Looking Down On What’s Left

The Deaccessioned Philosopher

There is something sort of eerie about the view from a plane hurtling through the sky between Albuquerque and Vegas, especially for eyes used to the green, gridded regularity of the farm-tamed upper midwest.

Flying by... Flying by…

From great heights, one sees stone worn by time, and the ghosts left behind where water has left its mark. Every now and then, the meandering courses of both dry and wet rivers are thrown into sharp relief against the faint, perfectly straight tracery of empty roads. There are layered plateaus and ridges, sculpted by time and wear into almost fractal shapes. You look into the canyons, and they are deeper than you can see.

Shadowed canyon Shadowed canyon

Sometimes, it feels like looking at the grave of an ocean that died ages ago; it’s almost possible to imagine the fish that might have drifted over the plateaus, when they were a different color under the water…

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