Everything We Don't Know

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Aaron Gilbreath. Everything We Don't Know

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PRAISE FOR EVERYTHING WE DON’T KNOW

“[These essays] explore isolation, weaving together the intangible and material touchstones of life periods with remarkable ease . . . Beneath an eternal-boy persona, a surprising tenderness reveals the struggle for human connection . . . Everything We Don’t Know demonstrates the pain of sometimes misguided perceptions, and the many routes an insatiable mind can take.”

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Jumping Newton’s fence was easy. I parked my truck on a side street. On the Inn’s more secluded west side, a cinderblock wall abutted a chain link fence topped with unruly spirals of razor wire, creating a double, back-to-back fortification.

I pulled myself up the cinderblock, found a gap in the barbs wide enough to place my feet then jumped. A forty foot dirt lot separated the street from the property. I leaned through a gap in the motel wall to study the wild garden of untended plants. It was silent, appeared empty. In case the homeless had encamped there, I walked softly atop the gravel. Raising my 35mm to my eye made me nervous, as if by lending one of my senses I forfeited the others. I hung the camera around my neck and listened for voices, breathing, shuffling feet. When fantasies rot, they smell like anything else: hot garbage cans, algae water.

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