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Where tall tales, real and imagined, absurd and compelling, are served with a smile
Excerpt from The Vanishing Point, an original work by Jeff Moore
THERE IS AN EARNESTNESS about a plane taking flight. It is as if the entire collection of metal and wire and moving parts knows that it is defying more than gravity. That it is somehow a fraud, always on guard against the ultimate exposure. When I am actually awake and observing the initial ascent of an airliner, I often find myself anxiously rooting for it to achieve a zenith that will allow it to stop holding its breath and cruise closer to normal. I imagine that as it gains altitude, it looks back over its shoulder and realizes how commitment defines it and desperation drives it to not fail its flock, the passengers. Or that it, too, is terrified at the thought of dropping out of the sky. A self-contradicting aviophobist.
Thoughts like these – coupled with the dreams – make it fair to presume that I don’t like to fly. That is not the case, however. I don’t mind flying at all. The process is a system, no more, no less. Millions of things in a day to day existence are founded upon the integrity of systems. Sure, the system may fail. But agonizing over that statistically minute possibility wasn’t going to help keep the plane aloft.
The reality was that I love to drive. Particularly alone. I’ve gone on trips into remote areas of the country and south of the border where it truly feels as if the map reached a point in the rearview mirror and stayed behind while I carried on. That kind of road-bound unknown is very liberating. I see things and people that ninety-nine point nine percent of the earth’s population never will if only because there really is no reason to. For me, that makes those sights special – the fact that they only are what they are, nothing more. There will be times when I’ll find myself rolling down the macadam without seeing another car or other sign of life for hours. What freedom. Just me and the smooth hum of rubber on asphalt while a veritable time warp is traversed. Be it desert, mountain, forest… At times like those there are no voices for miles. But the terrain itself is speaking to me like Shakespeare. Read more of this post