Telling the truth– about everything that’s slant: kids and co-parents and our own parents, our bodies, our resurrection, our stumbling selves.
I said it is a sort of comfort to feel a little ill-at-ease, to ride a little on the edge, to be figuring this out: it keeps me awake at the wheel, and I don’t want to miss this view, this landscape that is like eastern Montana: it’s not what you drove west for, but of course it is.
The flatness, the strangeness of time stretching and collapsing. The eons overlaying one another so that the ghosts of glaciers crush us and then vanish before we realize what has happened.
The openness means all things are equally possible: maybe the world ends before we run out of gas; maybe it never does and there’s no destination, only the road that keeps slipping away beneath our wheels. Maybe Godot is driving and we just didn’t recognize him, and that’s the cosmic joke: this is no stranger than looking in a mirror, staring and staring, trying to see yourself blink, trying to hear yourself tell the truth all at once.