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Dec. 2nd, 2003 11:28 amAll four of us noticed the crack at once. We followed it to the edge of the playground where it became a sort of furrow in the grass. This we pursued to the high fence at the edge of the next property. The widening furrow stopped at the fence, which was split open even wider, widest at the top. Looking up past this we saw the whole sky was cracked, a crack reflected in the puddles here and there back on the playground, reflected in the school's hundred windows, in our own eyes, in a low-flying chrome airplane. We looked at our fingers, inside each other's mouths, at the pencils, erasers, marbles and coins in our pockets. Everything had the same crack in it, sometimes just a scratch, sometimes a hole, sometimes nothing you could see. But whenever you ran your fingers over something and concentrated you realized even what appeared smoothest had innumberable little bumps. You suddenly realized a bump is an island surrounded by a crack.
Paula said the cracks weren't the same one but we knew she'd seen what we had. She ran off home.
Greg Oates said he could smooth at least something if he tried hard enough. He rolled his big black marble down the slide a few hundred times and said it was now perfect. He wouldn't give it to us when we asked to feel it. He later married Paula.
Seth and I walked around the field in opposite directions thinking for a while. The fourth time I passed him he grabbed my arm and said he thought he knew where the crack went. I told him that so did I since it was obviously going everywhere. He said no, he said that the crack was much bigger than the world, that the world was just a speck of dirt in something realer, that following the crack was the only way to leave it and get to that something. I shoved him and went in. I'm not sure what became of him. Nothing good I bet.
Once you see the crack you don't stop, but sometimes it isn't so bad. Sometimes things even look better because of the crack. It adds variety, everything is cracked differently. Still if I could stop seeing it, like if they invented special glasses for that that weren't too uncomfortable, I would. There's times when a few things are going wrong at once that it's almost unbearable to have to deal with the crack too. And other times when everything seems almost smooth and almost right everywhere you look and you'd be completely happy for once if it weren't for that damn crack. But there it is, you know? Sometimes I talk to it and make up things for it to say back. Other times when I'm angry or just in a silly mood I close my eyes and toss things into it, things I don't like or that look funny being tossed. If you toss stuff into it fast enough they block it and it seems closed kind of. But there's a drain somewhere. I guess Seth was right about how big it is. That doesn't make him right to chase it. Who cares about big? I know lots of big people and they aren't my best friends usually. And what's he going to do if he gets there? He'll be the only thing there that isn't made of hole. Unless he is too by then. Maybe he'd like that. But let the hole be the hole and me be me, I say. There's more than enough hole already.
Paula said the cracks weren't the same one but we knew she'd seen what we had. She ran off home.
Greg Oates said he could smooth at least something if he tried hard enough. He rolled his big black marble down the slide a few hundred times and said it was now perfect. He wouldn't give it to us when we asked to feel it. He later married Paula.
Seth and I walked around the field in opposite directions thinking for a while. The fourth time I passed him he grabbed my arm and said he thought he knew where the crack went. I told him that so did I since it was obviously going everywhere. He said no, he said that the crack was much bigger than the world, that the world was just a speck of dirt in something realer, that following the crack was the only way to leave it and get to that something. I shoved him and went in. I'm not sure what became of him. Nothing good I bet.
Once you see the crack you don't stop, but sometimes it isn't so bad. Sometimes things even look better because of the crack. It adds variety, everything is cracked differently. Still if I could stop seeing it, like if they invented special glasses for that that weren't too uncomfortable, I would. There's times when a few things are going wrong at once that it's almost unbearable to have to deal with the crack too. And other times when everything seems almost smooth and almost right everywhere you look and you'd be completely happy for once if it weren't for that damn crack. But there it is, you know? Sometimes I talk to it and make up things for it to say back. Other times when I'm angry or just in a silly mood I close my eyes and toss things into it, things I don't like or that look funny being tossed. If you toss stuff into it fast enough they block it and it seems closed kind of. But there's a drain somewhere. I guess Seth was right about how big it is. That doesn't make him right to chase it. Who cares about big? I know lots of big people and they aren't my best friends usually. And what's he going to do if he gets there? He'll be the only thing there that isn't made of hole. Unless he is too by then. Maybe he'd like that. But let the hole be the hole and me be me, I say. There's more than enough hole already.
