Like Toni Morrison, I tried to take what was in the margin, to bring it to the center.
The racers do their first tenuous laps behind the pace car. The subterranean rumble of their engines grows. I catch a glimpse of the silhouettes poised behind the wheel.
Humming beneath the surface of each of these works is the desire for more.
I considered how easy it was to describe wreckage as something beautiful, like ancient ruins.
The memory of the feeling in the game, and the memory of the feeling in my real body.
Morrison might call the "nameless inscrutable, earthly thing" Ahab's prophetic ability to perceive whiteness as ideology.
History is irreversibly written as a laceration upon the body
The snapshots that Morrison leaves us with are meant to be uploaded, envisioned. Afeterimages of bright lights and collisions of verse.
Being nosy is, in fact, advantageous.
There seems to be not much of a point, or perhaps the point is that the point is not the point.
It's like the whole intellectual coating of the past midcentury is sloughing off at once, the last scarred remnants of a flayed skin.
If you can't be rooted to the land, you might as well be rooted to each other.