A Nietzschian Presentiment

The radio quietly spun a crackled web of quiet ululations. We were driving along somewhere in Illinois or Texas. It was a red pickup truck – old and beaten, had character. You had the wheel and I sat passenger side. We had just visited a repair shop filled with rusty parts of old farm equipment and strange antiques from between the Civil War era and the Great Depression. The man there said "about fifteen minutes". We decided not to wait, however, as fate had other things in store for us that mystically calm afternoon. So there we were, driving along that smooth county road. Our intended destination did not matter.

I believe we were heading east but I can't be sure because the sun had literally been discarded by the sky. Well, not really, but the clouds rolled in like wild horses on heroin chasing after the Cherokee god of grace and humility. The sky got dark, Koop. And from the northwest we spied four or six raging, spinning, fearless tornados – darker than the depths of a shower drain in a backwoods jail - and dirtier too. The closest one was a mile away, maybe less. These twisters showed no signs of growing weak and they seemed to be gaining on us. You stepped on the accelerator and we approached an on-ramp to the main interstate. Gridlock! The worst traffic this side of the Dan Ryan!

“Those clear twisters are getting really close to us. It’s them we gotta worry about”, you said. Clear twisters?, I thought. What in the heck are – SHHHWOOOOSH. The concept became straight forward. Clear twisters are real. They are the albino cousins of the black, brown, and gray tornados I had been familiar with; and they are just as destructive. One was currently battling down on our truck. It descended from directly above us. I looked up and saw the faintest outline of a tornado – one constructed only of violently circulating air. Our truck was shaking and the traffic jam made escape impossible. Debris began striking the windshield – perhaps it was the broken glass that made us take flight from our little red sardine can. No, I remember now, it was indeed the deluge that had befallen our forsaken highway. In that moment it was not clear where all that water was flooding in from. At this point in the afternoon, however, dismissing it as an act of God would have been childish. The tornados had probably destroyed a nearby dam.

You and I are strong swimmers, Josh. We were saved from the twisters provided we could keep up with the rapids. To swim against the current was the key to survival as the diluvian tides wanted to bring us back to the destruction behind us. There was a tall tree – or a concrete overpass a few yards ahead of us. It took five minutes to reach and we clung to it, the water grabbing and pulling at our legs. There we meditated upon further ideas.