“We have to find a house!” she said. “If we don’t move, we’re going to die…” That’s the stage we’re at now, very handy for focusing the mind. I knew precisely what she meant. The meanness and tension alone would do the trick, accumulated hits that break you just for being here at all.
Take a look at my truck. A hydraulic line ruptured while it was just sitting there, apparently. As soon as I backed it out the other day, I had no pedal pressure. Getting the F-150 turned around 100 yards down the twisty narrow road was interesting but I did, and where you see it is where it stays until I give the thing away. We’ve been a lot of places, that truck and I, but this is where the story ends, down a muddy old road with a dark ancient vibe. Shamans’ curses and bulldozed sacred spots. Subliminal sadness. Suffering without cause. A trick, a metaphor that binds you to a fate, or perhaps the ghosts are trapped and want the company.
This is the strangest Christmas. Send me wings or gasoline, and pumpkin pie.