low transference

Sun

    Her ass was at once still but moving underneath the tight and thin black material that she had chosen to wear that morning not only because of her knowledge of the way other women would decide how their asses should be seen by men and women then, but also how she herself felt when she looked back over her shoulder into the mirror in the early morning and her ass had pleased her and made her feel strong and comfortable and present as she could see the black thin material pulled tight over her ass, making it appear to be reaching outwards as if to try to activate the world around it with its full potential.
    Her ass, in the sunlight near the window and the wall, was a homogeneous physical volume, an effective muscular device conjured by slow evolution, a symbol not only inherently claiming the ability of her body to fuck but also a symbol of the very nature of asses themselves and that an ass is fucking and that to be human is to know that an ass is fucking. And her ass was by the window as the horses grazed with down-turned heads out past the fence. Her back and neck were moving, changing her ass and the horses knew each-other’s asses but not hers, and the dogs barking in the den knew each-other’s asses but not hers, and dolphins will see each other swimming and get horny for dolphin dick and dolphin pussy but she knew that not fucking while her ass was fucking was like the thin tight material covering her ass, pulling a tension between two parts.
    And her ass was there and it was fucking and she wasn’t and it was eternally proclaiming while she was still and waiting. It was coupling and being and action and it was an old bone or two tires on the road. And her ass was there and it was real and she was a woman there by the window next to the fields that we would let the horses leave in late summer for the open pastures that extended upwards to the north, up to the mountains with the manmade lake, where the horses would water and graze and would not be startled by the old men who sliced chorizo and shot frogs with slingshots and told gringos that they would get their throats slit in the night if they didn’t hide their cameras away properly.
   And if a storm came across the mountains and blew over the old men’s parasol and the table it was anchored to, scattering shot glasses, chorizo and serrated knives across the stony sands and confined the gringos to their cars, the horses would already have been absent for some time and the gringos’ legs and arms would intertwine in the cars as they snored and farted in darkness punctuated only by the strands of lightning strung about the mountain tops.

George Wright, arrested after 40 years on the run

jkottke:

On the Friday after Thanksgiving in 1962, George Wright and another man walked into a gas station in NJ with the intention of robbing its owner, Walter Patterson. After a scuffle, Wright’s associate shot Patterson, wounding him severely enough he would die two days later. Ten years later, after escaping from jail, Wright helped hijack an airplane with 86 passengers, ransomed the passengers for $1 million, flew to Algeria, and disappeared for 40 years. Last year he was arrested in Portugal.

This profile in GQ by Michael Finkel is sympathetic, but fascinating. Wright is described as a positive member of the community, a man rehabilitated, which is supposed to be the purpose of prison. And yet, he’s never paid for his crimes. If pressed, I’d have to say I agree with how it ended up playing out.

During my flight back from Portugal, I try to sort out how I feel about Wright. I’m troubled, of course, by the gas-station crime—even if it wasn’t his gun that fired, he still let an innocent man die. He never called for help. Still, he was a teenager at the time. You can no longer use youthful rashness as an excuse when you’re 29, brandishing a loaded weapon on an airplane and holding more than ninety people hostage. That incident could’ve easily ended in disaster. Wright is fortunate it did not. And I am not entirely sure there aren’t other crimes—crimes for which Wright wasn’t caught. He may still have secrets inside him. We’ll never know.

(via Long Reads)

Amazing story… definitely summons up conflicting feelings about crime/punishment/justice ect…