Connecticut is woody-very very woody
You could search your life in vain throughout the fair state of Connecticut without ever escaping its leafy omnipresence.
I don't mind trees, even in great numbers I am unintimidated by their stoic slow moving cycles, I fear them not. They speak to me of time beyond me and usefulness beyond my ken.
Their character bleeds into the human inhabitants that live amongst them, the people of Connecticut are close grained, they have visible knots, they endure and take time over things , if it were not for the abundance of labour saving devices and swollen throid pickup trucks and garages full of power tools they may well have been hobbits. Hobbits that keep Harleys to ride helmetless on fair days (through the trees).
So I find myself on the back of a powerful motorbike, roaring through winding forest roads and contemplating as one does, as the wind rushes past and the sun dapples and vistas emerge and are replaced in turn by others much like I suppose the inner workings of a dough mixing automatic bread maker that wakes you with its aroma in a Connecticut kitchen which is itself located inside a beautiful converted church in the country with a large river murmuring by outside and a boxer puppy demanding attention, affection and more than prepared to give in kind.
And as the road lulls you and your mind wanders you remember past, not so distant times where your mind was shrouded with a dark dank pitiless mindset and there seemed no future worth what little stamina remained and all the past served only as a lens to focus all that was pointless futile and meaningless on the shriveled husk of your deceased self worth.
You transpose these clotted thoughts with the sensations brought about by being on the back of a motorbike traveling aimlessly and joyfully through the forest and you have to wonder about lifes vast emotional topography.