Dead Highway, Walk On By, Lesson
  • Deep inside a desert night, maybe somewhere in Arizona, driving a hundred on some straight, dead highway. It's seventy-five degrees outside and all the windows are open. Life is one continuous gust of petulant wind. We don't say a word; all of us are tired. I've been driving so long I've forgotten our destination. Accelerating downhill, the engine blows up in three beautiful splashes of opaque sparks. I put it in neutral and just let the potential energy flow out of us. We inch to a halt at the bottom of the wide valley. Not a word.

  • Walking through an old-fashioned Smalltown, USA with my father. We cross the street and enter a cafe that seems very familiar. I'm hungry and ready to eat but we just keep walking; past the empty tables, past the hollow-faced cashier, past the sleeping cook, past the restrooms, out the back screen door. Walk on by.

  • After hitting the snooze button, I fell half-asleep and received a lesson about my intuitive sense. Upon waking I could not describe to myself what the lesson was. It seemed to be a wholly other kind of knowledge, impregnable to normal thought. This itself was the lesson.