4:30 A.M. McMinnville Oregon 1/27/82
In this town there is a time when nothing is moving. Between the closing of the bars and the opening of the gas stations is a dead zone. Interstate truckers and travelers drone by on the highway just outside of town, while the old main street remains deserted, bright in the artificial illumination of streetlights and storefronts.
And the mannequins stand and stare across at flashing beer signs. And the horn of a distant freight train sounds as steel wheels clack across track joints.
The street carries on a robotic life while everyone sleeps. The traffic lights change with the thumping of relays, the transformers hum and the neon lights buzz, and a rotating sign squeaks like a perpetually closing door. The smaller sounds get louder at night.
The all-night restaurants and convenience shops are isolated islands of glare. And the cats and dogs wander across the lawns and through the schoolyards.
In the newer part of town, a shopping center sprawls amidst its acres of asphalt parking space. And the hidden speakers blare on all night with distorted renderings of music from a period decades past.
And the mannequins stand and stare across at flashing beer signs. And the horn of a distant freight train sounds as steel wheels clack across track joints.
The street carries on a robotic life while everyone sleeps. The traffic lights change with the thumping of relays, the transformers hum and the neon lights buzz, and a rotating sign squeaks like a perpetually closing door. The smaller sounds get louder at night.
The all-night restaurants and convenience shops are isolated islands of glare. And the cats and dogs wander across the lawns and through the schoolyards.
In the newer part of town, a shopping center sprawls amidst its acres of asphalt parking space. And the hidden speakers blare on all night with distorted renderings of music from a period decades past.
[Editorial Note 2015 (Age 52): I have produced very few examples of what I would consider good writing. This is because I have no process and no discipline. The only good things that come from me are those which seem as if they created themselves and demanded that I bring them out. This is one of those things. There were very few preliminary notes, very few drafts. It pretty much burst forth from my head fully formed, like Athena from the head of Zeus. This rhythmic and alliterative little piece of prose also reflects my lifelong fascination with empty spaces. More specifically, I have a fascination with empty spaces normally occupied by people, but encountered alone when all others have abandoned them. I don't know if that means anything other than the obvious indication of my apparently self-imposed social isolation, which is perhaps a profound kind of selfishness.]
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