The full scale shape of a crushed and baled pickup truck (but not the truck itself) carved and etched from a twenty-eight-thousand pound block of stainless steel so that it would appear that there might be air in there but really it’s metal all the way down.
Rachael, you remember how we watched Fidel Castro speak about the five-year plan on TV in the hotel room in Playa Ancón Cuba in 2002. How in five years Cuba’s problems would be fixed and all would be well and all manner of thing would be well?
It is never very clear where it is that you are when you walk across these strange landscapes of the future, whether you are in the land of the dead, or in some speculative corner of the multiverse or that your life were actually to change in a way you would not anticipate.
When the neck hairs rise on folks when you walk in the door of the boutique coffee house for a four-dollar coffee there on the corner of fashion and destruction, in which appearance supersedes and systematically kills off interiority, you shouldn’t be that surprised.
From across the sullen wet field’ll walk a man hitting himself in the face and cursing the Lord God. Even you, who’ve seen the lions tear up the gazelles for no good reason, cannot turn away from the burning city.
A famous newscaster indicates to you Iraqi war tourist sites. The country is once again, as Bono would say, falling into the arms of America. Or is it the arms of America that are falling into Iraq?