To the transcribers of Genesis, Mabel reflects, “sword of fire” was probably the only way to put the weapon of Eden’s guardian into words. Had they shown up this century, they might have called it a “laser.”
They’re carving words into the earth, or she thinks so, from inside the overturned bus. Runes maybe. The writing is also razing the town, but the thirty-foot white faces don’t flinch from bullets or screams.
She used to pray for the Rapture; she’s not sure whether this is it. All she knows for sure is that, finally, the angels have come to Heavener.
In 1964 the state government began patrolling to protect Goblin Valley from vandalism, and Ted’s mother got cancer. They arrested him trying to fix these problems; they thought themselves lenient, in suspending the sentence. During his overnight in jail, after all, he had become bereaved.
Ted has his own children now and they’re not sick–he’s careful about that. But he watches the news, watches people. The world got sick instead.
Cotton rope and moonlight. Ted wears black clothes and quiet feet, tracing his cat’s cradle, encircling evil. He pulls it tight around their little stone necks. He’ll choke them all.
Leonard and I were in Wyoming just long enough to stop for gas off the Laramie exit.
The Vagina Monologues was my second college play, and The Laramie Project the second-to-last. They were the only times that I felt meaningful, in drama, loud and bright and kicking teeth. Every acting student in this decade has had those feelings about those plays. That doesn’t reduce their significance.
Laramie was an offhand pilgrimage, a place to throw the ashes of a twelve-year dream. I was done with acting. I’d begun to write.
Leaving, I bought a local newspaper: the Boomerang.
Thursday, January 26, 2006
“I almost moved to Sammamish,” says Melinda. “In the Nineties, before I met your father.”
“Sammamish is a waste.” Rory kicks a rock off the edge.
“Don’t,” Melinda says absently. “It was a waste then too, but–intellectually. People who were embarrassed about never reading Pynchon, but knew enough to pretend… I would have been a big fish there. And in a nasty way, I might have liked it.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
“Yeah,” sighs Melinda. They’re turning east, putting the sun behind them: Redmond’s shadow scuds over pools of slag glass and wide rust plains. Rory’s rock hits the ground.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
“They–how do they shit, for one thing–”
Mackie shrugs, hopping out as the rotor slows. “Quantum!” he shouts. “Remember, don’t stop watching! Even if it spits!”
Ned wants to watch the sky–surely the FBI’s close behind–but he doesn’t. His quarry eyes him with nervous disdain and tries to walk away, which fails, of course. Ned wraps his arms around one neck.
“Hear that?” says Mackie. More helicopters. “You ready?”
“I don’t think we can ride these things!”
“Just close your eyes.”
Ned does, inhaling the rich smell of Quantum Llama. Together, for a moment, they fail to exist.
If you time it right on East Colfax, late at night, the traffic lights get a slow pulse of red and green. The idea to drive at exactly forty, so you don’t have to stop at all, but Agathe likes to play differently. Gun it through the first one on its red edge and see if you can make it to the next, the next, all the way to the 70 ramp to catch the tail of the pulse before. Agathe whoops, then, and so do you: in the cancer that is Aurora, you, only you can go faster than light.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006