alright hey kiddos let’s talk about Connecticut gothic
the people in the little towns are pleasant enough. they can smell whether you’re here from out of town or not. even your slightest mannerisms give it away. to locals, though, their interfacing is effortless. you swear their eyes change colors depending on who they talk to.
what the fuck smells like cow manure? we haven’t driven past a farm for miles. it’s just trees. trees with no leaves, reaching bare for the clouding autumn sky. twenty miles back the trees were green and full and summer was just starting. you don’t question the ground turning orange and red with dead foliage.
there’s the farm that you smelled, but it looks long since closed. the grass is tall and the paint is chipping. there’s a rusted old tractor lying dormant in front of a pile of hay bales. the windows are reinforced with flattened down boxes, some already smashed in. but the smell, it’s too real for it to be abandoned.
here, you’re either twenty minutes from New York, or you’re four hours from the next town with an actual grocery store. after you return from your day trip to manhattan, your town doesn’t feel real. porch lights are on and cars are in the driveway but no one is home. anywhere. you wonder if everyone just got up and left when you did and they’re all on their way back too. but you don’t pass anyone coming home. no one drives by that night. the next morning, though, everyone is back out and about.
“84 through Waterbury, looking pretty slow,” laments the radio anchor. 84 through Waterbury is always backed up. you know because you’re stuck in it. but there’s no accident. people have adapted to how the road shifts. it’s been this way since the dawn of time. the construction crews are nowhere to be found except for that one time at 12:30 in the morning on your way back home from a friend’s party. you swore someone’s eyes reflected your headlights but it was probably just the divots in your windshield from the tree limb that fell on your car a few months back. but now, there isn’t a single reflective vest anywhere. traffic is just standing still for the hell of it, it seems, but everyone has somewhere to be. no one likes it but they all partake.
everyone knows about holy land, but only a few people really know how to get there. you can see the glowing cross on top of the hill as you drive west past stand still traffic. you remember your friend talked about going there once. apparently a little old couple owns the land now and opens and closes the gates in the mornings and evenings. only a few people have been, it seems. but everyone. knows. about. holy land.