Page 129

By Jack Joseph Smith

the night veil of sorrow. I would look out the windows of the speeding car and see sorrow walking on the mist between the twisted trees. One hundred and twenty miles an hour over the winding black roads with a bottle of in your hand and your voice high with the wind. Buggsy was his name. Tall and lankie, with glasses hanging over his nose. Curly black hair combed streight back, so you could see the veins in his forehead move with the flashing of his eyes. Ghost Riders in the Sky, we're riding high in the Buick Century. The lights, a beamed gray. The branches of the trees seemed to be falling behind us, closing out the world to our destiny of flight. Another boy would howl like the name, and in his terrified panting, his hands would reach out in desper ation. Please slow this fucking thing down he would scream, as he tryed to turn off the engine or pull Buggsy's foot from the gas peddle. You see Daniel, there it all was. Insanity. I was a snake on the tip of a dagger, ready to be thrown. The dagger was held high Daniel. High over the line of the world. The spirits were haunting. There was hunger and death and pain and excitement coming through those trees. I spit fire as we raced through those living in the small sense. But they were the ones who came into the taverns we went to. Ha ha, I found we were all one in the same; earth men dressed in red. No matter how high you tried to go? I was the purple genie dancing beneath the moon. No doubt about it Daniel. I saw lives change with each turn in the road. I saw meaning disappear and reappear in an instant. I saw joy sing and despair rip away at the cords of the mind. I wonder what's on the other side of that bend? At one hundred and twenty miles an hour, let's hope nothing. Ha ha, but we're, Ghost Riders in the Sky. The boy Wolf would cry an anguished howl sometimes bellowing on his buckled knees, but he would be back each time a trip was planned. Why? Because inside he really wanted to be a Wolf. He wanted to go beyond

Original Scan

Page 129

AI Interpretation

GPT

At one hundred and twenty miles an hour with Buggsy singing "Ghost Riders in the Sky," the narrator remembers black mountain roads, terrified passengers, and a feverish sense that death, joy, and meaning were all flashing past in the same rush.

The language goes almost mythic here, with Bugsy, Wolf, and the speeding car turned into a little religion of risk. What matters is not mastery but the repeated urge to go past ordinary fear and touch something beyond the small life.

Claude

The West Virginia road-races are rendered as a death-courting rapture: 'One hundred and twenty miles an hour over the winding black roads,' Buggsy at the wheel of 'a red and white buick century' singing 'Ghost Riders in the Sky,' veins moving in his forehead, the trees 'closing out the world to our destiny of flight.' Michael casts himself as 'a snake on the tip of a dagger... held high over the line of the world,' 'the purple genie dancing beneath the moon,' seeing 'meaning disappear and reappear in an instant.' A terrified boy, Wolf, screams to 'slow this fucking thing down' yet 'would be back each time,' because 'inside he really wanted to be a Wolf... to go beyond' the emotional pain of human experience.