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Route 202

Route 202 Route 202 3 Edw i n Fr a n k Somehow we are always back on it, though always it appears to be going a different way— here, east west; there, north south; anyway the wrong way— and there is nothing much to see, mainly the scrawny late-growth woods that famously cover up the abandoned farmsteads and well-forgotten setbacks of earlier passersby, our ancestors, or we halt at the granite crown of a hill as worn down as an old tooth affording a glimpse of another road (it must be the very one we want, the one that goes to the place where we are going, if only—if only!—we could get there, we laugh) and the gas station nestled in the valley below. Old potholed manufacturing towns, weed trees, sagging row houses, Irish bars: it is all very familiar and everywhere much the same here on the road through history to where history ran out with us alone on it, it appears, and though we are quite lost we admit now, we are barreling along happily enough in silence when again that sign crops up, Route 202, the same, my mind wandering as it does to wonder at the two identical twos facing each other across the empty space of the zero, just like a mirror, I think. And oh yes, it is our road after all. —for Jill 72 1 The Baffler [no.25] http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png The Baffler MIT Press

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Publisher
MIT Press
Copyright
© 2014 Edwin Frank
ISSN
1059-9789
eISSN
2164-926X
DOI
10.1162/BFLR_a_00255
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

Route 202 3 Edw i n Fr a n k Somehow we are always back on it, though always it appears to be going a different way— here, east west; there, north south; anyway the wrong way— and there is nothing much to see, mainly the scrawny late-growth woods that famously cover up the abandoned farmsteads and well-forgotten setbacks of earlier passersby, our ancestors, or we halt at the granite crown of a hill as worn down as an old tooth affording a glimpse of another road (it must be the very one we want, the one that goes to the place where we are going, if only—if only!—we could get there, we laugh) and the gas station nestled in the valley below. Old potholed manufacturing towns, weed trees, sagging row houses, Irish bars: it is all very familiar and everywhere much the same here on the road through history to where history ran out with us alone on it, it appears, and though we are quite lost we admit now, we are barreling along happily enough in silence when again that sign crops up, Route 202, the same, my mind wandering as it does to wonder at the two identical twos facing each other across the empty space of the zero, just like a mirror, I think. And oh yes, it is our road after all. —for Jill 72 1 The Baffler [no.25]

Journal

The BafflerMIT Press

Published: Mar 1, 2014

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