“All that once was directly lived has become mere representation.” – Guy Debord, The Society of the Spectacle During the hour before I woke up, I walked down the alley behind Don’s house. A fog settled upon the alley. Soon the lane shed its houses and became a wide trail that ascended into bright clouds. A figure stood where the trail faded into haze. The mist gave the figure an unnatural thickness, as if adding to its natural proportions. My stomach sank. Was the figure not
(Ed Lovett, top row, third from left; Bo Cunningham, top row, second from right) Ed did not make any mistakes. Well, he made one, a minor one, just before re-entry. But David, Don, and I believe that Ed unknowingly built off Bo’s earlier actions, which Bo designed toward a specific, hidden outcome. One may argue that NASA made a mistake -- albeit one that saved Ed's life early in the program. But Ed? No. Ed did not make any mistakes. Which is more than I can say about myself.
On December 9, 1972, Albert Robert Borden strolled from the Palms Convention Center, just south of the Kennedy Space Center, and walked toward the beach, some quarter mile away. Borden left his car in the parking lot. He’d figure out a way to go back for it later. We know this because in June, 1973, he wrote about the night in his post-flight journal. Speculating now: as Borden stepped to the sand of Cocoa Beach the thought did not occur to him that an injustice had occurred
Telluride after eleven is hiding people. Walking from the engagement party now. The silence of the mountain night suggesting an hour outside of the clock, an hour so late it peels from regular time. But it's only eleven thirty. Maybe not even that. I walk south, downhill. When I cross Main Street and look east, toward the thickest part of town; that's when I see the facades and think how frozen they are. Buildings, storefronts, but nothing else. No movement. No people. But th