Exhausted. Worn out. Collapsed on the desk. Fire limping along. Piles of papers. Books. Books, books. Open, torn, thrown. Piled on everything. Compasses, T-squares, crude measuring devices. Broken animal cages line walls. The doors all left open. Pencils bit in half. Ugly photos of women from the east. In each one they hold a toaster or other desperate appliance. “I can hold. See how I hold? Strong grip. Tell me about prize. When is it mine?”

Piles of shoes that do not fit, but, “better hang on to these, could be the answer.”

Broken and defeated. A giant, floor-standing globe. Big countries colored in black. Bird skeletons.

The whole scene pervaded by a sense of “not being up to the task, of not coming to terms with it. To have wrestled with the very idea of America itself and been thrown off like a green boy. Tried it all and still it stands, untouched, silent from afar, but, when pressed hard against its side, you can hear the wails.

Chris Weagel

Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn't. He can't stand that shit.

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