“I will create a world from the past,” she said, and she painted an audience on the walls and danced for them every Saturday night.
“Everything’s a mystery and I’m just another small part of it,” said a woman at a gas station in Barstow.
It’s becoming a nightly habit: scrolling through desert scenery while fantasizing about horizons, speed, and possibilities.
People keep talking about a return to “normal,” as if there’s such a thing.
My grandmother was tradition personified, a west side Polish Catholic who served Saturday night dinners of kielbasa and fried smelt.
There are advertisements on street corners and bus stops for events that will never occur.
I wonder if I’ll ever get accustomed to the uneasy combination of sunshine and masks, as if we’re afraid of a perfect spring day.
You can never see further than your headlights—an old slice of trucker philosophy that makes more sense with each passing year.
