Because the air among the hills is without echoes, and the soil is blank, and I am always sick and jobless, I miss things, I stumble. And the hills go down a long way into the chalk, and don’t rise up like we were promised.
And art is a vagrant magician anyway, just like we always knew, so that a certain new Kerouac and all-American pioneer (bearded and crude like a carved primitive) in a farm in the American wilderness takes photographs of cattle and his one poor-cloth curtain lit up at dawn and make it feel like the apex. Despite his Big Muthafuckin’ Sad. Which is always nice seen from a distance, because without the gutbusting emotion, depression is piles of great stuff. New toys, trinkets, hot possets, hours in luxurious bed with books, the ministrations of tender angels with beautiful tits. Snowed-in, and encircled by dark, the one candle.
But always he keeps moving – advises himself such. Drinking blood and staring at himself in a shaving mirror wiped clean, his potency alarms and thrills him, and he puts out a hand and feels the rasp of wolfish pelt. Pries open its mouth and feels its teeth, and between its legs. Collects the rumbles that spill from its chest, makes them into arrows and from a banjo string they go arching out – over the open country, away from the blanketted pups in the bathroom, filmically west.
You can find Adam Gnade’s things here.