#blackacre

just wanted to tell you, I'm getting notifications when you post again!

The Greeks had it wrong: catastrophe is not a downturn, not a fall from grace. No, it is the sudden terrible elevation of a single point— one dot on the topography of a life.

What do you think about Love, Rosie AU🫣

Just as a bowl must be waterproof, a body must be lifeproof, we assume, as if a life were bound by laws of gravity, always seeking a downward escape.

But what is it that you want? For example, you are in a high-school parking lot. It's summertime, empty, the asphalt sticky in the heat, or maybe the soles of your shoes are sticking, or both. The humid air is visible—sluggish cellophane ripples, epoxy threatening to go solid. A lone white truck guns its engine. Knotted to its tow hitch, a length of yellow plastic rope, thirty feet maybe, a messy pile. The carbon-monoxide reek. The truck starts up, the yellow rope begins to play out, uncoiling, looping, unlooping itself. Maybe this is a game, a kind of dare—the rope now hissing in widening arcs across the tarmac as the truck zigzags, accelerating, coming around. And you find yourself lurching after it, staggering, then sprinting forward even as your mind is still trying to grasp what that rough plastic rope would do to your hands, what the sudden jerk would do to your shoulder joints, whether, once having grabbed hold, you would ever be able to let go . . .

I am always turning in the same idiot arcs, always facing the horizon's white- lipped sneer.