On My Experience Reading irl by Danielle McMahon: A Review
irl is a ride with the windows rolled down. 265 A/C and humidity and sweat. Down roads—gravel and rough—to parking lots and laundromats. Places open all night, and god knows when we will come home. McMahon is at the wheel, so we stick our heads out the window and cry into the dark for this to never end, and as if by way of magic or memory, McMahon makes it happen. We are reborn. We are no longer what we are now—sore and tired decay—but what we were the summer it rained every night, and somehow that only made it all the better. Awkward and unsure. A shared smoke. Huddled together under street light. Should we move just a little closer to him? Make the night just a bit warmer. Here in irl, we’ve still got time. We’ve got all night. The radio plays on. Everything is still unknown and yet to be decided. Clouds heavy and taut before the down pour.
No, tonight, on these backroads we are but passengers.
We’ve got everywhere to be.
So much yet to say.
And so many miles to put down.
High beams through the black.
And we are in good hands. McMahon will take us there. She knows the way. These roads are hers, and she will see us safe to our destination. No matter where that may be.
PS: On the Radio: Musical Pairings.
Perhaps such recommendations as Bob Seger and Gerry Rafferty would feel apt, but if I might suggest something a bit different, it would be The Cranberries and Mazzy Star—a bit of wistful textures for the star gazing. For the slow dance, “Tonight, Tonight” by The Smashing Pumpkins, and would I not be remiss if I did not mention “1979”—never far from my thoughts with each read and reread of McMahon’s dreamy prose.