FORTY MILLION DAGGERS
I have a sudden sense of completion today. I worked out at my old high school's fitness center for what's probably the last time, finished the last page of Honeymooners in the car before driving home, drank three liters of water, and generally felt at peace. Honeymooners is a suddenly quite famous novel by a Pittsburgh writer who was the inspiration for the protagonist of Michael Chabon's Wonder Boys (the professor, not James Lear). If you remember, Prof. Trip Grady was trying to finish a hulking monster of a book . . . oh, but I've already said too much.
It seemed to take a long time to get into, maybe because the fact that I was reading the book seemed like odd coincidence, not some kind of desperate, heavy-handed, fated gesture. But by the time I read the last page, I kissed the dustjacket and drove on into the night. When I'm at school I hardly even sit in a car, much less drive one. There's a definite amount of skill to country driving, especially at night: one must always turn off one's brights when a car is coming from the opposite direction. This can be done by watching for some change in the light on the hill or along the power lines; there are always curves and usually snow and fog. Last night I saw a whole prism lit up by truck headlights on top of Nettle Hill, the second highest point in Greene County.
I found my Dad's records today: Buddy Holly, Learn Morse Code, Johnny Cash, B.B. King (translucent red vinyl).
I have a sudden sense of completion today. I worked out at my old high school's fitness center for what's probably the last time, finished the last page of Honeymooners in the car before driving home, drank three liters of water, and generally felt at peace. Honeymooners is a suddenly quite famous novel by a Pittsburgh writer who was the inspiration for the protagonist of Michael Chabon's Wonder Boys (the professor, not James Lear). If you remember, Prof. Trip Grady was trying to finish a hulking monster of a book . . . oh, but I've already said too much.
It seemed to take a long time to get into, maybe because the fact that I was reading the book seemed like odd coincidence, not some kind of desperate, heavy-handed, fated gesture. But by the time I read the last page, I kissed the dustjacket and drove on into the night. When I'm at school I hardly even sit in a car, much less drive one. There's a definite amount of skill to country driving, especially at night: one must always turn off one's brights when a car is coming from the opposite direction. This can be done by watching for some change in the light on the hill or along the power lines; there are always curves and usually snow and fog. Last night I saw a whole prism lit up by truck headlights on top of Nettle Hill, the second highest point in Greene County.
I found my Dad's records today: Buddy Holly, Learn Morse Code, Johnny Cash, B.B. King (translucent red vinyl).
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