Where the Wild Things Are: A Dispatch from Trump's America

Day Three - November 11, 2016

After crawling from the river of oblivion yesterday, I spent many hours on the gray murky bank crying, coughing, sputtering, and passing in and out of consciousness. Through a dense fog I was vaguely aware of the angry hordes still churning on the other side, their weaponized hatred perpetually ready to strike. Occasionally I can make out smoke and fire from the torches and a whiff of sulfur stings my nose. I cannot return to my previous home in its current state; it has become unrecognizable and toxic.

This morning I wake with the stamina to examine my new environment. It is as vast as the future, but the landscape shifts and shimmers before my eyes. At some points a stark but passably comforting vista; plain, denuded fields of green grasses. Blue skies amid thunderclouds. At other times a cracked, caked, smoking wasteland of scorched decay. Amalgamated variations of the two play like a melting film reel before me when I try to focus. I remain passive for now and let it choose its own shape, understanding that it will continue to morph indefinitely.

As an anemic sun emerges, I venture not too far from my encampment to a towering wall of unknowable height. I can pass to the side of it, but the peak rushes away into swirling silver clouds. Its smooth surface is covered in colorful glyphs. Apparently it acts as viewing portal, and I invite myself to explore the glyphs. They too change persistently, but it becomes easy to distinguish themes.

While it offers many alternative pathways for evolving outside of my scrappy riverside “den” (I have discovered a nearby cave. The darkness and closeness is soothing, but I worry constantly that the walls will crumble in. I cannot remain there long), the escarpment itself is terrifying and compelling in its content and scope. Depictions on the face of it represent the past, present, and future. Curious and hungry for assurances, I explore.

Read the rest on Huffington Post.

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