We dig through the wreckage of trauma for meaning. Sometimes that meaning is the reason; investigating our own pasts into a shape we may not like but can understand. Sometimes that meaning is a rescue mission, pulling what you can from what’s left. Sometimes it’s the gentle art of opening a wound, tonguing the broken tooth that reminds you where you used to be, who you used to be, inducing a fresh welling of pain so you don’t have to think about who you are now. Sometimes you work just to be working.
On Interstate 35, every search happens at once — cracked synapses, pot holes in the road through and out.
Contents
Interstate 35
Interstitials: The art of Caravan Sandwitch
Playout: Taste by Sabrina Carpenter