taste different. The ice cream is extra soft. And if you listen closely, you can almost hear the music—wow… wow…—echoing from the cars.
Photo credit: Thomas Jordan
7-Eleven
When I was a teenager,
7-Eleven was the most important spot in my town.
It was practically my second home.
Almost daily, I made the trek—
30 minutes to walk there,
30 minutes to get back.
I’d go in,
grab a chocolate bar,
maybe a Slurpee,
look at a few movies,
pick up a few knickknacks.
But what mattered most
was what was right outside.
Other teenagers,
gossiping about goings-on,
flirting with girls.
Folks would come by to peddle weed,
and sometimes, right by the side,
we’d get out a deck of cards
or maybe a Game Boy,
play and replay till sundown.
We’d play till that florescent 7-Eleven sign
almost intermingled with the swoons of sunset,
till the sky transformed—
orange, then red, then darkness.
And when it got too cold,
or we got hungry,
we trekked back
from whence we came.
Photo credit: Abby Graves
