People are afraid of people


Los Angeles Police Department - Cave

"What are your parents like, you know, really like?” the woman asked, mocking me.

I would barely have known how to answer that question a week prior, much less after everything that had happened––it occurred to me that I had maybe only experienced my parents from a single angle, from one bounded perspective: it was as if I had lived in a village at the foot of a mountain, one that dominated the landscape, and had never moved beyond the border of that village and seen the other faces of the mountain, its outcroppings, lines, and wrinkles––I had been content to know the view I was given, had learned it as something always-present, until it became so familiar that it receded into the background; or better yet, I thought, remembering the story of a Mexican farmer in a picture book, it was if I had grown up in the simmering foothills of a dormant volcano, one that hadn’t erupted within anyone’s memory, and I went about my business, the important tasks of living, ignorant of the fact that what was secret, occluded from me, in the end was vital, paramount, and obliterated all that I thought I knew. Everything that I considered sure and immovable was secondary and marginal––the real life of this thing, of the volcano, of my parents, thrived apart, and I suspected that my own knowledge was spurious and shabby, gathered in an inattentive way, as an afterthought, in idle observation.

[BUY Los Angeles Police Department]

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