Route 66: Under Private Skies-AfterwardAfterward
When sight came, it was as sudden and startling as a biblical revelation. He returned from the lake shivering, clutching Celia in her drenched clothes, staring at everything around him. He found, strangely, that he couldn’t find his way back to the dorms unless he closed his eyes for a moment and thought about the sounds and scents and the feel of the ground beneath his feet. Celia guided him home as much as he guided her.
It took him an hour to realise that this sudden influx of light meant that this was no longer his home. He had no place here any more. The joy that had sparked up in his heart began to settle and mingle with a strange sense of loss. He sat in his room in pyjamas and a dressing gown, trying to recover some warmth while the doctor bent over him and flashed light into his eyes and had him read letters off a card, and spoke to him irreverently about the foolishness of getting his sight back by trying to give himself pneumonia. He felt as if he were in sh
Route 66: Under Private Skies - Ch 33.
It was some time before Buz realised that he was shaking. He walked, one hand on Tod’s arm, the other sweeping the cane before him to reassure himself of what was before him, to give him some level of autonomy without Tod having to give him verbal warnings every few minutes. But there was something trapped inside him, some kind of pent up anger or fear, that was making his hands shake as if he were freezing.
He had wanted to hit that man. He had wanted to really lamp into him, to get him on the ground, to pummel his fists into him over and over until he had fallen still. He didn’t think it would have mattered if it had been that man or any other man, perhaps even Tod lying in the dust under the hail of fists. He just wanted to hit and hit and hit until whatever it was inside him had been driven out. Perhaps that was the problem. Perhaps it was himself that he wanted to hit, to push out the churning unknown of fear and anxiety and frustration and anger that had s
Route 66: Under Private Skies - Ch 22.
The town was a series of noises and sensations that Buz had never truly noticed before. Sure he had heard the swell of music or voices from a radio in a gas station or the chatter of folks in the street – but he had never noticed all the little things. How strongly the gas stank when Tod stopped to fill up. The softer smell of asphalt that had started to warm as midday approached. The little noises of the attendant’s feet shuffling on the gravel-dusted ground and the nozzle clattering against the car, and the sharp difference between a woman’s voice just inside the building and a woman’s voice on the radio nearby.
He sat self-consciously stroking his fingers over the handle of his cane, wondering if it were obvious that he was blind. He felt like an animal poised to run, but he couldn’t run because running anywhere but on the track with a guide meant tripping and finding himself face down on the ground somewhere with his palms stinging and h
Route 66: Under Private Skies - Ch 1“For those who love
live under private skies
where stars have mouths
and even stones have eyes.” From Even Stones Have Eyes.
Buz had spent more days than he cared to count in darkness. He had never seen this place that he was now living in. Never seen the faces of the people who taught him and helped him and sheltered him. Never seen the trees that he heard shimmering in the wind or the buildings he used everyday.
The last thing he remembered seeing was a flash of the sky filling his vision, and the sun up there, dazzling his eyes. That was it. He didn’t remember being hit and he didn’t remember falling, although Tod had told him that he had fallen and had grabbed onto a girder and had slipped out of consciousness only when he was being hauled up out of that empty lift shaft. If he had been knocked out instantly he would have been dead.
May as well be dead… That thought still slipped through his mind sometimes, in the morning when he opened
For the TitanicOur eyes as hollow as deep
sea creatures'. We don't look for bones.
A hat will do, a boot lodged in silt.
There was no journey's end for you.
We look with our saucer eyes,
and try to bring back life with rusticles
and their relentless progress.
We search for decay, because decay
means rest, our minds confused
between hubris and the human soul.
So we seek out the Turkish bath,
the grand stairwell, the habitats of the vain.
We don't want to see the bunks of the lowly.
We look for the shark's-tooth tear,
for the bulkhead plates, the mahogany
and the lifeboat davits and the pistons and
propellers and chandeliers and clocks
and the lodgings of the rich, and our
empty eyes pass by the drifters and
their naked bones.