True genius is measured in both depth and breadth. The great works -- Melville's Moby Dick, Joyce's Ulysses, Flair-Steamboat from Clash of the Champions 6 -- impress not just with length, but the fullness and richness of experience.
So it was with this now-filled pothole. Wide it was, but deep, too. Its like will be seen again, to be sure, but in the meantime we're forced to choose from among its lessers. Hence, this gem from North 17th St. and Washington Avenue.
If you're going to choose depth or breadth, you choose depth every time. Reading one 450-page book in depth is better than reading the first page of 450 books, unless those 450 books each have really, really good pictures on the splash page.
It is with this principle in mind that we celebrate this pothole, which is not so wide, but as deep as a William Stafford poem:
When one of my tires nestled deep in its manful embrace, it cried out in pain -- but it was the type of pain one is almost honored to endure from such a worthy foe. It is what the bondage partners of Michel Foucault must have felt, or Michael Spinks.
It is not like the Mississippi River, which flows from stem to stern of this great land. It is, in fact, just a fucking pothole. But it is a deep fucking pothole. You have to to give it that.
Also, it has friends nearby. Acolytes, even, apprentice potholes that hope one day to achieve their sensei's depth.