Early in Mike Powell’s slender debut novel, New Paltz, New Paltz, the protagonist establishes his affinity for escalators. “That feeling of moving without moving,” he remarks, “Like how an angel might move.” This divine eclipse with the material world is one of several instances in which the novel briefly punctures its own reality–one that traverses bingo nights and dog parks, a Fourth of July party. It is more than just the mystical and the mundane butting heads, however. As you read it, New Paltz, New Paltz, begins to feel more like a procedure in trying to ascertain what even can be considered ‘mundane’ or ‘mystical’ to begin with, and how we might discriminate between the two. The effect is dizzying while striving for clarity, like being taken through a washing machine cycle with some acid for detergent.