| Journal & Weblog | Write to Save Your Life | May 10, 2003 |
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"Present Present" posted Tuesday, February 18, 2003: The day after Valentine's was appropriately grey and cool, the intensity of the past week having burned through the night sky leaving it ashen and weary and in atmospheric poverty, yet striken with the resolve of a welfare mother on her fourth straight shift while the sun burned, a molten ball of silver in her chest. And the intensity was still there, still between us, I imagined. (The walk to his truck from the hotel was too short -- ten, maybe twelve steps and every step was a twentieth of a lifetime.) But then, sometimes I wake up. My mind expands into a space I didn't know existed, a vacuum of thought or perhaps space that exists for the sole purpose of being filled by thought, and I approach the back of his green 4-Runner with tires that have been worn thin by miles and miles of merciless pavement, the dust and dry mud forming fractal patterns on the rear bumper, the back panel, the glass frosted by morning, bitter exhaust forming fractal patterns in the air around my face, and Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk pushing through the vehicle into my head. I encompass our entire history with thought and realize that despite having plotted the y-intercept and determined slope, projection into the future is futile. I am here, now. « |
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