“According to the Congressional Budget Office’s alternative fiscal scenario—which it sees as politically more likely than its baseline scenario—the federal debt could hit 344 percent of GDP by 2050. Interest payments would absorb nearly all federal tax revenues.”—Newsweek
To Escape In a Volvo up to Vermont. It is red, or black, or silver, but inside is always black filled with the smell of fake leather, real leather and car air siphoned from from city streets. I can almost chew it in my nose. The rotund dash allowing for just enough leg not crossed maybe sideways? Hunched in uncomfortable pleasure to sleep past these memorized landscapes out the window. Grey. Then Green. Getting deeper as the sun comes out and the air opens up. Crunch of gravel and the insistent shhh! of trees much taller and older than I. Stepping out of that cubicle the land offers an instantaneous shift to freshness though we’ve been humming along for hours
It’s a shock, really.
My muscles are numb and and cramped, I can only stretch and yawn a simple backbend as offering to the bright sky and clean, wet air. Deep ground. We must have passed time on the Taconic, my body tells me, but this is so immediately here Nobody has ever lived in the past and no-one will ever live in the future But here I am, having returned.
Soon to appear in the first issue of M*O*I*S*T MAGAZINE
I graduated with honors, and awards, and quickly found work in Vinoly’s New York office. I worked 60 hour weeks for years there, aligning stainless steel brackets with polished concrete planes, perfecting every detail, refining the craft of isolation. I was beginning to lose myself in the work. My few remaining friends finally gave up and left me. My family seldom called anymore. I couldn’t really blame them. My mother would call and ask how my day went, and I would fly into a rant about heirarchy and design intent and then scoff when she’d say “that sounds nice dear, but, are you making any friends?”.
Head turned sideways: the view out the window. Head aimed straight ahead:
the view on the screen. The plane, located somewhere in between, hurtles
downward through the clouds. One becomes caught in elaborate choreographies
combining body, vehicle, and perception. They involve the overlapping of
image and actuality, pleasure and fear, fixity and mobility. There is the
machinery producing this view, and the more intimate machinery that is
making one adequate to see it. And there are the ways in which one squirms
within these machineries, which may result in the emission of something as
grand as a shriek or as faint as a blush. I wonder what ignited the shriek
and, immediately following, the flash of embarrassment over the
decorum-breaking outburst. Head turned downward: averted eyes.
I am thinking of architectures of landing; I am thinking of parallels to the
screech: the outcry that erupts, that shoots upward, within a tectonics of
descent. The resistance, the counterbalance, the rising against the falling.
I am thinking of that moment when the ordering forces that maintain a body’s
coherency are, however briefly, overcome by its urges, as it slips out of
its own bounds. The way the surface is betrayed by that which emits upwards
from the depths. The poised against the staggered. Eye and ass.