Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Riders of the Sage
My son and I are in my mother’s old boat of a Lincoln. I’m driving. The road is straight and wide, and its only purpose, it seems, is to part the flat expanse of dust and sage as we approach a snowy mountain range. Then, after what feels like a mile or so, the car surges and the gas pedal goes to the floor. And instead of mountains ahead, we’re presented with a series of square brown doors, framed by rough timbers, with old-style photo album corners. The doors are open, and I have to drive through them at an ever increasing speed — and then, after we clear the last, all is as before.... Until the second time, when it happens again, with even more doors, and I think the windshield might be a computer screen, and that even the mountains are simulated — but not us, no, not my son, and not these hands on the wheel. We are real.
In the Forum: blurfy spuffle spuffle.