Last night C. and I sat at the kitchen table and did a jigsaw puzzle that depicted a hallucinatory American scene of hardware stores, red schoolhouses, saloons, and chapels. At first our work was half-hearted as we slowly sifted out the edge pieces, wondering if we wanted to commit to this project. An hour later, we were assembling the pieces in studious silence, like we’d been hired to do a job. There’s a special kind of pleasure in putting together what’s been broken.
This afternoon I went for an ugly and lonesome run along a rural road. The music cut out of my headphones for a moment, and I heard myself panting on an empty highway like something in a nightmare.
Now I’m parked at the gas station where I can pick up a signal. Received a message that a cousin down south has the coronavirus. Russia says they’ve created a vaccine called Sputnik V. The Democratic nominee for president selected his running mate: the confusing prosecutor who slit his throat during a primary debate last year. Everyone seems to have an opinion about this, and for a moment I feel like I should have one too. It’s an exhausting puzzle, trying to figure out which parts of this world to let into your head.
There’s beautiful heat lighting tonight.
