Henry Ford Made American Time by Evelyn Hampton

21 Oct

I spell “woah” wrong. I know this, have always known this, but I can’t stop. No, I feel like there is a certain beauty to the way the w-o-a are all flat and at the end the h spikes high, Kirk Cameron-esque, holding in that excitement until boom, the “h” like a cool sigh.

I found myself flashing my misspelled WOAH so many times while reading Evelyn Hampton’s piece in the new issue of Absent.

WOAH like when looking at that background, like is that a chicken?

WOAH like when Henry Ford comes in and they are both dead. Dead storytellers always get me.

WOAH like the sounds, unexpected, a tap on the window of my mind, sound nice coming out of my mouth:

Any friend has many sides, even in such bright light as Henry and I sit. Yet I can only see one side of him at a time

And what is time? Time is a long sleek side. It swells in the darkness of the wide. And so in inventing the bright light I have tried to be everywhere at one time. The moon barely fits within what I have described

It is large, death, a large fat side you sit with night after night. And where doesn’t my light shine? On which night aren’t I?

WOAH like how this piece bends between odd and funny, touching and pointy.

WHOA, I’m sorry, you just don’t do it for me, like WOAH and this awesome piece of writing.

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