Uncanny 2018 Wormhole Shit

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The Mets are 12-2 now, as the great Bright/Kauffman/Crane swung low in the zone, and propelled a ninth inning walk-off, arms extended. High Flying! How you doin?

But I want to talk about the image above, because it fascinates and repels me in an Alex DeLarge-type way; in a creepy, dead-eye stare at the Korova Milk Bar-type way. Uncanny valley to the extreme. Unsettling and unnerving; the image wouldn’t stop creeping around a corner in my mind, won’t stop hovering above me silently as I try to sleep. Like I’m standing in my kitchen and the lights have just flashed and William Friedkin has spliced in a face over the stove hood.

Seriously, what the fuck is going on in this picture?

Couple of things. First, the faces directly behind Wilmer seem to be lit differently, more naturally; as if they are actually standing in an outdoor stadium at four o’clock on an overcast early spring day. Whereas Wilmer’s face is….not? Not lit the same way at all. Wilmer’s face appears to be lit from the side, unnaturally lit.

Second, notice Wilmer’s eyes. Notice his eyes in relation to his body. He’s high-fiving someone to his right, touching hands with this person, only he’s not looking at this person at all. He’s looking straight ahead, dead-eye-staring in the distance.

Not to mention there’s a strange arm that appears to belong to no one reaching across his body. And his neck seems to be farther above his shoulders than realistically possible.

The whole thing has a great high-contrast, deep-shadow vibe that initially attracted me; reminded me of older baseball photos shot on film. But this photo is strange, man. Some other-worldly stuff is happening here. Perhaps it’s 2015 vibes forcing themselves into the conversation, like they travelled through a wormhole and tried to make us think they were 2018 vibes but they got some shit wrong. Some shit that just doesn’t feel right. Uncanny valley shit.

The Roadways of Italia & The Conforto Sixth Sense

The roadways spiral out here in Italia, through majestic and lumpy (is that even a thing?) hills that could be described as rolling, but these hills don’t seem to follow a pattern that one associates with rhythmic rolling at all. They seem to run their own wayward course, jutting up in different shades of amber, stretching out the horizon line left and right, up and down, creating a kind of patchworked, overlapping y, x and z-axis all at the same time.

Every now and then one will catch sight of a villa or a cottage tucked inside one of these hills, like a tiny bug you notice on the wallpaper. But looking closer, these structures hold beauty in them as well. Glimpses of terracotta orange and brown if you squint quickly before it gets too far away. Lines of cypress trees guarding the exterior, long driveways and metal gates with tiny postes and oh well it’s too far away now…

These roadways have been here longer than any in the world. The Autostrada was first conceived and built by a dude named Piero Puricelli in the ’20s. It’s first iteration spanned from Milan to Varese, and he cut the inaugural tape while sitting in an 8-cylinder Lancia Trikappa with a poet (?!) named Gabriele D’Annunzio.

Several thoughts here. First one: Lancia Trikappa’s were really freaking cool, but how can you sell a car with the name Lancia Trikappa?

Second thought: This was the start of the entire highway system as we know it. This road would multiply into more roads – the Firenze-Mare Roadway, the Birgamo-Milan Roadway, the Pompeii Roadway, and by the 70s Italia’s map was spider-veined with freeways. The rest of the world had caught up by then, but who cares? Autostrada is where it’s at baby.

Let me know what you think next time you’re zipping past those amber patches and jutted-out mounds, when you’re snaking through an almost too-low tunnel and your vision pinholes for a few seconds, even maybe a minute, and the blackness takes over. Then you turn a darkened corner and suddenly the blackness evaporates, and there you are again in the unreal sunshine, spiraling through those hills both majestic and lumpy.

***

When Michael Conforto swings the bat now I hold my breath, because of reasons too depressing to type so I’ll just link it. Even over here in Italia, while I’m exploring sun-soaked spots like this one….

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…there is a sixth sense in me somewhere that cringes out of reflex, wincing with an unholy kind of dread. Chris MacNeil in the attic trying to find where that weird sound is coming from kind of dread. For every time Conforto unlocks the bat and creates force into the air I worry about his danged shoulder.

It’s only been one game – and what a game it was – but as Mets fans go I am hesitant to stare at Mr. Conforto from now until eternity (or at least until something worse happens to someone else) without waiting for the other shoe to drop. That bizarre silence after he fell to the ground in a heap. I don’t wanna hear that kind of silence again.

Allora! Things come, things go! Mets are 5-1, best start since 2006. Good things happened that year, no?