In this abridged epic of local travel, self discovery, and, ultimately, coming in last, we find the entire vignette of the human race set to the telling pitter-patter of well-wrought rain (you can actually smell the eucalyptus in it). The story begins with two characters so alive you want to turn away from the smell their jogging shoes. Even the monotonous sound of their soles slapping down one after the other on the road is terrifyingly honest. Slap, slap, slap it tells us. And in our heart of hearts, in the darkness we find there, we cannot deny, that those shoes have come for us. From the Hemingwayesque opening lines, to its final voluptuous Proustian nostalgia, this thing is illuminating and powerful and original and heartbreaking and fecund in its naked and sweaty semi and pseudo tragedy. Finally a vignette that dares to take on the questions that really matter—Will she love me? Will he love me? Will new shoes make me run faster?
You can’t always get
On a dark desert highway
What you wa-a-ant
I am the author, but the I changes because to achieve invention this I needs to say things that, naturally, I could never say.