Driving
I loaded a 15-foot U-Haul with our furniture and pointed it southwest.
The sun went down at 8:49pm, the moon is in its last quarter, and tonight I’m wondering if the health of a society can be pegged to the nerves of its motorists.
The Lake Forest Oasis Service Plaza on Interstate 94 is one of my favorite moments in America.
A ten-hour drive out of New York into the woods of the Midwest.
While researching a few details for my novel this afternoon, I came across a declassified CIA document about detaching from time and space through experiments with “color breathing” and “energy balloons.” There’s also a discussion about weaponizing Tibetan metaphysics and techniques involving the frequencies of an air conditioner.
Sometimes I dream about tollbooth operators, the half-glimpsed faces with cigarettes nodding on their lips, their left hands forever clutching a quarter and a dime in change.
You can never see further than your headlights—an old slice of trucker philosophy that makes more sense with each passing year, the way I move through life, pretending that I know where the road is heading even though I never have a clue.