a traveler, the purer form, someone who collects impressions, dense anatomies of feeling but does not care to record them.
She thought she understood the tourists. You travel somewhere not for museums and sunsets but for ruins, bombed-out terrain, for the moss-grown memory of war and torture.
Someday you’ll be a grown-up … and then your mother will have no one to talk to.
Maybe it was the hip-sprung way she moved, high-assed and shiny, alert to surfaces, like a character in a B movie soaked in alimony and gin.
You could put your faith in technology. It got you here, it can get you out. This is the whole point of technology. It creates an appetite for immortality on the one hand. It threatens universal existence on the other. Technology is lust removed from nature.
It’s a Cadillac all right.
Ordinary moments make the life. This is what she knew to be trustworthy and this is what I learned, eventually, from those years we spent together. No leaps or falls. I inhale the little drizzly details of the past and know who I am. What I failed to know before is clearer now, filtered up through time, an experience belonging to no one else, not remotely, no one, anyone, ever. I watch her use the roller to remove lint from her cloth coat. Define coat, I tell myself. Define time, define space.
That’s why people take vacations. No to relax or find excitement or see new places. To escape the death that exists in routine things.
It was amazing how often kind-looking people turned out to be crazy. He wondered gravely whether things had reached such bad state that only crazy people attempted commonplace acts of kindness, that the crazy and the kind were one and the same.
This is how the dark-skinned kid seems to open to the world,how the bloodrush of a dozen strides brings him into eloquence.