If you’ve ever been on I-70 west of Salina, Kansas after the sun has gone down, no doubt you’ve seen it. Planted in the middle of an enormous wind farm, a tiny, aged church basks in the light of its own cross, seeming to laugh at the darkness and the hundreds of solemn red lights that blink a slow rhythm on top of each windmill.
That stretch of road has an eerie, desolate feeling to it. After sunset it somehow manages to feel full and empty all at once – like ears that need to pop, or the way it feels to hide in a closet in the dark. When you’re crossing those miles under the shadows of giants you can’t see, a weird sort of anticipation begins to take hold, the kind of anticipation that’s looking for a release. And just when you feel like those red lights are as eternal as the stars above them, this little church with its cross that borderlines on being obscene comes out of nowhere and smacks you in the face.
My imagination got all manner of jacked up when we drove by it this summer, coming and going to Colorado. Now one of my favorite scenes in Hanna, Hanna, One-and-Two takes place in a tiny run-down church in the middle of a broken-down windfarm.
When I was writing that scene, That Moon Song by Gregory Alan Isakov was on perpetual repeat in my head. Quick question: When is it a good time to listen to Gregory Alan Isakov? Answer: Always. It’s always a good time to listen to Gregory Alan Isakov.
I cannot – cannot – wait to share Hanna, Hanna, One-and-Two with you.