Having slept in a turnout in the backseat of her car, she awoke before dawn, shivering, hungover, unsure of where she was. To her surprise, the sodium lights on the billboard she had parked beside were no longer on. Wind gusts, the smell of rain, the raw, unbroken landscape like a field of ice. If this had been a movie, someone would've been sitting up front, someone who held her fate in his hands. Though she couldn't see them, she could hear birds passing overhead. Why do they even bother to cross so vast and empty a space? At the moment, none of the usual explanations made sense. Her head ached, her feet were cold, she couldn't find the words. And the man up front, what did he think? What would he do? Must something still happen before the end?
Sherod Santos - 1948-
A Feeling of AND, a Feeling of OR
The window in mid-summer raised, and where the screen intersects with the frame, a web of circular tensile silks radiating outward from the central lair where a yellow spiny-backed spider waits, its six thorn spurs protruding rose-like from its abdomen, its casing imprinted with a wax seal ring. Attached to the foundation lines, clusters of white cottony tufts, lures, I suppose, for insects, and suspended from a single thread, a much smaller egg-shaped spider (the male?) swaying imperceptibly in the air: an image from childhood that reminds me of "childhood," a word that so often crosses my mind that it long ago ceased to mean anything other than a period of time when things occurred not to me so much as him, and all of them linked only by AND. As in the span of a single moment, the afternoon after the all-clear when the sun rose on a bloated, fly-stung pygmy goat in a gravel slough he crossed to wave to a woman with a Red Cross band on her arm. AND: the red pinball bumper cap ("5000 when lit") in a tented arcade on Brighton Pier when he was twelve.